Robbo 10: W**kin Frankel - Click On My Face To Listen!

Tuesday, 13 January 2015

New Year Predictions Part 2


The Tour de France begins and Yorkshiremen line the streets of hill and dale, shaking their heads ruefully and wondering what's happened to t'Tour, "It's not like it was in my day" says one.

England win the Women's World Cup Final, and the nation goes la-la for the ladies. Sepp Blatter is encouraged by the tournament's success and says it'll be even bigger next time, what with his plans for spilt-crotch shorts and half-time sports bra demonstrations. He is led away to a quiet fee-paying corner of the Alps and never seen again.

Following a decent start as England's one day captain Eoin Morgan (Irish) takes over the Test team, recalls Kevin Pietersen (South African) and wins the toss in Cardiff (Wales). ENgland are bowled out for 102, and Nigel Farage blames the foreigners.

At the British Grand Prix, there is a terrible deluge of rain and Bernie Ecclestone goes missing. He is later found in a pitlane puddle, breathing through a straw. Lewis Hamilton wins the race cos when it rains, that's the rule.

At the Open Golf Championships at St. Andrew's, normal service is resumed as a faceless American with a neat swing and an odd name - let's call him Bradson Duflieth III - takes the title.


The new football season hoves into view and Manchester United, fresh from a plucky fifth place in last season's Premier League, parade their new signings before their opening fixture against newly promoted Middlesbrough (Yes I know that contradicts my previous blog but I've got renewed confidence now). Van Gaal's new system involves a 0-5-5 formation on the basis that the lot he has at the moment might as well not be there anyway.

Mario Balotelli's signing for Arsenal is scratched at the last minute. "We wanted someone who could get the other side of the defence and fluff easy chances in front of goal and then I realised Theo was fit and raring to go" said a sheepish Wenger.

Joey Barton and Robbie Savage appear on the same episode of Match of the Day. The BBC are sued for millions as thousands of otherwise peaceable football fans stove in their TV screens with pint glasses.

The Ashes series turns sour as some of the Australian cricketers say nasty things to England's batsmen. Among the worst comments are "You're not very good", "whoops-a-daisy, you missed it again, Ian" and "Are you holding the wrong end, Alistair?" Jonathan Agnew is appalled.


Southampton celebrate their qualification for the Champions League by actually keeping hold of all their players for an extra season. A bewildered fan says: "It was extraordinary, I recognised every player on the pitch."

Brendan Rogers' Liverpool start their Europa League campaign with a tough away fixture at Dinamo Godknowswhere in upper Slovenia. Ricky Lambert scores the opener for Dinamo but Liverpool get a late equaliser courtesy of one of Rogers' interchangeable new signings Whichiswhich.

The Rugby World Cup begins with great ceremony. The England team walk out past a line of ladies and are really polite to all of them, England v Wales is the first time the two teams have met since the Welsh broke away from the Union and it ends in a bloody draw.


Manchester City have another crisis in the striker department when Sergio Aguero, after a brilliant start to the season, gets a groin injury. Pellegrini once again rustles up some sort of forward line from Dzeko, Jovetic, Bony and whoever the fuck else they bought in the summer. Jeez, it's hard at the top.

The Athletics World Championships take place in Doha, Qatar. Usain Bolt wins the 100 metres in a time slightly less fast than it took Sepp Blatter to decide to host the 2022 World Cup there.

England continue to canter towards Euro 2016 qualification as they scrape victories against Thingammy and Whatsitsname, all of which starts to give England fans an overinflated sense of optimism. People start saying 'Well it's hard to think of a more consistent right midfielder than James Milner' and given time Calum Chambers could be the next Paolo Maldini'. Oh dear.

The Rugby World Cup final is between New Zealand and England. Stuart Lancaster reveals his hidden weapon. The All Blacks perform their furious ha'ka only for it to be trumped with a 'Macca'. The front row  wheel out Paul McCartney with a guitar and the ex-Beatle strums his way through Mull of Kintyre while the home side insert ear-plugs. England are 20 points up before Dan Carter wakes up. New Zealand win 43-20.


Nothing unusual happens...

Manchester City join Chelsea at the top of the Premiership - Chelsea spend the next game literally falling over themselves to get a result. A numpty manager is sacked after his team lose three on the bounce. Neil Warnock stands by his phone and waits, Liverpool announced the loan re-signing of one Steven Gerrard. Ched Evans almost gets a job. Sepp Blatter announces that the frontrunners for hosting the 2026 World Cup are either the planet Mercury or death Valley. The bloke who owns Wigan says something that was fine in his day. Same old shit, really.


It's Sports Personality of the Year and the winner is Golden Girl Jessica Ennis. One of them steep climbs in Sheffield is re-named Jessica Ennis-Hill.

All the managers in the Premier League wonder why they are playing so many games over the festive period. Apart from Arsene Wenger who just shrugs and takes it on the chin, given the Gooners win four on the spin.

Middlesbrough are relegated already, but you know, it was a helluva ride and we'll be back.

The draw for Euro 2016 sees England get a pretty comfy draw. Roy Hodgson insists there are no easy games in international football but admits that England 'should give the Jocks a good tonking in Match One.'

And finally Newcastle United appoint a manager... but how will Ant and Dec cope with a mounting injury list and an inability to speak French?

Thursday, 1 January 2015

New Year Predictions Part One

How do and a Happy New Year to all of yus (Geordies included). Hang on, wait a mo - you UKIP voters can just fuck off.

Now where was I? The New Year is upon us and to a bloke who turned 50 just last month 2015 still sounds like stupidly far into the future. There'll be flying cars and dinner in a pill by tomorrow I reckon.

In the meantime footy changes and footy stays the same. No matter how many cheating little bastards seek to pervert the course of the beautiful game with their falling, feigning and faffing about, it still remains a game in which booted men (yes, okay and women occasionally) tonk a pig's bladder (yes okay a sheep's bladder occasionally) around a green sward for the sheer fun of it. What better waste of time can there be?

In time honoured fashion I should like to mark this turning-over of time with some predictions for our sporting year ahead.


Alan Pardew marks his first game back at Crystal Palace with FA Cup defeat at Dover. Neil Warnock tells Match of the Day that if he was still there it would never have happened. Pardew nuts Warnock. Warnock nuts him back. They both find themselves out of football for six months. The nation celebrates for a whole week.

Yaya Toure comes home early from the African Cup of Nations when none of his teammates give him a cake for his 31 and three-quarter birthday. He is also upset not to be linked with a move to Manchester United given that every other fecker has been.

Roy Hodgson's January get-together with the England squad is a revelation after Chris Smalling, Phil Jones, John Stones all tell him they think right-back is a numpty's position and can he pick someone's who's good at it. Two months later and Roy has ignored them and selected a fit-again Glen Johnson.

In Australia, somebody with a name that sounds like the name of every other player in the women's game wins the tennis. Djokovic wins the men's in a superfast twelve hours and seven minutes.


It's the Superbowl and the Green Day Pickers beat the Steely See Panthers by two touc-ups and a punt to one sacking and a flag on the play. And that's a night I'll never get back.

Luis Suarez is sent off for trying to bite Cristiano Ronaldo - however the Uruguayan was unable to follow through with the chomping as, it turns out, Ronaldo secretes an unctuous and tasteless substance through the pores of his skin. Turns out the best player in the world sweats his own vanity.

England begin the Cricket World Cup with defeat against the minnows. And when I say 'minnows' I mean 'minnows'. This lot couldn't beat a shoal of tiny freshwater fish.

The rugby Six Nations begin with at the Millennium Stadium. Wales and England fight it out until the English realise they've left their best player in France simply because they have a petty rule that stops them picking him. Wales win with tries by Lydiate, Phillips and Halfpenny. Who play in France. Oops.


Oo! It's the final of the WhoTheFuckIsSponsoringItThisYear League Cup. Chelsea beat Spurs 2-1, the winning goal coming from a Hazard penalty after the ref gives in and awards a penalty for the Blues' 17th dive of the match. Tom Daley denies doing additional coaching for Mourinho.

Manchester City are knocked out of the Champions League by Barcelona. Manuel Pellegrini is sacked. Tony Pulis moves from West Brom - who are up to 2nd by now - and takes over.

The World Cup cricket final is between India and Australia, The umpire review system is in place for the final and after several close calls, India decide that after reviewing the evidence the umpires need replacing. The ICC are appalled. But give in anyway. Australia win anyway. Not a dry eye in the house when the victory is dedicated to Phil Hughes. (Genuinely, that would be perfect.)

The F1 season begins with a cracking race in Melbourne. Not a single person with any interest in sport watches it.


Celtic win the Scottish Cup Final against Hearts. Fans of both clubs are praised for the amount of loose change they donate to the Rangers benevolent fund collectors in the stadium.

Steve Bruce is sacked by Hull City after the Tigers fail to win in ten games. Bruce celebrates by becoming the Newcastle manager, replacing a slap-headed Fabricio Coloccini, who has been pulling his hair out for three months.

The University Boat Race is won in a record time when an extremely high tide breaks through the Thames Barrier.

In the Championship, promotion is now between eighteen teams, all of them separated by a single point. I book meself in for fingernail replacement surgery.


Alistair Cook scores a 300-ball century in the third test against West Indies. "It's ironic that having lost the captaincy of the one-day side I score such a rapid 100 here" he said. Without irony.

Middlesbrough win the FA Cup. Yeah? Wipe that smile off your faces. It's compensation for having failed to gain promotion on the toss of a coin after everyone in the Championship finish level on points.

Chelsea win the Premier League. Mourinho is very self-effacing about it all. "The Special One? That was a silly remark back then... Now I think we can say 'Touched by greatness' perhaps... or at God's right hand?"

Bayern Munich and Real Madrid win through in their Champions League semifinals. Manuel Neuer sealing a 3-0 victory over Chelsea with a stunning solo run and shoot from the edge of his own box, beating the dive of Thibaut Courtois - the only legitimate dive by a Chelsea player in the game.

At FIFA HQ Sepp Blatter is reelected for another four years and the Champagne flows. Well at least the blood of M. Champagne flows all over the carpet. FIFA orders an inquiry into the incident and Blatter appoints a bucket, two horses and a large chunk of emmenthal to head up the investigation.The fucking crook.


A magnificent Ronaldo hat-trick graces a brilliant Champions League final which will live long in the memory of those fortunate enough to have witnessed it. 5-4 in extra time. Wow. (Sorry that's ridiculous. Arsenal (of course) win it with a fine victory over Madrid courtesy of world class strikes from Welbeck, Walcott and Sanogo.)

The European Games open in Baku with none of the competitors entirely sure as to why they're there, what they're there to do, or whether Azerbaijan is actually only in Europe during the Eurovision Song Contest (which incidentally was won by a Belgian bloke with knockers).

Wimbledon begins and as ever the first round is peppered with plucky Brits: plucked from obscurity and then totally plucked on court. They all lose, bar Andy Murray. Critics blame Amelie Mauresmo. She's a French lesbian so... y'know... inevitably she can't know much about the game she played as a professional all her life.

Gareth Bale signs for Manchester United. Unfortunately the club sells Old Trafford and Carrington to fund it and Bale's first training session is on an abandoned playing field in Wythenshawe.

There'll be more predictions in the next blog, by which time half of this one will look ridiculous.

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

Back From Brooklyn...

So I've been away. For far too long. I've been in USA where, even in Brooklyn, soccer seems to be the attention-seeking toddler peeping through and around the legs of the unfeasibly tall (basketballers) and unfeasibly wide (US footballers) that dominate the game.

Yes I could've paid Rupert Murdoch and sucked up the Sky-spunking Premier League but I chose not to do that. It's good to have break from this sort of saturation. Off the wagon I was in a manner of speaking.

Have I missed it? Well apart from Boro's brilliant form - that petered out at Ipswich to greet my return, ta very much - not a lot.

In my absence, the Premier League has sought to right itself. Citeh and Chelsea are strides ahead of the rest. When Mourinho says his players don't dive, I kind of agree. Cahill's impression of a leaping impala getting taken out by a crossbow has to be one of the most laughable examples of this disgraced art we have yet seen.

Mourinho wil probably make sure there's a lot less falling over in the next few matches, but you can't help thinking that, following two typical cockney forays into he teeth of the North-East (I've seen you Londoners up here - "Brrr!! I need another layer!" "Isn't the architecture bleak?" "oooh that's very hot for a rogan josh" etc. ) the Portuguese wanted his boys to make absolutely sure Hull were beaten.

Pellegrini seems to have bought himself a bit of time now that Citeh have taken a baby step into the last 16 of the Champions League. Rushing back Aguero might seem a good idea but anyone with half a mind - Robbie Savage for example - would know that the reason he keeps twanging ligaments and muscles is cos they keep rushing him back. Duh!

Meanwhile the story of the season continues to be twofold. West Ham are doing well - please God don't make this lead to a rallying cry for Big Sam to take over the reins for England. And the romantic second team of last year are doing shite. From runner-ups to run aground. Liverpool have fallen from grace like a mighty tiger sliding into a bath of beans.

Yes they have lost a front two, but Rodgers has had money to burn and replaced them with a big Scouse workhorse he doesn't trust (Lambert) and a big Italian twerp who no one trusts (Balotelli). In short Rodgers has been rubbish this year.

I see he reckons Liverpool can target a top four finish after they bundled in a last minute equaliser against a ludicrously timid Arsenal. I guess his reasoning is that they can't play any worse. And Sterling seems to be sharper now he's dispensed with the Little Richard bouffant. Small man, big hair never works does it? He looked like a particularly cool character that never quite made it into the Peanuts cartoons.

In other news, Alistair Cook has finally been relieved of his duties as one-day cricket captain after being utterly crap at the format for as long as anyone can remember. Mind you, just cos the decision was a 'no-brainer' doesn't mean the England selectors didn't take a fucking age to reach the same conclusion as everyone else.

Honestly that bunch of deflanneled toffs don't make decisions in a hurry do they? I've seen glacial valleys formed with greater alacrity.
The Barclays Center from my distant view. The Duke of Cambridge is the very slapheaded fella on the front row.
Meanwhile, Robbo's sporting horizons have widened. I watched an NBA game at the Barclays Center which featured an on-court meeting between our royals and theirs. William and Kate plodded in that tiresomely studied regal manner while the ball was in play. I mean they didn't pay for their tickets, they couldn't be bothered to turn up on time and then they put the players off.  Plain bloody rude.

Beyonce and Jay-Z - both shorter than you'd imagine - welcomed our national no-marks with open arms and it all got in the way of watching one Lebron James who, despite me being very sketchy on the technique and principles of basketball, stood out from the fray like Darcey Bussell on a hen night dance floor.

The man is grace personified. He did very little for the first half, then decided to show up for a quarter and the Nets were dead in the water. Lebron sat down for the last eight minutes, his work done. He might just be the finest sportsman I've seen in the flesh. Then again, there's always Alan Foggon.

The mighty Foggo
Of course returning for a Christmas break after a football-free period is like a crash-dieter getting a fortnight's binge at Gregg's. It'll more than get me back on the bad side. I have always cherished this wall-to-wall footy festival. It's not quite the same without the iron-hard frozen pitches, the snow walled up around the pitch-sides and the orange balls pinging about like mysterious glowing planets.

And you have to regret the creeping professionalism that prevents a bunch of top-class sportspeople from tottering across a frozen wasteland on Boxing day with Watneys Red Barrel and a dodgy many malted whisky repeating at their befrosted lips as they blunder around like bad-ass Bambis and some old-school Burnley or Leicester takes them apart.

I guess that was usually a United or a Liverpool. I haven't mentioned Man United. From my distant viewpoint they appeared to be stumbling into a run of victories which were single-handedly maintained by one David De Gea. If that man patrolled the Mexican border, no one would get in.

And while there seems to be as much luck as judgement going into the United renaissance I cannot help but be impressed with Van Gaal, not least because he is refreshingly direct about the stupidity or otherwise of his own players. I doubt, Louis would've have been insisting in the innocence of his staff after a performance like the Chelsea Tumblers put in against Hull.

I till reckon Chelsea'll win - yes I tipped Citeh at the start of the season - but somehow they grind it out. As for the quadruple... no. The treble, quite possibly, but they won't stop Real Madrid. No one will.

As ever I shall be handing out some pressies for the great and good of British sport in the next blog. But I have one question: what the fuck is Lewis Hamilton, a dull man in the dullest of sports, doing winning Sports Personality of the Year? McIlroy - far less dull even if the sport he plays isn't exactly thrilling - was a far more deserving recipient.

Tsk. I dunno. You leave the country for a couple of months...