Another week gone, another week wi'out any movement pon the upmost peaks o English football, which some smarmy Italian bastards might tell you ain't all that formidable, but this midweek evenin showcased a couple o the best damn footballers from Newcastle to Naples. I'm talkin o'course about Rooney an Ronaldo (the thinner, better lookin one).
O course, no calcionista is worth much wi'out a fine supportin cast, one which a greater man might yak on bout for days, but not I. Watchin Wayne an Christiano turn from petulant adolescents into model professionals over the course of a year has been a joy to behold, an though Watford are by no means Barcelona, the fellas tore them asunder wi effortless grace. Rooney's finish here, added to his heart-rendingly beautiful strike gainst Portsmouth, invite all variety o temptin comparisons t'Eric Cantona himself. The difference bein, course, that it took a ninemonth ban for Cantona to control his temper, Rooney seems t'have figured that one out already. And say what y'want bout Ronaldo's simulatin shenanigans, he's the best diver out there. An his footwork is simply the best in the world, a glorious combo o individual finesse, and, new out this season, an instinctive team ethic. I don't see this fella sheddin many more tears in his day.
An honorable mention goes to Peter Crouch, who looks more like a real footballer every day. He's put on weight, picked up a yard o pace, an is bangin them in like nobody's business. I talk lightly of him, but he could surprise a lot o folks yet. Another crackin goal today, an his work wi Dirk Kuyt, surely the most talented grafter ever to hassle a Premiership defence, puts him in great shape to hold his England place.
So, wi Chelsea winnin again, even wi Ashley Cole out wi ligament damage, there's no great power shift at the top. But damned if it isn't good to see four quality teams at the top again.
This here's some sample artwork by a young lass by the namea Maureen Twist, who's been scribblin away at sketches for a comic book bein written by myself an my good friend Adam Hanley, himself a greatly talented artiste. We've thrown down two outta the five planned chapters of our wee book already, wi more to come, once I get the gumption to go do it.
This fantastic four are a rock group known as The Distillers, bout whom I've previously ranted more than is healthy for a fella. But they are just that good. Were that good, I should say, for they went their separate ways over three years ago now. Still, the fact remains that their second album, Sing Sing Death House, is one a the best rock albums I've had the pleasurea listenin to. It's freea as much pretention as it's possible t'be free of for a rock band, and lordy but it woulda been splendid for to while away the dusky hours o a summer night in their screamin hysterical presence. The whole shebang opens wi "Desperate" onea a number o tracks lastin slightly below the 1:30 mark. But where a lotta bands fall down on tryin to squeeze every last dropa rock out a track, the Distillers beat it out, move on, an start over. The next few tracks, "I Am A Revenant", "Seneca Falls" an the unmatchable "The Young Crazed Peeling" are, simply put, fuckin awesome. Brody's aforementioned vocal stylins, put over the top of a crashin rhythm section wi more melody than a balls-out (proverbially, in this case) punk rock band should be capable of retainin. The message in mosta the tracks is, admittedly, pretty simple; "It hit me / I got everything I need /... When the birds have been freed from their cages / I got freedom and my youth." But the honesty wi which these lines're delivered charms the everlastin socks off me, an considerin the wealtha clever bands peddlin all manner a cynicism an smarm, Sing Sing Death House is still, five years on, fresh as the first time.
Post Script: We got the bloody bungalow in Vanbrugh Drive!!!!! Thanks, God.