The Daily Moaner

Another Meteorite Entirely

Two cricket fans watching last week’s Sussex-Middlesex match were dumb-founded amazed slightly surprised when a meteorite whizzed down beside them and plonked itself against the boundary board.  As they watched, the spectators were astounded when the stony object split into two pieces and little green men emerged suddenly — nothing happened.

A meteorite expert said that the rock had been on the go across space for 4.5 billion years next Thursday, though it was a shadow of its former self; and proved that God had a fantastic aim.

It is believed to be the first instance of something faintly interesting to occur during a cricket match.

Paul the Octopus can breathe again as he watches the World Cup Final from the liquid safety of his tank.  His predictive record is 100% sucessful, and Spain are the proud new holders of the cup.  A sterile and foul-filled ninety minutes were followed by a sterile and foul-filled thirty minutes.  It was all slightly less interesting than snail racing.

Sorry -- Kalamari is off

The match ended with a Spanish goal in extra time,  and already the pundits are beginning their dreary analyses of the action, which will go on for days and days and bloody days… After two weeks of bloody tennis , and four weeks of bloody football , the Beeb are now gearing themselves up for bloody golf .

But hopefully, Paul has been saved from a fate worse than football.  So…

Spain 1 — Netherlands 0.  And no kalamari tonight.

Hey-ho… the second week of Wimbledon begins today. Another few days of bink-bonk  until Roger Federer wins again.  Tennis is not what it was, but then — what is?

We've gone from this...

... to this

At least we have the women’s — sorry! — the lady’s matches to look forward to.  Their game has progressed so much in the last century.  Not that the Daily Moaner would put up pictures simply because we’re a male chauvinist outfit that can’t get to watch enough top totty dashing about and displaying their limbs.  Certainly not!

Um… sorry… a photo from our private collection seems to have crept in.  Very distasteful.  We do most humbly apologise.

To make up for the error, here’s a photo showing how to make men’s tennis a little more exciting.

Four-one.  Plus a disallowed English goal.  And now the post mortem is filling the airwaves, with the pundits looking for the right culprit to string up.

Various theories abound. It’s all the referee’s fault. He was banned from taking part in the 2002 World Cup for “irregularities”.  It’s all Sepp Blatter’s fault, for barring technology and for being Sepp Blatter.  It’s all Fabio Capello’s fault for being a rotten manager.  It’s all the team’s fault for playing ponderously like a pitchful of hippo’s.  It’s all Beckham’s fault for not playing. It’s all Rooney’s fault for not  scoring the ten goals we expected. It’s all the Press’s fault for piling on the pressure.  It’s all the fan’s fault for painting themselves like nancy-boys.  And it’s all the vuvuzela’s fault for being just fucking annoying and pissing everybody off.

The Daily Moaner is glad to offer further reasons for our team’s defeat.  Such as the weather, (which was too hot / cold / wet / dry /windy  — delete as applicable); the Archbishop of Canterbury, for not offering special prayers; David Cameron for not attending in person, preferring to gab with his mates at the G20 in Toronto; and the WAGS for either being there or not being there, as the case may be. Not forgetting, of course, that for the whole team, it was the wrong time of the month.

Somebody said the defeat was because the Germans played better than we did.

But this is obviously a stupid thing to say.

Your editor, though even more dashing and heroic than Indiana Jones, has several Achilles heels, though just two feet.  And the greatest of these is that I am a musician manqué .

Can Easily Be Mistaken For Music

As a child, I played drums in a number of marching bands, all of whom asked me to leave.  As a young teenager, I paid my paper-round money over to rent a piano-accordian which was at least as big as I was.  And I paid more money over for lessons, until the teacher asked me to leave. 

Another resounding failure was my attempt to become the next Louis Armstrong, blowing a battered old trumpet for hours in my bedroom.  Until the neighbours asked me to leave.

In my mid-twenties, someone gave me a guitar, with which I tortured my small and defenceless children.  I still play to this day, though nobody will stand still long enough to hear me play a full piece.  I have to face it — I have all the ambition of a first-class musician.  And none of the talent.

Except now, I have an instrument that even I can play, and easily be mistaken for music.  It is simple. It is elegant to look at.  It is easy to learn.  And it is extremely irritating to listen to.

It is called a vuvuzela, and apparently it is annoying the hell out of people attending the World Cup  in South Africa.  They are claiming that it is too loud, that they cannot concentrate on the little men running about and falling over on the field, and that they are unable to hear what the commentators are screaming into their microphones.  In short, that the vuvuzela is ruining the match for them.

Good!

I wish to register a complaint.

A Typical England Fan

Apparently there has been some kind of sporting tournament going on, these last few days.  Possibly football. And there has been not a whisper of publicity about it — not in the newspapers, not on the TV.  Nowhere . Admittedly, my TV can only receive a channel called Extreme Ironing , owing to my inability to reprogramme the thingey.  And my local paper seems to be 100% adverts for optimistically priced houses.

If it had not been for my neighbour being sick in my letterbox at half-two in the morning, and the conversation immediately after, I would not have heard a word about this footie  (as it is now called).  My neighbour is a disgrace — coming home fighting drunk, night after night, with dishevelled hair, vomit down the front, and clothes in disarray, swearing and cursing like a Lebanese stevedore. I shall never be able to face her again.

Anyway, I gather there was a game between ourselves and the US which ended in a draw, after the Americans had unleashed WMD of some sort. In my neighbour Deirdre’s opinion, we wuz robbed. As far as I could gather ( just before she wet her St George’s Cross knickers and sank insensibly into my fish-pond ), there were no sendings-off, no red cards, no pitched battles between rival fans, no smoke bombs and nobody shot by the police.

Though there is  some talk of stringing the goalie up.  But that is all it will come to — just talk .  It is all very disappointing. 

Sport is not what it was in my young days.

In keeping with the Daily Moaner’s general opinion of sports and sports-lovers, we append the following report from our Morris dancing Sports correspondent.

Yesterday a man called Rio Something-or-other fell over and hurt his knee. The entire nation was immediately suffused with grief, with both the Beeb and Sky weeping and wailing 24/7, because he would not be able to play some sort of game somewhere, possibly South Africa.

Distraught crowds  emerged from their homes and wept openly in the streets. Several sports commentators set light to themselves and perished on air.

White Van Man -- Leader of Cut-throats and Hooligans

Legions of idiots in white vans drove frantically to and fro, after decorating their vans with a flag showing a red cross on a white background, the traditional symbol of idiots-with-white-vans. They then convened at the Dog and Duck and other Holy places, to mourn the man called Rio Something-or-other.

The Daily Moaner urges readers to be on the lookout for this White Van Man, pictured left, who is the ringleader of a vicious gang of cut-throats and hooligans in the Westminster area,

Another man, Favoo Faveo a foreigner, stopped crying to tell everyone how much he had cried, and how irreplaceable the man called Rio was, who he had now replaced.

Another fine hairstyle from the RAC

This foreign chap has to pick a team of some sort, specially chosen from people caught fighting/boozing/fornicating in night-clubs. All of them will have hair-styles created at the road-side by the RAC.  They will represent our nation in South Africa, where they will fall over as soon as they are tackled. It is traditional that the foreign chap will then leap up and down and foam at the mouth, while all sports commentators will shout themselves hoarse for no reason at all.  Crowds of people will scream at a little man with a whistle, who will keep holding up a red card. It will all be such fun.

All of the above people are paid three million times what YOU are paid.

More sport soon in your throbbing, pulsating Daily Moaner!