telegram time

Dear Fabio Capello
Ruud
Ronal

DEAR FABIO CANNAVARO

WTF IS GOING ON STOP IN WHICH UNBELIEVABLE UNIVERSE DID GOING FROM THE BEATEN BUT UNBROKEN JUVENTUS TO A BLOATED STABLE OF GALACTIC WASTE THAT CAN'T SO MUCH AS MAKE A PASS FROM ONE PLAYER TO ANOTHER FOR FEAR OF A BROKEN EGO SEEM LIKE A GOOD IDEA STOP RETURN IMMEDIATELY STOP REMEMBER BECKHAM STOP

"I said give me TIME! I can't deal with this whole proven-football-superstars policy you have going on here!"

Postscript to the Madrid back line that did play in Saturday night's game against Getafe: You suck. So much. The only good thing that can be said about you all? Is that you do not suck HALF as much as the forwards. When next Saturday rolls around and you are all handed much-kicked arse by Barca, you will deserve it richly, but not half as much as the storied-but-unproven fantastitude of the Ruud-Ronaldo partnership.

PPS Canna: No, seriously. Even being the Kaká-surrogate of la Liga ("look, there he is resting his injured knee, let's watch him watching the game because, you know, we aren't paid to focus on the football which is honest-to-Maldini crap, anyway!") has NOT got to be enough compensation for this. Are you trying to cover yourself in shame? You're making Zambrotta and Thuram cry, dude.

PPPS Becks: It's a long way to come, to have us at De Ludo Globi feel sorry for you.

--

Dear Arsenal (on the other hand),

It feels kind of bad saying this after it was an unfancied team that got beat by the classiness of you. But they did try, and you know, apparently in Spain beating a bunch of minnows is too much work. But.

For the win, boys. For. The. Win.

"I don't play for Real Madrid. SCORE."

weekend qualifiers

The old England is dead. Long live the old England!



One for my baby. One to stand a hair's breadth chance of playing in Euro 2008.

testing

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all's well with the globi?

What a weekend of delight for football fans everywhere, with so much status quo maintained. No major upsets, no dazzling discovery of form, and apart from Valencia’s show on Sunday night’s game against ‘Nastic, no spectacular and crushing display of might or talent. No matches, in short, that a fan might attend and come away from, thinking, ‘ah me, if I never go to another game I will still have the memory of this to carry with me,’ unless perhaps said fan’s Serie B side was playing Juventus this week.

Coming closest to that would be the highlight of the long weekend, Sunday evening’s Madrid derby (Atletico 1-1 Real). Atletico fans should be more dissatisfied than Real’s, since their domination of the match for the greater part resulted in no more than the addition of a dry and dour point to their total, and enough yellow cards to paper a Joni Mitchell taxi. They paved paradise and put up a goal in the seventh minute with some help from Madrid’s truly pathetic defence (it’s a way off from “Hi, I’m Fabio, and I’m a galactico who used to captain my national side,” but my goodness, man, look at those who go before you), but spent the rest of the game satisfied with bursts of stray individual brilliance, unable even to capitalise on the dubious send-off of Sergio Ramos. Real fans still await the regeneration of their megastar team, not alleviated by their captain’s just and poetic comeback. Raúl’s drop from the Spanish international side occurred in a week during which he scored two Champions’ League goals (in Real’s match against Dynamo Kiev) as well as, on Sunday, his first goal in eleven months in a La Liga game. One’s fondness for this forward of no mean gifts makes one hopeful and curious to see how things progress for him. The desire to see him re-assert himself amidst the most expensive goalscoring lineup in football history is pure contrariness: as much as confidence and awe is inspired in us by the van Schnitzelrooys of this world, humans and bloggers were born to root for those down on their luck.




Luck apparently played some part in Cristiano Ronaldo’s inability to put a ball in the back of the net in his team’s annoyingly lopsided game against Newcastle. Ickle Cwistiano played with class and flair, but his numerous shots on goal uniformly met the woodwork, only to be rescued on one occasion by the perspicacious Solskjaer. Cwistiano won Man of the Match for his pains, leaving us at De Ludo Globi happy for the whippersnapper, but puzzled at the festivities attending his lack of precision. Perhaps some training with the right people will make a difference, but we are none of us putting Cwis on our wishlist for Serie A just yet. He’s only just put a stop to his habit of bawling his eyes out after unsatisfactory games, and we’re afraid a season in Italy will just impede his progress in that direction, as it has for older and stronger men before him.

Incidentally we once heard absolutely improbable, baseless, false, wrong rumours of Man U luring the Instrument of Precision into its lair, so if a move is in order (which it isn’t because, absolutely improbable baseless false wrong rumour) ickle Cwistiano might just get the attention he needs – from the right quarters, for once.

[Graphic courtesy Nike’s latest series of ads.]