HIBERNIAN 1- 3 ABERDEEN
Another season stumbles incompetently over the finishing line. With nothing to play for, except pride.... hahaha, I kid... this Aberdeen team has no pride to play for. So, with nothing to play for, particularly not pride, the Mighty Dons went to Easter Road for one last pointless kick-about before fucking off on their holidays, many of them (hopefully) never to return to the club.
The only thing of any note this game had was a minute's applause for Eddie Turnbull, formely of both Aberdeen and Hibs, and surely the Aberdeen players must have been wondering what the fuck that noise was, it having been so long since anyone clapped at an Aberdeen game.
21 minutes gone and Riorden blooters the ball square into the net to put the Edinburgh Celtic 1-0 up on the Dons. This is no shock, save it took about 20 minutes longer to happen than expected, the East Coast Tims having put the Special Kids under pressure from the word Go. We awaited the inevitable collapse as the Aberdeen team lost what little interest they had in the game to begin with.
But then something unexpected happened.
Desperate to put themselves in the shop window and fool any watching scouts into offering them a contract, the Aberdeen 'players' started to... actually, I think you had better sit down... they started to play football. Not for their non-existent pride, not for the fans, not for the club, but because they want to still be working after this season ends... that being the same day.
THREE goals by the men in red, two by Chris 'The Tongue' Maguire, put Celtibernian to the sword in a display of putting themselves in the shop window so blatant that the crowd forgot to boo this show of cynicism. Joyous cries of "Aberdeen! Aberdeen! Aberdeen!" resounded around Easter Road, and the final day of the season ended with a rare win for the wankers in red, utter humiliation for the Hibs team Aberdeen had just leapfrogged, and the promise of bottom six SPL football for Aberdeen next year.
So what have we learned from this season?
Well, we've learned that even though as unlikely as it seems, successive Aberdeen managers have unerringly assembled a team so bad that even standing in the same general area as these guys makes you unemployable. They're like a Black Hole of talentlessness, sucking the life and soul out of every living thing unfortunate enough to find itself within the gravitational pull of their collective shitness.
If Mr Happy were to watch this team for 15 minutes he would blow his own brains out in a fit of utter depression and hopelessness. If Mr Tickle were to clone himself 9100 times and tickle each and every Aberdeen supporter for the year he still couldn't raise a single, solitary fucking smile, AND he'd probably hang himself with his extraordinarily long arms to boot. If free blowjobs were given out with every ticket sold this club STILL couldn't persuade the fans to return to watch the absolute piss that is passed off as football by Aberdeen Football club.
In fact, if I were feeling cuntish, I would have these jokers up on charges of false advertising.
Aberdeen Football Club?
The only true word in that line is Aberdeen. They're certainly not footballers, and 'Club' suggests some form of common aim or interest.
And IF, and it's an IF the size of Saturn, IF the club moves to it's new location it won't even be Aberdeen Football Club any more... it'll be Loriston Shite Individuals.
Next season, we're told, things will be better.
We were told that last season... oh, and the season before that.
Well, if by 'Better' the club actually means 'Much, much worse' then I guess I can believe that.
Get fucked, Aberdeen.
Just... get fucked.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/scot_prem/9484602.stm?utm_source=twitterfeed&utm_medium=twitter
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Another Fucking Beating... that's the spirit.
Aberdeen 0 - 1 St. Mirren
In the last home game of the season the most useless, feckless, clueless, talentless collection of fuckwits, retards, shitbags and anal prolapses the game of football has ever seen assembled into a single 'team' had a chance to at least redeem itself in a very, very minor way.
They had the opportunity, against another team of hopeless dickbags, to apologise to the fans in the only way possible... and that was to play as though the red shirt meant something to them. To go out there and show the fans, and the world, that while this Aberdeen team is the footballing equivalent of the Keystone Cops, they do have a little bit of fight about them. A little bit of self-respect.... fuck it... a little bit of life somewhere deep down in their dead, passionless souls.
And of course, they lost. Again.
Lumbering slowly around the pitch like they'd been out drinking till the early hours, and had only turned up at the stadium because someone promised them more drink, or maybe some charlie for tooting, our special kids made about as much effort to play football as Michael Jackson did to promote Black Identity.
Before a crowd of, I think it must have been about 3, they did their thing once more. That thing where they can't pass, won't run, don't shout, don't shoot... oh, and officially this game made it 190 minutes without a shot on target. I don't mean without a goal... I mean without a fucking single, solitary shot on target... can anybody beat THAT, Mr Roy Castle?
So anyway, yeah, they did that thing again. That thing where they're absolute, unadulterated shoite.
St. Mirren must have known this would be the day they saved themselves from relegation. The day where they came up against the only team in the league... fuck, the only team on the planet... where they could be guaranteed a win if they simply turned up and acted like footballers.
So turn up they did, and while St. Mirren is by no means anything but a terrible, terrible team of just unbelievably shit players, they did just enough to win the game. And that 'just enough' was to get one attempt on target.
That's all it takes... one attempt.
All that stood between the net and the ball was Jamie 'Clangers' Langfield.
Another way of saying that is that nothing stood between the ball and the net.
It wasn't even a well hit shot. Wardlaw attempted a volley, but being a St. Mirren player the best he could manage was a sclaffed effort that wouldn't have been out of place on 'Shittest attempt of the season', that hilarious review of bad attempts at goal that I just imagined as a real TV show.
Langfield, made a good show of pretending to get the ball, but it "squirmed under him and into the net"
Well, given how fucking ugly that guy is I can only imagine that's about the only thing that's ever squirmed under him. Still, he's as good a keeper as he is handsome, and it came as a great relief to Dons fans everywhere that he signed on for another year of failure.
And so St. Mirren were saved, and there was much rejoicing on the streets of St. Mirren.
And so Aberdeen was shit, and there was mighty boos from the one guy left in the ground to watch the Dons players slope off to the bar for a well deserved piss up.
Well done lads, you did yourselves justice once more.
Next up, the last game of the season... thankyejeeesus... an away game against another team of terrible footballers, Hibernian... that reincarnation of Pele's Brazil, only shit.
Oh the apathy.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/scot_prem/9480345.stm
In the last home game of the season the most useless, feckless, clueless, talentless collection of fuckwits, retards, shitbags and anal prolapses the game of football has ever seen assembled into a single 'team' had a chance to at least redeem itself in a very, very minor way.
They had the opportunity, against another team of hopeless dickbags, to apologise to the fans in the only way possible... and that was to play as though the red shirt meant something to them. To go out there and show the fans, and the world, that while this Aberdeen team is the footballing equivalent of the Keystone Cops, they do have a little bit of fight about them. A little bit of self-respect.... fuck it... a little bit of life somewhere deep down in their dead, passionless souls.
And of course, they lost. Again.
Lumbering slowly around the pitch like they'd been out drinking till the early hours, and had only turned up at the stadium because someone promised them more drink, or maybe some charlie for tooting, our special kids made about as much effort to play football as Michael Jackson did to promote Black Identity.
Before a crowd of, I think it must have been about 3, they did their thing once more. That thing where they can't pass, won't run, don't shout, don't shoot... oh, and officially this game made it 190 minutes without a shot on target. I don't mean without a goal... I mean without a fucking single, solitary shot on target... can anybody beat THAT, Mr Roy Castle?
So anyway, yeah, they did that thing again. That thing where they're absolute, unadulterated shoite.
St. Mirren must have known this would be the day they saved themselves from relegation. The day where they came up against the only team in the league... fuck, the only team on the planet... where they could be guaranteed a win if they simply turned up and acted like footballers.
So turn up they did, and while St. Mirren is by no means anything but a terrible, terrible team of just unbelievably shit players, they did just enough to win the game. And that 'just enough' was to get one attempt on target.
That's all it takes... one attempt.
All that stood between the net and the ball was Jamie 'Clangers' Langfield.
Another way of saying that is that nothing stood between the ball and the net.
It wasn't even a well hit shot. Wardlaw attempted a volley, but being a St. Mirren player the best he could manage was a sclaffed effort that wouldn't have been out of place on 'Shittest attempt of the season', that hilarious review of bad attempts at goal that I just imagined as a real TV show.
Langfield, made a good show of pretending to get the ball, but it "squirmed under him and into the net"
Well, given how fucking ugly that guy is I can only imagine that's about the only thing that's ever squirmed under him. Still, he's as good a keeper as he is handsome, and it came as a great relief to Dons fans everywhere that he signed on for another year of failure.
And so St. Mirren were saved, and there was much rejoicing on the streets of St. Mirren.
And so Aberdeen was shit, and there was mighty boos from the one guy left in the ground to watch the Dons players slope off to the bar for a well deserved piss up.
Well done lads, you did yourselves justice once more.
Next up, the last game of the season... thankyejeeesus... an away game against another team of terrible footballers, Hibernian... that reincarnation of Pele's Brazil, only shit.
Oh the apathy.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/scot_prem/9480345.stm
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Night of the Living Shitbags
ABERDEEN 0 - 2 ST. JOHNSTONE
I'll level with you... I fucking LOVE zombie movies. Fucking LOVE them. The blank-eyed, shuffling corpses, lurching about the place with no idea that they're dead, just going through the motions of being alive, and maybe upping the ante with the occasional burst of activity when they see some juicy living flesh they can get torn into.
You can see where I'm going with this, I've no doubt.
This Aberdeen team, and I use the term 'team' only in its loosest possible sense, is the footballing equivalent of a Zombie movie. But not a good Zombie movie, oh fuck me, no. This isn't Dawn of the Dead or 28 Days Later, because those are worth watching. Lots of action. Lots of stupid fuckers getting ripped to pieces by the brainless hordes of re-animated diners. No, if this Aberdeen team were a Zombie movie it would be called, AberDeen of the Dead, or, Night of the Living Shitbags.
For 90 minutes nothing would happen, except maybe a couple of them might bump into each other accidentally, or maybe one of them might fall over their own fucking feet and have no idea how to get back up. Then the credits would roll, and you'd be all... "What the fuck? Nothing happened. Surely something was meant to happen?"
Oh, and maybe, as you get up to leave, one of the Zombies might flip you off or throw you a 'wanker' sign.... just to compound how much you've been cheated by watching 90 minutes of sweet fuck all.
"Hey you!" The Zombie would shout. and you would turn around, and the Zombie would be all, "Hahaaaaa.. wwwaaaaaankah!"
How would you feel about that?
Anyway, for 90 minutes this Aberdeen team shuffled around, going through the motions of being footballers... inasmuch as they were wearing football costumes and pretending like they were playing football, sort of, while around 6000 people in the crowd went, "What the fuck's going on? I thought the football was on now, but instead what we've got is eleven a side shitbaggery. Oy, when does the football start?"
Of course, Craig Brown kept faith with all the cunts who've let him down repeatedly, and who got the previous manager the dunt, as you would. And why not? When you've got a team of worthless fuckers who have no intention of trying a leg for the manager, the club or their own fucking self-respect... because they don't have any self-respect.... then what you get is a hiding from the latest in a long line of semi-retarded football teams, this time St. Johnstone.
St. J must have thought all their birthdays had come at once when they lined up and saw this Aberdeen team staring back with their dead, disinterested eyes.
Fortunately the end of the season is just around the corner, and we'll be able to get rid of a few of them... but rest assured, next season we'll be looking at pretty much the same team of undead shitbags, shambling around Pittodrie like one of fucking George Romero's wet dreams.
Fuck them.
Fuck them all.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/scot_prem/9476489.stm
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
WINNING!
ABERDEEN 1 - 0 INVERNESS CT
In a match that can only be described as Aberdeen versus Caley Thistle, Aberdeen stepped up to the plate, took a massive, wild, hopeful swing and, defying the odds and the gods, managed to somehow come out of this shambolic abortion of a football match with a win.
I immediately ran to the front office and asked the woman at the desk how many points we got for a win, since I'd forgotten in the months since the last time we managed to do such a thing.
She wasn't sure either, and after being made to hold on for about 30 minutes while she asked various other people at the club, she came back and said that no-one knew. She thought it might be two points for a win, a couple of the boot boys thought it might be three, and one lad apparently thought you got 10 points for winning.
In the end I phoned a mate who supports Dundeh Unehtehd, and he confirmed that it's three points for a win. He also confirmed that I'm a sheepshagging bastard and that, hahahaha, get it fucking up ye!
So three points for the mighty, Dandy, Bollocksy Dons, at the tail end of a season in which we once more reverted to not only flirting with relegation, but pulling relegation's cock out and giving it a fucking good sucking. Fortunately relegation didn't pop it's First Divisiony load all over our faces this year, but many more season like this one and we'll be finding ourselves on the receiving end of a veritable Bukkake of relegation jisms. Relegation cum will be literally running down our cheeks and filling our mouths with it's salty trips to crappy grounds, and stinging our eyes with the cold, congealed semen of no media coverage.
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