EPL, England, Europe, Features, Ian John, Leagues, Regions POSTS

’twas the night before Christmas…

Published by Ian John on December 24, 2009

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Not a soul was stirring, not even a mouse,
But in the distance a voice all alone,
Poor old Harry Redknapp on the telephone,
“Please Alex, do me a favour, sell me Rio.
“I’ll give you a Bentley and a red Renault Clio”
But Sir Alex declined and with a shake of his head,
said “You should be dreaming, get back in your bed.
“I’m selling nobody this January and nor am I buying.”
Harry didn’t believe a word, he knew he was lying.
But then came a text, from his friend across the way,
“Is Pavlyuchenko available on loan? Is all it did say.”
Harry laughed as he replied, “No! Not on you Nelly!”
“Unless you can offer me a Widescreen Plasma Telly.”
“Done!” Came the reply from a fellow happy Gaffer,
“He must be mad… Mind you it is Rafa…”
Said Harry to nobody as he laid down the phone
and flicked on the TV to hear Arsene moan.
“The fixtures are terrible and so unfair!”
And what have you done with Almunia’s hair?
The man at the FA, he’s a right nasty bloke
Admitting teams like Wolverhamton and Stoke,
They ruin our football by playing long ball,
And tackle my babies so they are bound to fall,
They bash and they bruise, they snap and they bite
They don’t play football, they just want a fight.
I don’t think the Premiership should let them in,
Cos we always flaming lose and never bloody win.”
Poor Rafa in his bed, his eyes bright and gay,
cos Santa’s promised him a win on Boxing Day,
A home win for Liverpool, posterity will preserve,
Cos Mick McCarthy and Wolves will play a team of reserves,
Fear not poor Rafa, for despite the disenchanted noise,
It could be far worse, you could be David Moyes,
Who’se got a sack load of poor broken toys,
One Arteta is missing a knee,
Jagielka too and Saha makes three,
They’ve got no money and the chairman has said,
“We can’t buy any players, unless they are dead.”
No New ground because the council said no.
Merry Christmas you Toffee’s “Ho-Ho-Ho!”
But then through the still night came the sound of cheer,
An Italian twang coming through loud and clear,
Echoing off the streets all covered in snow,
Came the giggling voice of the Angel Carlo
“Donta worry my maties, it’s notta that bad”
“Cos Chelsea win everything and that makea me glad!”
So dear Santa, if you are reading this plea,
Please for Xmas do these things for me,
When Harry’s paperwork is once again under review,
Get Rudolph to pee on the inland revenue,
If Sir Alex moan’s about a ref and looks glum,
Take a yellow card and shove it right up his bum.
Tell Arsene good teams know how to battle,
For it isn’t yet outlawed to make a good tackle,
For Rafa Benitez, On Aquilani he does waver,
Just tell him a blind moth is better than Lucas Leiva,
And David Moyes, he must win a game,
Or his eyes will bulge more and suck out his brain.
And Remember poor Sparky, now sacked and quite sad,
The Man City board are obviously quite mad,
but money talks and the board want success faster,
So they hired an Italian with an unhealthy love of Pasta.