epl: burnley v manchester united (1-0)
since it’s wednesday at 2:45 and i have one of those things some people call jobs, i’m not able to be at the pub this fine afternoon to see a curious man u lineup take on newly promoted burnley. instead, i rely on the curious mecca (and medina and the vatican and jerusalem) of online footie streaming sites, iraqi goals, to hook me up with the action on my piece of poop work computer. watching matches on a tiny screen with no sound while pretending to be productive is a rather different experience than being in the thick of the action at the pub. for one, there is no perplexing money exchanges taking place in front of me. also, the only phone that rings results in a superior summoning me to their office to write and/or edit something of various levels of importance rather than a drunk demanding to know the paddy power betting odds or the first scorer.
that said, disgust does not even begin to describe the feeling of witnessing this pitiful performance against a newly promoted team, regardless of the match-watching locale. woeful. dreadful. pitiful. amateurish. i feel so gutted right now that i would even go back to having food poisoning and hives, seriously. right now i have burnley poisoning. yeah, it’s early in the season. but if we play like this against fucking burnley, arsenal (and even wigan) is going to tear us to shreds in the not-to-distant future. 2 games into the season and retaining the title for a 4th consecutive season is, sadly, not looking too likely at all. michael carrick was the evening’s biggest villain as he missed a penalty kick in the closing minutes of the first half. he apparently plays better with his downriver-detroit dirt stash.
just to put this loss in context:
burnley’s stadium seats under 20,000. burnley’s last win against manchester united was in 1968. burnley has not played top flight football for 33 years. burnely’s main advertising revenue appears to be from ‘fishwicks minibus sales.’ burnley’s goalie is nicknamed ‘the beast.’ burnley’s mascot, bertie bee, is more well known for wrestling streaking pitch invaders to the ground than cheering his side to victory.
my shitlist: michael owen. fail. michael carrick, never take another penalty again, you join the berba-evra school of disasters. anderson, you are worthless on the left wing. gary neville, you are done. wes brown? wes brown you looked more rusty than an abandoned datsun on 46th street under the crackhead bridge by the train tracks. ryan giggs is nearly 67 years old and he was, by far, our best player on the pitch.
scholes sighting: did not get on the field, looked rather angry and seemed like he wanted to eat a pint-sized burnley fan after the match. this one.
update: these stats from RoM are the only thing that have made me feel better and prevent me from wielding this knife at all the shit-talking chelsea and liverpool fans.
