Hi. This is Paul’s therapist. He’s currently whimpering in the corner, thus I am contractually obligated to write this piece of shit for him.
This is Paul Knows Nothing About Liverpool or whatever, the weekly column dedicated to a man ruining his life over a football club.
This week, the poor bastard has been subjected to amazing highs, shattering lows and various forms of self harm. So let’s get this over with already.
First of all, the week has started off with some great football from the Reds. Liverpool completely tore Everton apart in the local derby, which is turning into something less relevant than a new Limp Bizkit album. The mighty toffees bent down and took it so hard, David Moyes was left with nothing but a low whimpering about how much better Everton were when he was there, steering their team into the promised land of 8th.
The game was great. Sakho played like he’s on drugs (waaaait…) and Divock with the boys exposed no one else but John Stones. He’s a lad who looks like he’s always using ‘I know YOU are but what AM I?’ as a viable response every time he’s in trouble. We know you shat the floor, son. Now grab that mop and a bucket and scrub so uncle Conte doesn’t see what you’ve just done. Because there won’t be a third chance.
And oh yeah, remember how Paul compared Alberto Moreno to a labrador high on cocaine? Well, the poor whimpering bastard (haha just look at him now, he just rolled over) has been proved wrong.
Once again, of course.
The labrador has a job now. He’s a changed pup. A pup with a job and responsibilities. He’s found a beautiful girl, he’s cleaned his doggy hoverboard, he’s ready to start a family. He wears a suit everywhere he goes. Alberto Moreno is a changed woofer.
Whatever rehab Klopp sent him to – it worked.
“Your numbers in the recent outings were woofing good, partner”
Obviously though. It doesn’t change the fact Funes Mori tore Divock’s leg in exactly seven, bite sized pieces, packed them up in a nice plastic bag and is now selling them in Waitrose.
Where he’s going to work for a while because God knows, if he keeps doing this shit, soon he’ll be banned not only from playing football. He’s going to be banned from holding anything that is shaped like a sphere.
The authorities are going to whip him so hard, he will scream every time he sees an orange.
If he was in MMA, Conor McGregor would still be plumbing in Galway to put food on his plate. And Funes Mori would be on top of the world.
Funes, my dear. I’m not angry. I’m just offering you a solution. So that you can have a job where you’re valued for who you are. And where we don’t have to suffer from a problem that is your presence.
Further in the news, the pain and suffer has moved into an unprecedented territory. I can hear from Paul’s cry I shouldn’t be writing this.
But oh, I will, my dear. I will. It’s entirely your fault…It’s you who’s decided to pay me in walnuts – I just figured that one out, what the fuck dude. Never mind.
Michael Owen. Micheal Owen is now an official international ambassador of the Liverpool football club.
The man who’s won Manchester United the league and the man who presents his name to his wife every time they are having sex. Michael fucking Owen. He lives to make people suffer. I knew that sticky rib was up to something the day he became the spokesperson for adventurous, road-loving rabbits. He’s making a plan to hurt the ones he’s hurt already. Sauron Owen will stop at nothing. Lord Voldeowen will fight. Isn’t that enough rabbits already, Michael?
STOP THE MADNESS! WE PLEAD YOU!
ONE MORE, MICHAEL? WHAT ELSE? WHAT DO YOU HAVE PLANNED FOR THE NEWCASTLE GAME YOU BASTARD?
I’ll tell you what. A plethora of everything. First things first, this beautiful Saturday morning (I wake up at 1PM) started with the news of Mamadou Sakho munching on pills. What pills, you ask? Was it amphetamine? No. Was it ecstasy? No. Was it MDMA? That’s pretty much the same as ecstasy you dumbo so, no. It was weight loss pills.
And do you know what this tells me? This tells me that we as a society, are absolutely awful. We’ve turned a beautiful Scouse man, with wife and children, a great car and loads of money WORRY ABOUT HIS BODY IMAGE.
Don’t listen to them, Mamadou! You are beautiful! And you should’ve stayed like that, God dammit, you blithering idiot!
I know! I know who to blame. The sodding unrealistic body images young footballers are being subjected to. This has to stop. Unrealistic body expectations are ruining careers. So this is what I propose…
Ban Cristiano Ronaldo from football.
Yes. You heard that right. I bet he is the reason Mamadou was ready to starve himself, eating nothing but pills, solely because of this picture, I bet. God damn you to hell, Cristiano. You are the one to blame. You are the culprit. And you are the reason why I’m here and Paul is staring at me with an empty look. Shell of a man. Gone. Defeated and broken. What could possibly go worse for him. Oh! I know, you walnut-loving wall…nut.
Newcastle! How did you like that? 2-0 leads to Liverpool are Superman’s kryptonite, Dracula’s garlic, Martin Skrtel’s set piece.
It’s a weakness that will be known for generations.
Daniel Sturridge can’t save you every time, lads. So you might as well stick with 1-0 leads and purposely launch a penalty into space if a referee is ever so gracious to ever give us one.
Emre Can, Henderson and Origi are writing each other love letters on their casts as the remainder of the team choke more than a speed eating contest with a very tragic ending. It’s painful. Not many more words to describe that. So I’ll leave you to it. Watch Match of the Day, I don’t know. Don’t make me go into details. I’m just his poor, underpaid therapist. How will I ever pay for my license, which I obviously still don’t have.
Oh well. One detail, I suppose. Adam Lallana has had a great game. Obviously. And he didn’t score as much as he should have. Obviously. Adam is a man who could wank for solid four hours straight but would not last three minutes in an actual intercourse. Once he gets to the point, everything just dies inside of him.
But every now and then, he gets lucky. Every now and then, he gets in the mood. And when he does, it all becomes just so beautiful. What a shame the rest of the team are posh wankers, choking each other in your Ferraris.
Don’t do that to Paul ever again.
Hope he’s better next week. Because I’m out of here.
See you next time.