50 Knows Football

Yeah, [expletive] Bo Jackson.

Nike should enlist Curtis Jackson, a-k-47-a 50 Cent for their next stateside soccer ad campaign.

In fact, [expletive] Juergen Klinsmann. Make 'Fiddy' the next coach of the USA. He seems to know the basics of football, and best of all has solid know-how to ensure that the game catches (gun)fire in America's concrete jungles.

Click on the [expletive] photo to read an interview with him in the newest Four Four Two. Or check out the story of how Action Jackson Heights became a fan of Jamaica's Reggae Boyz in a roundabout way.

(censorship services by the G-8 Office of Stopping Sh*t.)

The Cosmos are Back in Town

For the last several weeks, New York City became World Cup Central (Park) in America.

All the watering holes were stuffed day and night, there was unprecedented media coverage not seen outside of USA'94, and record TV ratings. For the first time in history fans even gathered at a jumbotron in Times Square for the USA-Italy game -- and did so again a couple weeks later for the Final.

Plus you could get laid by simply telling a girl you were Cristiano Ronaldo's fourth cousin-in-law, no verification asked.

Apparently the appetite for soccer (and sex) in the Big Apple wasn't so different back in the crazy daze of the New York Cosmos. The fine-stein folks at Miramax have weisely released a new documentary this week about said club.....

(if the iFilm clip doesn't work, just click here)

A TIME to Make Friends

Said company called out by The Boss is run by a bigger company named Time-Warner, which publishes a big magazine called TIME. Like visual media outlets, most international happenings are presented through the spectacle'd eye of some wannabe Hollywood screenwriter.

But, whowouldathunkit, in rare instances they can make some sense.

Zi Zpeaks....

And a slightly reverse angle from the USA....

Ink Criminating Evidence

Forget the Hague.

Yes, as hard as that seems, clear it from your criminal mind for just a second.

This week cast your eyes and ears on the International Court of Popular Opinion, to find the verdict over the mouthful of slurs to come out of the big mouth of Marco Materazzi.

For the record, Marco 'm&m' Materazzi has indeed been a tall, slim shady the last few years. A clearly low-brow, self-confessed moron and mafioso-like headhunter with a powerful knack for illegal thuggery. He'd make a great chairman at Juventus or another top club, president of Serie A Inc., or maybe even Prime Minister. Or all three at the same time like Silvio B did until recently.

Or maybe he'll eventually be coach of the Azzurri. Not a difficult task there.

Instructions are as follows: "defend resolutely" with 11 men behind the ball, be "defensive masterminds" as you're pinned back during relentless one-way pressure from the opposition, show yourselves as "defensive stalwarts" while being outplayed and outfought for endless stretches until a moment of freakishness occurs towards the very end, so as to prove that you are indeed "the greatest defensive squad of all time" since the last World Cup.

Oh, and twist a nipple or two along the way.

Materazzi also happens to have the most tattoos in this World Cup. This being the first heavily inked-up tournament, that is saying a whole lot. Well, not much actually. Does anyone really think aimless scribblings like these go beyond skin deep?.....

Gallagher. On Tevez.

One of the very few interesting areas of the suprisingly low-fi (though hard-hitting) official FIFA World Cup website has been the mercurial 'VIPs Love Football'.

Fittingly, one of the final installments of that section sees two of this publication's favorite people coming together.

Noel Gallagher. Carlos Tevez. 


Now talk amongst yourselves.

ComMunich Manifesto

The overwhelming "gamesmanship" and "sophisticated defenses" that have wrought havoc on the knockout stages has Franz talkin' and Sepp blatterin' about a summit. Yeah, a summit. Nice move. Don't forget to invite Kim Gone-ill and Jorge Dubyah-Bushleaguer. Surely they've got some opinions, too.



One person who also has opinions on making the game more attractive to a stone-cold business-casual observer is the lead singer of the Sheffield UK-based band Arctic Monkeys. This distinguished youth, specifically as a Brit rocker, understands the nuances in how to break into the ellusive hearts-and-minds of the American "market". After all, why wouldn't someone want a fine slice of that microwaveable American Pie, or a sweet sip of that high fructose corn syrup Cool Ade?

The matches should be announced 5 minutes before kick off, in the middle of the night. The players are woken up by a high pressure jet of ice cold lager and have two minutes to put on their boots and pads before being dosed up to the eyeballs on crystal meth and PCP.

Strobe lighting and deafening white noise in the tunnel ensures that they're hopelessly disorientated by the time they line up to sing the national anthems. Any that fluff a line or sing without sufficient gusto fall through trap doors in the pitch and are eaten alive by starving rabid heyenas. These inevitable casualties are replaced by highly efficient but wildly unpredictable mechanoids who can score from 70 yards but are often red carded for brutal sliding tackles that spoil the turf and bisect their opposition. The ball is made from tungsten and the referee's whistle is so loud it can melt lead. The referee himself is a highly intelligent genetically engineered polar bear who can see round corners and doesn't take shit from anyone. Collina's soul is trapped eternally within his pituitary gland. He has 9 different colours of card, from yellow for a caution all the way up to black for disembowelment and banning from the next 5 games. The linesmen are omnipresent.

Each half lasts for 5 hours and the pitch is 7 miles long with terrain varying from greased astroturf to full canopied jungle, interspersed with sand pits, ball pools and active volcanoes. After each goal a hundred strong troupe of naked local teenage girls the action on the pitch, preferring to focus on closeups of the cervixes of the most attractive supporters from some latin american country, even if it's Scotland vs Canada.

If the scores are tied after 10 hours of play, mutagenic chemicals stored in the players' spines is automatically released and they quickly transmute into horrendous lamprey like creatures who rapidly reproduce 7 fold and form an enormous writhing mass of suckers, slime, shredded football atire and hooked teeth. The teams are disbanded, the pitch is flooded with a 50:50 mix of stout and KY jelly. A horrific 5 dimensional game of twister then ensues, with each hideous player trying to force his way around or through his former team mates in an attempt to get as close as possible to the ball, which has now armed the tactical thermonuclear warhead within. The player closest to the ball when it detonates is declared the winner, and his vapourised remains are trapped in a canister and rewarded with the dubious honour of being vaginally inhaled by geriatric Estonian pilgrims who believe (incorrectly) that it will cure them of rickets.

This new version of the beautiful game proves so popular that 95% of the planet's workforce downs tools to spend all of their time watching it on tiny little screens directly inserted into their retinas, and the global economy collapses. With food running short, the blinded population of the planet is soon crawling around on the ground searching for a morsel of edible organic matter as parasites and diseases become pandemic. Brother is soon killing brother for a flake of dried up sm*gma as the planet consumes itself, polluted by discarded plutonium studs and overheated by constant arguments over whether or not something that looks like a giant hagfish with a number 7 on its hairy back can be declared offside when the ball exists in 11 dimensional space he has just eaten the last defender whole.

Forever Pyoungyang

Lets face it, folks.

It simply wouldn't feel like semifinals week at the World Cup without some grandstanding from Kim Jong-Il, now would it?

Didn't think so.

As the corporate media bots keep telling us, the government of North Korea tested a few missile-thingys. But, geez, what's a country without cable television supposed to do with all that spare time in the middle of a long hot summer?

Shockingly, the last time there was a major fracas of this level was exactly four years ago. Just before South Korea played it's final match in the 3rd Place game against Turkey, a jealous Jong-Il was guilty of some Korean-on-Korean crime out on the disputed high sea, in a weak attempt to grab headlines away from the sweet run of the Red Devils.


Interesting event planner, that Jong-Il. Even the squares at the Pentagon mentioned a few weeks ago that the grand leader was going to do some stuff during this World Cup like he did four years ago.

Maybe Kimbo should just get North Korea to qualify for a World Cup. They haven't been there since their surreal run in '66 -- coincidentally the last time Portugal was also in the last four. 

But that would all be too rational.

One Game Announcer Changes Everything

Well it's July 4th in America, so get out the Foreman Grill, the hot dogs, the illegal fireworks, the Miller Lite, the annoying relatives, and gather 'round the television for.......Germany v Italy? In "socker"?

Yes, it's Independence Day in 2006. ('Dependence Day' if you're an actual Native American, Mexican, or another non-WASP) Demographics are changing, Media is changing, and America is changing. Now that's a Declaration of Interdependence.

We have a special treat for you in honor of this paid holiday. Our correspondent in Germany, Naveed Marley, ran into one of the USA's finest exports in the personage of ESPN's Dave O'Brien, the voice prima facie for World Cup telecasts beaming into the States. Well, its main man for non-Spanish telecasts.

Naveed found Mr. O'Brien at a multi-storied McDonalds in downtown Dortmund, throwing down a few Deluxe Sausage Egg McMuffins just hours before the start of the Italy v Germany semifinal.

Watch this space for Naveed's exclusive, two-part interview coming very shortly....

Naming Rights Going Wrong

If you haven't noticed, it seems most matches in this World Cup are being played at "The FIFA World Cup Stadium" in so-and-so city.

Yes, German sports officials have caught on quite superbly to the All-American skill of commodifying every inch of public space: Welcome to the 'America Online (AOL) Arena' in Hamburg, Germany. Now get used to it.

This is the first World Cup where the issue of corporate naming rights of stadia is an issue. It seems FIFA is suspect about a non-sponsor getting free promotion, but not too interested in the fact that major sporting venues around the world now have names which have nothing to do with the city they're located in, and will change as fast as you can spell E-N-R-O-N.

Not ironically, on the same day that Germany '06 kicked off, the NBA Finals tipped off in the States featuring a series between teams from two different cities which play in the exact same arena name. (the creatively titled 'American Airlines Arena') That was a first in professional sports, and it won't likely be the last.

Very soon, Arsenal FC fans can get excited to cheer on the pride and joy of West London at their posh 'Emirates Stadium' . Expect a new name to call home every three years.

The+Head+of+Frank+Ribery

It was a (s)car accident. 

When he was a kid. 

Have you no shame you sick twisted Google'er?

Diving Off the Stamford Bridge

Six unfortunate reasons why we should re-name the Man of the Match award....

Ronald McDonaldinho

Hollywood's much-hyped, much-marketed latest edition of the Superman franchise hit movie theaters this weekend.

The film features an otherwise ordinary man who transforms into a superhero when the world desperately needs him, showcasing death-defying stunts while wearing an outfit with a big 'S' for Superman blazing on his chest.

Hitting the pitch in Frankfort on Saturday was a man named Mr. Ronaldo de Asis Moreira, a superstar who the world occasionally needs to rescue it from the dour Joga Feo tactics of European sides. (sans Zizou, of course...but that's just the North African A-rab in him)

Mr. Moreira left the tollboth/dressing room with a colorful outfit and his first initial blazing on his headband, for all the world to see.

But the remaining letters went missing, and he remained an ordinary no-name. 

Who was that mysterious man?

BritPomp