WHAT'S BRAZILIAN FOR "ARRGHH ME FUGGEN BONCE"
May 1st (i.e. tomorrow, or at least it was when I wrote this rubbish) marks the twelfth anniversary of the death of the great, if grating, Ayrton Senna da Silva, taken before his time at thirty-four. Or, to be factually correct, skewered on the pointy end of a Williams FW16 front suspension wishbone before his time at thirty-four. The Weak In Sport, who coincidentally passed our learners' the day after Senna's demise and has been clinging ever since to the preposterous notion that the Great One's skills were somehow spirited through the ether from one soul to another, i.e. his - at least that's the excuse we use when clattering into other people's trolleys at Woolies a la turn one at Suzuka 1990 - would like to dedicate this Weak's efforts to the memory of the brilliant, belligerant Brazilian, without whose tragic death the world would most definitely have been spared the sight of big-chinned fuckwit M Shoomacker arsing his way to more than one world championship, never mind seven. Let's be fair. Senna was a tool - sharing his surname with an ingredient in laxative preparations moved one competitor to remark 'Funny, that's precisely the effect he has on me anyway' - but his replacement is a fucking choad warrior and should have been run over by a truck. So sayeth the Lord.
Ayrton loses his no-claim bonus
Which brings us to Imola, scene of Senna's immolation (or at least impalement) and as recently as last week, scene of something almost as distasteful: old mate Spawn-O'-Adolf scoring his first Formula One win in a year and a half at the wheel of his rocket-powered Marlboro fag packet. Unless you count the tyred-and-emotional US GP at Indy last year when only he, his teammate and his mum turned up to race. There was a moment of poignancy in qualifying when Schumacher equalled Senna's record of several thousand pole positions, with TV commentator James Allen (aka 'That Shouty Tool Who Isn't Murray Walker's Ballsack' - as we always say, never trust a man with two first names and no surname) declaring this was a great moment and hugely appropriate that Scummi took Senna's record here. Um, how exactly is it appropriate? The guy dropped off the twig here. I doubt Senna recalls the place with much moist-eyed nostalgia.
The Chin went on to win the race despite being massively slower than Fred Alonso for much of the motor race. Naturally der Schiessenfuhrer attributed this to being cool, talented and generally shit-hot. Anyone who was still awake at the end of the event was more likely to attribute this to any one of the following:
- his latest incompetent Brazilian teammate (updated model installed earlier in the year), Felipe Massa Attack driving around in front of Alonso for several laps with the handbrake on in order to bugger up the Spanish kiddie's efforts in putting in quick laps (one day Schumi will win a race without needing his team-bitch to get in the way of all his major opposition)
- Ferrari's bewildering pace whenever they turn up at an Italian racetrack, even though they may (as last year) be pig-slow everywhere else... local scrutineers are on duty then, hey?
- the mild difficulty which our Fred had trying to overtake the Red Baron on a circuit which by modern standards is narrower than John Howard's world view and on which it would be easier to pass kidney stones than a F1 car. Compared with new GP tracks like Turkey, China and Malaysia, Imola is the Bruce Ruxton of Formula One: a sad old joke. These days it's been completely mullered by poxy chicanes rather inappropriately named after drivers who had massive shunts in the superfast corners that USED to be there.
Of F1's options, (a) fuck the chicanes off and grow a pair, or (b) just fuck off someplace else, it seems (b) will be the most probably outcome. In coming years it seems likely that many of the older European circuits will lose their Grands Prix, as F1 looks to set up shop in countries which still allow cancer-stick sponsorship (eg China, Turkey, Madagascar, the Faroe Islands, and other places that get belted 17-0 in world cup qualifiers). In some cases, like with the loss of the Belgian GP at rollercoaster-ride-cum-racetrack Spa, this is very sad; in the case of Imola, it'll be blessed relief. The place has tried to kill enough race drivers as it is, having successfully exercised its homicidal tendencies 12 years ago with Senna and that other dude who noone remembers (Cardinal Ratzenberger) and before that getting an appetite in the '80s with Gerhard Berger, Nelson Piquet and Gilles Villeneuve (yup, Jacques' dad - who only lasted another 12 months as it was before pitching himself down the road for the final time.)
BARCE VS THE ARSE
Yes lovers of the world game (dot com dot au - thank you Les) we now know the finalists for the biggest game in world football this year. Um, apart from that minor international kick-around in der Fatherland in mid year. The UEFA Champions League final will see an almighty battle between Arsenal and Barcelona, after their respective second leg matches heroically served up a pair of scintillating, pulsating nil-all draws. Pundits and UEFA alike are predicting a thrilling game, or at least hoping like the Jesus fuck it doesn't turn out like that te-di-arse goalless final between Milan and Juve a few years back where the penalty shootout was won by whichever lot of bastards could stay awake longer.
Barca will depend on their horse-faced European Footballer Of The Year, Ronaldinho (Brazilian for 'Little Ronaldo'). See there's already a Ronaldo, that chubby fucker from Real Madrid who won Korea Japan 2002 for the 'Zilians, having lost them France 98 after a minor bout of pants-crapping prior to kickoff. As Little Ronnie is younger and less of a lard-merchant than Big Ronnie, he's called Ronaldinho. Instead of Jeff. Them Brazilians are weird. No surprise they lent their name to a 'beauty' treatment where some haughty stick insect with pencilled-on eyebrows rips out all your pubes and charges you $200 for the pleasure. (Not that The Weak would know personally; you'd have to talk to the Weak's Novacastrian modelling correspondent Grotboy for confirmation).
Grotboy busts out his crazy-fresh skillz
Back to Slightly Smaller Ronnie. He may play like a freak (and he definitely looks like one - unless you think the best footballer in the world at present should resemble Mr Ed with a perm like a Def Leppard roadie) but one might predict he'll have a lot more trouble dancing the crazy-legs boogaloo like Peter Garrett on GBH with ball at feet when he comes up against the challenge of a stout, structured, hard-nosed English defence such as you'd expect Arsenal to impose on this match. Indeed, one might predict this to be the case, if the Arse actually had any English defenders. Or English midfielders. Or anyone English on their squad at all, other than the team bus driver and the kid who cuts up the oranges at half time (though I understand he answers to the name Ricardo Vasquez). The Arse have made the final in spite of, or more probably thanks to, not featuring a single Pom in their arsenal (hur hur) for most of the season.
The reason for this is simple: Chelsea pretty much bought them all. A decent swag of England's best players (Cole, Lampard, Terry et al) wear Chelsea blue, and it's one of the major reasons they retained the Premiership title over the weekend with a three-nil shellacking (there aren't enough shellackings doled out any more) of Man U Guys Are Overrated. Chelsea cop a lot of rubbish from the tabloid press in Engerland for a lot of reasons - because they play effective football rather than effusive football, because their coach Jose Mourinho ('The Special One' to his friends, 'Designer Stubble Man' to everyone else) talks a lot of self-congratulatory bollocks (very funny self-congratulatory bollocks, but self-congratulatory bollocks nonetheless), because their owner Roman Avenhadashityubitch made a bucket of cash in the New Russia and noone is entirely sure how, and according to the press doesn't have any real interest in football (makes one wonder how he came to own not one but two football teams - he also owns one of the big Russian sides). But we at the Weak like Chelski. We like The Special One's post-match ramblings, a heady blend of bullshit-free straight-talk and paranoid insanity. We don't give a shit where Roman got his money from - in political terms the Weak plays wide out on the left, but even we blanched at the recent story in the Fairfax press (lifted from the bleeding-heart Guardian in the UK) declaring that Chelsea's likely title win was a travesty and the beginning of the end for morality and justice because of the perceived 'exploitation of the Russian people' which was at the core of Roman's fortune (and, like, George Dubya's family fortune was won on Ozlotto? Give me a fuckin' break). And we like that Chelsea captain John Terry played most of the Man U game on Saturday with his ankle held together together with gaffer tape because he'd played every minute of every game this season and there was no fuckin' WAY he was going to miss the end of the title-winning game. That's team spirit, kids. Maximum global respect to John Terry - in this case we rescind our policy on people with two first names etc - and kudos to Chelsea on continuing to deliver the pressed ham against the windows of the Man U - Arsenal duopoly.
SKIVE TO SURVIVE
What, Beer O'Clock already? Must be time to go... but we'll be back soon with reams more total bollocks, circumnavigating and circumlocuting the Wide World of Splot. Next time: NRL, NFL, NBA, NHL, and any other acronyms we can find that start with N. And in our Super Dooper 14 update, we point at any hapless tool in a Crusaders replica top we can find, and laugh like a fuckin' drain. Never mind losing to the Stormers. You drew with WHO?!?
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