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Mourinho was give the Catalans a Brazilian!

I am sure you was all saw the Champions League semifinals match on Wednesday night, played in Spain’s seventh most important city, Barcelona (after Madrid, Seville, Valencia, Toledo, Oviedo, and Pontevedra). I am only now this morning come round from my stupendous party, which have been going on for two nights and which feature nine bottles of Cardenal Mendoza, fourteen Double Corona cigars, and a light salad. Even now, I am barely believe that the UEFA was allow the Inter Milan to get to the final ahead of Barcelona, but who am I to question their judgement. I am sure that they have got some very clever intellectual plan, perhaps an attempt to popularize football among the Italians, which is, I understand, a growing market. Whatever their intentions is, the fact that it succeed at the same time as robbing the Catalans is make the victory all the more sweeter for us neutrals.

Before the second leg was even start, all my neutral friends was very worried. They was telling me that the referee, whose name, apparently, is Homer, would cave in under pressure from the Camp Nou crowd, the way he had in Milano when he courageously was book Carlos Puyol under the advice of the Inter midfield. “Is not a chance he will run the risk of letting Inter win,” say my comrade Gonsalvo, who was drink with me in the bar where we watch the match. “There is no police escort for referees in Barcelona. Is a city where the police are too scare to go out.” And of course, our worse suspicions was arouse when after less than half the hour, Inter were reduce to ten men when Thiago Motta fobbed off Sergio Busquets with what to all neutrals was look like nothing more than a feeble moribund grandmother refusing a third slice of cake, but which Busquets was make look like a Bruce Lee Iron Fist of Death to the Larynx. Is no wonder Thiago Motta was get hold of Busquets afterwards by the neck and try to choke the cake back out of him. Was totally ungratitude!

So then we was have an hour of sitting on the edge of our seats, masturbating. This was because it was all so tense watching the match that we was need some kind of relief. So we was turn over and watch a Salma de Nora film. This was take our mind off the match no problem, but you can only masturbate so many times in an hour (six, in my case, using ice), so eventually, and languidly, the bar manager was turn back to the football just in time for us to see Gerard Pique, the one who is look like Chandler’s room mate Eddie, spin round, get dizzy, and accidentally swing his leg at the ball and it go in the Inter goal.

We will spend several estra months in purgatory for the language we use over the subsequent seven minute, but they are all change when the idiot-genius referee is disallow a perfectly good second goal, which would have put Barcelona into the final, on account of a supposed handball by the otherwise total useless Yaya Touré, who nobody all match could esplain what he was doing on the pitch for, all was become clear in that instant. Was all part of Our Lord’s divine plan for him to look like he was handballing when he had not even touch the ball with either arm. Was only his crotch! Was at that point that we all knew Inter was going to the final and that the referee had obviously organize some helicopter rescue or had dig some secret underground tunnel before the match so that he could get out.

Many people have wonder at Jose Mourinho’s genius tactic knowledge, and the best esplanation that I have find so far is that he is Portuguese. Because he can decipher the words, it mean that he is have access to all the playbooks develop by the Brazilians which nobody else in Europe have, unless they can find a Portuguese person, who are notoriously thin on the ground but also fat on the bed. Is all very ironic, because, as you are know, the Portuguese language, which is in fact really a Spanish dialect, is another of those public languages, like Catalan, Basque, and cetera, which nobody actually speak at home but which they suddenly start using as soon as there is a Castilian, a priest, or a policeman in the room. Is a way of concealing information from the legitimate authorities, such as where is the guns stached, where are the brothels, and, on this occasion, how to break down the 3-3-1-3 formation, which Mourinho was cleverly do by change his players ten minutes before the start. That is an old Brazil trick!

Anyway, I am not one to glote. Suffice to say that on this occasion, what is go around is come around. Everyone in Ireland is still remember the match against France where Thierry Henry was make a basketball dribble through the Irish defence and the ref was see nothing. Well, Henry was on the bench on Wednesday night, but is only fair, I think, now that the referee should see a handball where there was none, thereby cancelling out Henry’s previous crime. Is proof that the Good Lord is move in mysterious ways. But even the Good Lord’s moves is not as mysterious as Zlatan Ibrahimovic. At least, that would be true, if he moved!

Is a joke!

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