Score Goal, Get Sex

A couple of weeks ago now we ran a piece about an Austrian brewery offering any Austrian player who scored in the Euro a lifetime supply of free beer. Congratulations then to Ivica Vastic, I hope you are absolutely wasted right this second. We also (jokingly) suggested that we were but a stones throw away from players being offered prostitutes and the like as performance incentives too. Well trust the Russians to have the money and connections to make this beautifully sordid dream a reality.

According the dustbin of all such knowledge, The Sun, wealthy socialite Pyotr Listerman was filmed this week making an offer to star player Andrei Arshavin that for each goal they score tonight in the semi-final with Spain, they will be rewarded with two gorgeous girls each. A quite sinisterly smug Listerman, infamously known for setting up rich Russians with wives, said: “For each goal I’ll present two beautiful chicks. Watch the guys react!” So this guy’s basically a pimp, a pretty sweet gig if you can get it. The awesome Arshavin responded humbly: “There are a number of bachelors in our team. This is a great incentive.”

I wish I was rewarded with Russian threesomes at work. I guess weekly croissants and as much cutlery as I can cram into my pockets will have to do…

Cocaine and Key-Swapping

Another day, another ‘tell-all’ biography from a footballer you probably forgot existed. Yes, everyone’s favourite late-90s Arsenal hunk Emmanuel Petit has this week lifted the lid on a decadent world where sex was power, and female haircuts on a man where apparently a good thing. The World Cup winner, who played for Arsenal between 1997 and 2000, has revealed the elements of professional football that everyone really aspires to in an incendiary autobiographical volume entitled A Fleur de Peau, apparently meaning My Little Pony in the Queen’s English.

Petit describes the revelry that followed on-field success, and how he found himself drawn increasingly into a world of swinging parties and “unbelievable debauchery” on rich Arabs' yachts where the devil’s dandruff flowed like Snoop Dogg circa Deep Cover. The ex-Arsenal man claims he “went off the rails” after hitting the limelight in the wake of the national team’s World Cup victory on home soil in 1998:

“On my days off I discovered the parallel world of Parisian nights – private soirees, swapping clubs," says Petit. “They often went on in incredibly luxurious apartments whose owners I didn't even know – but everyone recognised me.” Now you might think c’est la vie, anything goes in gay Paris, but even in sleepy St Albans, close to Arsenal's training ground, Petit found time to spray his seed:

“This pretty girl came regularly,” says Petit. “We had a relationship one day in the snooker room. The next morning, the director and his staff welcomed me with applause. He said the room had cameras but reassured me that, as an Arsenal fan, he wouldn’t make the slightest use of it.” So the lesson here kids is that if you go to the Sopwell House hotel in St Albans, don’t lick any of the snooker cues.

Talking about his time partying with affluent Arab families, Petit maintains that he was not involved in the yacht-based drug taking, but admits that he had the chance to go all Tony Montana had he wanted to dabble:

“They had only top models on board and cocaine everywhere,” he says. “I didn’t take any. The wealthy owners had a great time humiliating the young women in the worst of ways.” Quite what that means is up for debate. Mass debate. Sorry.

The Magic of the DFB Pokal Cup

Ok so let’s get this out of the way first: the DFB Pokal Cup is really just the German equivalent of the FA Cup, but in our eyes there is something so much more magical about the artefact itself. In terms of understated elegance and subtle design…it fails miserably. But what it does do is transport us back to a time where grotesque opulence was all the rage, and not in a pansy soundbite-happy “Greed is good” kind of way. No, the DFB Pokal is the modern encapsulation of that real old-school Roman Empire cock-and-balls-out aesthetic, the kind of statement that says: ‘If you don’t like it, I will literally build a 20-foot gold statue of you sucking me off right outside your house. And then feed you to the lions.’ Ok well maybe not the second bit, but you get the picture.

Anyway, the internet fails to adequately give this delightful piece of goldware any proper back-story, so we at STT are not really sure how this item actually came into being. Initial suggestion that it was perhaps hand-crafted by whoever it was that made the eponymous ring in Lord of the Rings was of course dismissed as ridiculous; everyone knows Sauron’s been dead for hundreds of years. But still the question remains, and it seemed only right that we used the full spectrum of STT’s influence to try and track down the meaning behind this historical relic.

Our first line of inquiry took us from the sunny squalor of London out to the beautiful plains of Haiti, to a rambling and feral man living in a shopping cart, known to the locals as a wizard. Through much drug-induced meditation we experienced what can only be described as a spiritual journey, with expanded minds wandering (metaphorically of course) a crooked path both to self-discovery and revelation. Together with sporadic pep-talks from this wizard, we came to the epiphany that the DFB Pokal is in fact a living memoriam to the 20^th Century’s biggest pimps. Through a combination of voodoo magic and luck, the essence of Richard Pryor, Huggy Bear, Rick James, Dr Dre and James Brown was distilled into a large jewel-encrusted cup for the whole world to see. Quite how it found itself in Germany as a reward for a football cup still escapes us, but seriously there was no way we could chew any more peyote to find out.

Secondly, we followed a much more ridiculous lead that seemed to suggest that the DFB Pokal was actually the Holy Grail. Now we all know that back in the late-1930s, the Grail was finally uncovered by this awesome American college professor called Henry Jones Jr, but as part of the recovery process, the Grail was lost for eternity down a huge hole in the ground near Petra, Jordan. With that explanation unfortunately off the table, we were left with just one final thought, and given that we reached this conclusion through good old fashioned investigative journalism and not hallucinogens, it probably holds the most water. Yes, the Bundesliga actually came into possession of the DFB Pokal by dining at popular American restaurant chain Medieval Times, where each ticket comes with a free take-home goblet. I feel somewhat empty having potentially cracked the mystery, but as is the motto for the British teenage self-harming support line, the truth hurts.

Does Anyone else miss the Cold War?

Ok stop me when this starts to sound familiar: exotic quasi-European accent; villainous scheme for world domination stemming from humble beginnings; a plot to kill those who get in his way; exquisitely neat facial hair; a string of nameless scantily-clad beauties; numerous extortion attempts and the stealing of secrets or technology; luxurious mobile lair. I am of course describing Roman Abramovich, who seems to have missed the point of the James Bond movies more and more every day. The latest two additions to his, ahem, arsenal are the world’s largest privately owned yacht (see above) the M/Y Eclipse, which is currently being built under a cloud of secrecy off the German Baltic island of Ruegen, and bizarrely the world’s largest drill, which has a staggering diameter of 19m.

The Eclipse costs a modest £200m to manufacture, and at 550 feet is just about long enough to house a couple of decent par 3 golf holes. Our good friends over at The Spoiler have further worked out that in total, he will require nearly as many men to crew his four enormous yachts now as the entire Irish navy.

Regular features of the Eclipse reportedly include:

• A small hospital staffed by his own private medical team; a good use of resources that would otherwise would just be wasted on people in Africa or something

• Anti-bugging equipment windows that have flash sensors to warn of paparazzi photographers

• A cinema, aquarium, disco, gym, sauna, steam room, spa, several hot tubs, and a large outdoor swimming pool for Roman to host his famous ‘sexy parties’ with the likes of current WAG Daria Zhukova

Bond villain optional extras then include:

• Bulletproof glass, underwater cameras and a missile detection system

• Two £1m helicopters with indoor hangars

• Four detachable pleasure crafts and 20 jet skis

• A £2m, 12-seater submarine for diving and secret escape

Say what you want about the guy but he’s a pretty class act; you know you’re doing something right when 50 Cent wishes he rolled like you. It all sounds very very cool, but if this is anything other than a floating missle base / ops centre for a play for world domination then I’m Miss Moneypenny.

So, this drill then. Has Mr Abramovich actually got to the stage where he simply has too much money so has just started buying ‘the world’s biggest…’ well, everything? Abramovich's firm Infrastruktura in Moscow announced the purchase last Thursday, but still speculation is rife as to exactly what he plans to do with it. Wasn’t there a book where someone tried to drill a hole through some South American landmass to de-stabalise the whole continent? Maybe it’s that? Or perhaps he took uber-trash flick The Core a little too seriously and decided that a trip to the centre of the earth might be good for a few jollies? Genuinely, one suggestion is that his goal is to make a Channel Tunnel-style link between Russia and America by drilling a subterranean passage across the Bering Strait, between Siberia and Alaska. If so this would a truly phenomenal feat of both engineering and also diplomacy, given that it wasn’t long ago that the two super-powers were casually aiming nuclear warheads at one another.

Further conjecture includes rumours that Frank Lampard is no longer able to get his stomach inside Stamford Bridge so Abramovich wanted to accomodate his prized star by widening the stadium entrance, and yada yada...

The Times Solves a Mystery!

As Cristiano Ronaldo is in line for a contract extension and pay rise that will make him Britain’s highest paid footballer, STT wonders just what is the secret to those spell-binding freekicks of his? Despite guffaws from Sir Alex Ferguson when asked if it’s as simple as connecting dead-on with the panel on the ball that houses the valve, this seems to be the trick, as time and time again Ronaldo religiously positions the ball with the valve facing him, just above centre. The technique is closer to a full-blooded straight toe-poke than an arching instep, with the lightweight nature of today’s balls doing the rest.

One intrepid Times reporter however thinks today that he has cracked it. You can thank a Mr. Jonathan Northcroft for this remarkable insight:

"When Ronaldo places the ball, rather than teeing it up like most free kick takers, he pushes it into the ground so when he plants his standing foot next to the ball it pops up, giving the shot something of the quality of a volley. Perhaps this is why he imparts such dip.”

Er, what? Have you ever actually played football Jonathan? That’s one of the best things I’ve heard for a while!

The key is practice, and a commitment on the training pitch that would belay his usual arrogant swagger. Don’t let the orange boots, jewelry and glamorous arm-candy fool you because every day after training he will stay behind to simply hit freekicks, adjusting for range, swerve and potential wall placements in an artisan exercise previously only undertaken by David Beckham, Lyon’s revelationary Juninho, Roberto Carlos and Ronaldinho. It’s clear that at heart Ronaldo is a true professional, committed to one day becoming the best player in the world, if not even of our generation.

Just when though can we truly sing his praises alongside the aforementioned Ronaldinho, as well as the likes Romario, Stoichkov, the Laudrups and Zidane? Well once he has won a major trophy I guess, that seems to be the qualifier. Champions League glory with Man United or European Championship success this summer with Portugal and then, yes, we can start talking about him as at least the best player in the world…

David Nugent Can't Score With The Ladies Either

Big thanks to theOffside for bringing this story to my attention. It turns out that Davey boy has been texting pictures of his naked body to unsuspecting 19 year olds. The mistake he made was assuming she was interested in him and wouldn't forward it to all her mates and various blogs.

Sadly, Nugent's nickname in the Portsmouth dressing room is unlikely to be 'le Grand Saucisse' anytime soon, as his dressing room physique is more akin to Maradona's than Patrick Viera's. This isn't going to help his goalscoring confidence, either, as he saw 3000 goals fly in during his 15 minutes on the pitch on Saturday and had nothing to do with any of them.

A loan spell in League 1 and an internet dating advert beckons methinks.

Obscure South American del la Semana Tres

Name – Vágner Silva de Souza a.k.a Vágner Love

Affiliation - CSKA Moscow, aka Sneeze Moscow

Reason for coolness – He has blue braids. Looks like he's got a deal going with Death Row. Gangsta.

Reason for Obscurity – As with last week’s Fenerbahce’s duo, the Russian national league is somewhat off most people’s radars, although Moscow’s exposure in the Champions League over the last couple of years has raised his profile throughout Europe.

Mr. de Souza garnered quite a reputation for himself within the Brazilian league before moving to Russia, but more for being something of a Don Juan than a great footballer, and unsurprisingly owes his nickname to his womanising ways. In fact, five years ago, he was thrown out of Palmeiras’ youth team squad after being caught with a girl in his room on the eve of an important game. That’s just how he rolls though, ladies love him, and the kiss-and-tell tales of his antics had the press gleefully dubbing the youngster “the Marksman of Love,” while the late night hood-rat shenanigans continued with increasingly regularity. He even has the class to still acknowledge this reputation by celebrating ever goal he scores by blowing kisses to women in the crowd.

However, while a lesser man might’ve succombed to the sirens’ calls, Vagner Love’s pimp game never interfered with his playing progress and still as a teenager, he was a fixture in Palmeiras’ first team, notching up 19 goals in the 2003 season as the club were promoted into the Brazilian top flight. Having started the following season is as good a form, Vagner got the call-up into the Brazilian Under-20 side, and it wasn’t long before a move was touted. Russia is never an easy place to go to, but he has settled well, adapting to the tighter style of play and posing a constant threat to defences. He now averages almost a goal every other game for CSKA, and his tally includes the third goal that sealed CSKA's 3-1 victory in the 2005 UEFA Cup Final over Sporting Lisbon

Perhaps harder to adjust to though, coming as he does from Sao Paulo, is living in the desolate, icy kremlin that is Moscow. This blow has been softened however by having his entire family brought over to be around him, including his mother Jaira, father Neto, sister Irma, brother-in-law Marcelo, and of course the 35 illegitimate children he has fathered over the years. Vagner says: “I know only a few words of Russian. I communicate with most of my team-mates with gestures, but it's working out.” Presumably he’s found a much easier way to communicate with the Russian ladies though.

Word on the street is that AC Milan are sizing him up for a January transfer window swoop, having been impressed with his performances during Brazil’s victorious Copa America run, so don’t expect Mr. Love to remain obscure for much longer…

While you ponder your lesson of love, enjoy this tribute video, which draws parallels between Russian football and West Coast hippity-hop: