Long-time Dirty Tackle contributor Dimitar Berbatov hung up his boots (and his mayonnaise filled gloves) after a 20-year footballing career and now he’s passing the time by narrating some of his greatest goals on his Instagram account. I would do the same thing, but 1) I can’t be bothered to start an Instagram, and 2) All footage of the goals I scored over my career has been confiscated as part of an ongoing match-fixing investigation.
Anyway, Berbatov’s commentary is brilliant. His confidence, knowledge, and his use of the word “fuck” really set him apart from the numpties who do commentary on the tele. Have a look:
“Simple as fuck and so beautiful” is a perfect description of the game at its finest and how Victoria Beckham once described her husband to me after I convinced him to try and start an MLS team in Miami, Florida.
Anyways, Go to The Berba’s Instagram for the goal commentary and stay for the photos of him posing with unsettling portraits of himself.
People think Gose Mourinho is cruel, selfish, narcissistic, and miserable human being, which is why I adore him. But he does have a softer side, too. Case in point, after suffering the worst home defeat of his entire career, losing 0-3 to Spurs at Old Trafford, he interrupted the gutless piranha journos reveling in his misfortune to deliver a bit of class.
“Respect,” he said, over and over—a clear tribute to legendary singer Aretha Franklin, who recently passed on. You could tell just thinking about her beautiful voice was getting him teary eyed as he walked out of the press room.
To honour someone else during one of the darkest moments of his career, with the press out for his blood, just shows what kind of person he is. To quote Ms. Franklin, “Every chain has got a weak link…and it’s definitely Luke Shaw.”
Mourinho also rambled on about the number three, pointing out that he has more Premier League titles than the other 19 managers combined. You know what other significance the number three has? It’s the number of minutes it takes Big Sam to consume an entire wheel of cheese without chewing. Keep that in mind when the time comes to replace Mourinho, Manchester United. Sam is available. And he’s ready for a big job. He’d probably be willing to take charge at Old Trafford while he waits for one, though.
Straight after winning the World Cup, the Mbappe lad sent me this letter to publish on DT (he even spelled out his name to be sure I got it right), so have a read. —Bert
Dear Cristiano, Leo, and Neymar,
LOL. So is that it?
You guys have been crying over this World Cup business for years now, but I just won it on my first try. Was this supposed to be hard? Smh.
I mean, Leo and Cristiano, neither one of you have ever even scored a goal in the knockout stage, but I scored three in my first go, including one in the final. I’m 19 and both of you are like a million years old. How have neither of you done this yet? Pele scored in the final as a teenager too, so it’s not like I’m the only one. Winning in Fortnite is harder. I mean, this was so easy that I feel bad keeping the money they gave me for playing, so I’m giving it all to charity.
Cristiano, I used to have pictures of you all over my bedroom when I was little. It inspired me (up to a certain point lol). So maybe you should put pictures of me all over your bedroom now. It could inspire you to do better, you know? I’ll send you and Leo and bunch of pics of me holding the World Cup trophy so you can do whatever you want with them. Consider them a gift, but you don’t have to thank me. I just feel really bad that you guys can’t do this. Is it, like, some kind of stage fright? Do you somehow forget what to do when the whole world is watching? I don’t understand. Just do what I did: Go out, score goals, and win the World Cup. Simple.
I know, I know—you guys have had to deal with teammates like Higuain and Pepe, but I had Giroud. So you can’t say I didn’t have obstacles like you.
But even though you guys somehow haven’t won the World Cup, you have both still done lots of cool stuff! Winning all those Ballon d’Or awards—wow! You have, what, a total of 10 between you? Since I’m still only 19, that means I could win that many by the time I’m 30. Wouldn’t it be funny if I won the World Cup AND as many Ballons d’Or as both of you combined? Hahaha.
Anyway, I have to stop writing now because Pavard’s arm is getting tired from holding the World Cup trophy for too long. It’s pretty crazy that even he has more World Cup knockout stage goals than both of you. He’s only 22 btw. And he’s a defender. 😂
Oh, and Neymar…welcome to life in my shadow, bruh.
Before this World Cup, people wouldn’t shut up about how this England team were built upon Bauricio Pochettino’s work at Spurs. Six players in the squad who have played for Pochettino had them thinking he was the architect of any success England would have in Russia. And it turns out, they were right—the Three Lions got off to a blinding start only to bottle it at the end just like Spurs. Well done, Pochettino. You made England just as shit when it matters most as your own team.
Big Sam and Gareth Southgate tried all they could to instill a winning mentality into this squad, but Pochettino and Jurgen Klopp’s years of daily influence over the players was too much to overcome. Just look at Garry Kane. Won the golden boot with three penalties, an unintentional deflection off his heel and a pair of goals against Tunisia. Didn’t score in the semifinal or the third-place match. Congratulations on getting an award for beating up on the minnows before disappearing, Garry. You worthless minger.
It’s no coincidence that two of the only players who did themselves proud in the later stages of the tournament were Gordan Pickford, who worked under Sam Allardyce at two different clubs, and Barry Maguire, who is Sam’s secret lovechild. If England brought more players from Everton, Sunderland, Crystal Palace, and Sam’s loins, football would’ve come home. Instead, it’s gone to France, where it will probably contract a sex disease after having a threesome with a mime and…another mime.
This is entirely your fault, Pochettino. Even the one player you did have on the winning side had an absolute howler that nearly let Croatia back into it.
Not even Sep Guardiola could overcome the poisonous influence of Pochettino and Klopp. Spain used a load of his Barca players when they won in 2010, Germany used a load of his Bayern players when they won in 2014, but when England use his players in 2018, they end up losing the same number of matches as PANAMA—the worst team in the competition. The Pochettino and Klopp lads ruin it.
If England do continue to use players sullied by these two in the future, they better develop an advanced brainwashing technique in order to reprogramme their mental faculties. It worked for the shootout hoodoo, so it should work for this, as well. I’m not entirely sure how they go about this—I once tried to brainwash my 18 kids into being better footballers but now seven of them are bankers and two teach reading to kids. Worthless.
The News of the World doesn’t exist anymore, so it’s up to old Bert to break the big stories. I’ve been saving this one so it wouldn’t distract from England’s World Cup, but since that’s gone tits up, here it is: England hero Barry Maguire is Hefty Sam Allardyce’s lovechild. You heard it here first and I heard it from the mammoth lips of Sam himself after a night of drinking absinthe mixed with salad cream. All you have to do is look at young Maguire to know that he’s Big Sam’s offspring. But since many of you reading this are likely daft as a dingleberry, I’ll explain all the traits that prove their relation better than any DNA test ever could.
They’re both large enough to swallow a small Brazilian man whole
Let’s start with the obvious. Maguire and Super Sized Sam are both larger than life. Especially if that life is a small Brazilian man with a pain threshold like wet bog roll. Look at Maguire’s eyes in the photo above. Those are eyes that say “I can consume your entire being and still pop over for a cheeky Nando’s immediately afterwards.” Extra Large Sam has those same eyes.
2. They’re both pure sex
I once saw Fully Engorged Sam chat up a person dressed as Peppa Pig. He didn’t get a phone number, but Peppa was clearly loving it. Seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
3. They both have the same luggage
Barry Maguire showed up to his first ever England camp with his gear in a bin bag. Big Sam carries everything he owns in bin bags wherever he goes. One time the staff at Bolton’s training ground got rid of them thinking it was a build-up of rubbish in Sam’s office. When he found out what had happened, he said “fair play,” bought new gear, and immediately put it all in bin bags. Normal people don’t do this. Only exceptionally non-materialistic people like Big Sam and Big Sam Jr.
4. Maguire scored in the World Cup quarterfinal for England
Like Big Sam, Maguire is a big man for a big occasion. He scored the decisive goal against Sweden while Kane was doing fuck all. Only a giant lad sprung from the loins of a relegation avoiding legend like Samuel Allardyce could rise up against the Swedes on the third largest stage the World Cup has to offer.
5. They’re both have giant fucking heads
Apparently Hamie Vardy calls Maguire “slab head” because he has a head the size of a Volkswagen. You know who else has a head like a scandal plagued car? Sizable. Sam. Allardyce.
There you have it. No DNA test needed. Hopefully Barry takes on his real father’s surname for the start of next season. Wear it proud, you absolute unit.
England have won a penalty shootout at the World Cup and I am still drunk on disbelief (and a massive amount of alcohol). Colombia played like wankstains and got what they deserved. I headbutted someone during that match as well, but when the police and the other patrons of the pub all banded together to kick me out the pub, I had the decency to leave.
Gordan Pickford—the smallest goalkeeper to ever put on a pair of gloves and make Colombia cry like they just witnessed the final show of a Shakira farewell tour—made the big save that stopped me from defecating in Henderson’s back garden every night for the next four years and put England through to the quarterfinals to face the national team of a furniture company.
Pickford had a lot of naysayers, though. The Belgian keeper, Elbow Courtois, said he’s too short. Like he’s one of those creepy hobbit men from Barcelona or something. Even Arsene Wenger, presumably ranting in the queue at a Jobcentre, had a go:
But do you know who believed in the lad? Ginormous Sam Allardyce and yours truly.
But before Sam got to him, I laid the groundwork from a young age. His secondary school hired me to shout insults at him and his classmates in a foreign-sounding language of my own invention to help them deal with the pressure of having to perform on an international stage like the World Cup. By “hire”, I mean they didn’t immediately alert the police when I started doing it, but Pickford responded the best out of all them kids. He shouted “fuck off you crusty old twunt weasel” and gave me the old two-finger salute. I’ll never forget that. And on Tuesday he did the same to Bechamel Falcao.
This England squad have a chance to make history. But what’s even more important is that Gordan Pickford already reminded everyone of Massive Sam’s genius and made Wenger look like the wrinkled numpty that he is. That’s what it’s all about.
Massive Sam is my best mate, so I knew he’s been down about not being in Russia with the England squad after laying the foundation for their success with his PERFECT RECORD as England manager. He taught those lads how to win and he knew football was coming home—he even put it in writing:
I know for a fact that Garry Kane carries this letter with him in his wallet to this day, because I put it there and I replace it with a fresh copy every time he tosses it out.
Anyway, Gargantuan Sam has been feeling down, so I invited him round to mine to watch England play Panama, but once he arrived I remembered that my flat screen has been broken ever since I tried to glass Simon Cowell after he said something even more stupid than usual on X-Factor. So I said, “Right, lets go down the pub. The people of England need to see the true manager of England—which is you, Absolute Unit Sam. Not that numpty Southgate, who can’t even go for a jog by himself without getting hit by a car driven by me and dislocating his shoulder.”
Sam refused at first, but then Glaucoma, one of my 18 kids kept asking him if he wanted to play a game called “taste the scab” and that finally got him out the door.
Here’s the diary I kept during the match:
1’—It took Sam less time than usual to explain to the staff that white wine is best served in pint glasses. This country may have hope yet.
8’—Everyone in the pub cheers. I guess they finally noticed that Huge Sam is here. He waves to the crowd, but they politely keep their distance. That’s the kind of respect he commands.
22’—Another cheer, this time as Sam inhales his fourth burger in record time. Sam smiles for the first time in weeks, finally experiencing true appreciation for his many talents.
25’—I leave the table to order another round for us. At the bar, I get into an argument with a prat in a Gazza shirt going on about “the magic of Italia ’90.” I tell him there was nothing “magic” about the venereal disease I contracted during that World Cup. As this was happening, some hack took a video of Enormous Sam to make it look like he was watching the match alone. Lies.
Big Sam watching England in the pub on his own with a Big Mac.
36’—Another cheer as Sam reminisced about the time his England side beat Slovakia. What a match that was. No coincidence that he showed them how to win it late and what did they do against Tunisia? They did it the Big Sam way. You’re welcome, Gareth. You weak shouldered pillock.
40’—YET ANOTHER CHEER. Sam tells everyone that he appreciates them making him feel welcome, but he just wants to enjoy his 12th pint of wine in peace. They ignore his request, because you never stop singing for a legend.
45’—While buying drugs in the toilet, I hear another cheer for Colossal Sam. He must have shown them his trick for winning the cinnamon challenge (he swallows the whole jar of cinnamon, including the jar—the man is a tactical genius).
HT—We’re told that England are up 5-0. Not bad, but it’s still less goals than Humongous Sam ate burgers during the first half.
55’—Apparently they have the match on the tele. It’s been 10 minutes since the half and not one England goal. Sam shakes his boulder-like head.
62’—Garry Kane finally scores from the spot. What confidence Sam’s note has given him.
78’—Panama score their first ever World Cup goal. “Hart would’ve stopped that,” Immense Sam says as he consumes yet another burger without even chewing. What a lad.
82’—As I black out, I see Giant Sam pulling out a pen to draw cocks on my face and I know I’ve succeeded in raising his spirits.
After looking like they were going to fuck it up like aways, England beat Tunisia—who are the best national team in Tunisia—thanks to two goals from that beautiful slackjawed, Saving Private Ryan looking goal machine Garry Kane, including the winner he headed in during added time. If I have a 19th child, and I want to recognize it’s existence, I will name it Garry in his honor. What a man!
England’s first goal came early on, before they realized that they’re England at a World Cup. Then Style Walker elbowed a Tunisian lad in the face to concede a penalty and say “Alright, we’re here, but we’ve all got holidays booked from the first week of July.” But Big Mouth Garry Kane said, “You can go on that holiday by yourself, Style. The rest of us have got a World Cup to win.” And then he headed in the winner and I drank 66 pints, punched a dentist in the neck, then blacked out and woke up to write this. What a match.
Tunisia weren’t the only thing England beat that night. They also overcame the plague of mosquitos that Putin ordered to attack our boys as they played, knowing that we are the greatest threat to his attempt to hack the World Cup with his army of trained computer wizard bears.
Some twunts have tried to say that Hakeem Sterling had a poor performance, but he was easily the MFotM—the Midge Fighter of the Match.
With those three points secure, it’s just a waiting game to see who England will face in the final, so the team have apparently decided to do a bunch of LSD and ride around the hotel pool on some floaty unicorns until it’s time to face Brazil or whoever.
Instead of waiting until the final, Theo Messi shat the bed right from the start in this World Cup by having a penalty saved by a part-time film director from Iceland. How a fucking super market keeps qualifying for these tournaments I will never know (shows just how corrupt FIFA really is)—but that’s besides the point. Argentina couldn’t beat Iceland and it was all Messi’s fault because Nonzalo Higuain was safely on the bench until the 84th minute.
Watching from the stands was another famous Argentine footballer: Maradona. Now, Maradona won back in my day, when footballers knew how to prepare themselves for competition. And by that I mean doing loads of cocaine before before every match.
Though he was too far away for Messi to see, Maradona tried to remind Messi of why he can’t get it done on the game’s biggest stage by rubbing at his nose like it was a sex organ. (Either that, or old Diego is still keeping himself “in shape.”)
If Messi got loaded up on Charlie before World Cup matches, he would’ve won at least a dozen of them trophies by now. Instead, he probably drinks wheat grass extract or something and look what it’s got him: absolutely nothing besides a record-breaking club career. Dandruff, who could very well be the oldest of my 18 kids, once tried to get me to drink something green. I haven’t spoken to him since. That was 12 years ago. Though our lack of communication is mostly down to him getting arrested for stealing cars and filling them with black market puppies shortly after the green drink incident. All my children know that I refuse to communicate with them while they’re incarcerated. I have a hunch it’s why they get locked up so much.
Anyways, Messi’s problems are nothing a little pre-match Maradona marching powder can’t fix. I hear one of the Peruvian lads might have a connection.
Smart people know that Histriano Ronaldo is no Keith Houchen and he proved it yet again against Spain in the World Cup. Prepare yourselves, because old Bert’s about to do some of that maths nerd statistical analysis.
First, or number 1 (in mathematical talk), Ronaldo fell over like a wet towel to trick the referee into gifting him a penalty in the fourth minute. He scored because even a broccoli could score a penalty. This made him just the fourth man to score in four different World Cups, but he only had one goal in each of his previous three World Cups. That’s basically like scoring none at all. Pele had no less than 85 goals in his four World Cups. That’s probably true.
Second, or number 2, Ronaldo shot the ball directly into the goalkeeper’s hands, but since the keeper was that overrated donut thief from Man United, he pushed it into his own net like the numpty he is. This gave Ronaldo a second undeserved goal and turned his night into the time I won a free ticket on two separate scratchers in the same day.
Third, or number 3, Shakira’s husband decided that Ronaldo needed a chance to complete his hat trick of shame and equalise for Portugal (the lad took a class at Harvard but that doesn’t make him bright), so he fouled him in perfect free-kick position late in the match. After enough dramatic breathing to fill an Indian soap opera, Histriano put one past the numpty keeper to get the hat trick and the draw.
It was his only legitimate goal of the night, but it was only his first goal on a direct free kick at a major tournament in 45 attempts. You give me 45 attempts and I’ll bang in no less than two and a half, guaranteed.
Today's late equalizer was Cristiano Ronaldo's first goal on a direct free kick at a major tournament, in 45 attempts. pic.twitter.com/IYoOYLVpfu
So he barely deserves credit for that goal. But now everyone is going on about how wonderful he is for doing this. Nonsense. Biego Costa scored two legitimate goals and blasted Pepe in the throat with his forearm. That’s a proper hat trick.