Alright?

It's been another amazing week in the Premier League. It's unbelievable how many goals are being scored this season and how few draws there have been.

Every weekend, some poor lads seem to be on the end of a 4-0 or 5-1 stuffing. Apparently there have been 196 goals in the first 66 Premier League matches so far this season, an average of 2.96-a-game.

In all my years of football, I've never seen anything like it.

I'm not sure what it could be put down to. I've heard people say that the defending in the Premier League has never been all that good anyway, and this year it must be especially bad.

I think the problem is coming because defenders in this country are just getting a bit too big-headed. A lot of them have started to think they are better than they actually are. They are trying to do things that they just don't have the talent to pull off - and that's leading to all the mistakes we're seeing this season.

Let's be honest here: defenders are usually really, really bad footballers. You know what I mean?

The only reason most of centre-backs made it into the professional game is because they were bigger and stronger than the other kids in their age-group when they were growing up.

Let's face it: most of them were educationally sub-normal school-bullies who loved kicking the crap out of the more skilful players on the playground.

They are essentially sadists who love inflicting pain. That's how they got into the game in the first place, and that is still the only pleasure they continue to get out of it in the professional ranks.

I've met very few centre-backs who weren't a bit sick in the head. I reckon a good percentage of them would have turned out like Charles Manson or Chopper Read had football not offered them a way out of their inevitable life of crime.

None of them have any actual talent for the game.

Don't get me wrong, punt a football high in the air and they'll clatter through the back of their own 92-year-old granny to head it clear.

But put a football at their feet and tell them to pass it in a straight line to someone wearing the same coloured shirt - and you're asking for trouble. By the expression on their face, you might as well have asked them to explain Einstein's theory of relativity.

The fact is that these numb-nuts just haven't got the brain-power to process anything beyond the most basic of instructions.

Some of the defenders I have played with have honestly been so retarded that the gaffer has been forced to do two team-talks in the changing room before kick-off - a normal one for the midfielders and forwards, and one with pictures and grunting noises and heavy-metal music for the defenders.

They are definitely not the most subtle, talented or intelligent breed. Most of them are only slightly more evolved than cavemen.

And yet this season, for some strange reason, the overpaid, under-developed suddenly seem to think they have transformed overnight into Franz Beckenbauer.

You see them trying all these little tricks and flicks and 50-yard passes - none of them are coming off, and most of the time their mistakes are leading to opposition goals. That's where these high-scoring matches are coming from.

It's embarrassing, frankly. It's like when Ringo Starr begged The Beatles to let him try lead vocals on With A Little Help From My Friends - the results are just cringeworthy.

These defenders should stick to what they're good at, just like Ringo. Let the midfielders like me keep things ticking on the bass, like George Harrison. Let the skilful little wingers make beautiful melodies on lead guitar, like Paul McCartney. Let the strikers apply the finishing touches with the shredding vocals, like John Lennon.

Every man has his place - and Premier League defenders should stick to banging on their bongos like a chimpanzee, just like Ringo.
Midfielders and strikers earn the big money for a reason - because they are the stars, the players that the fans pay the money to come and see. Defenders need to get back to what they do best - heading, hoofing and hacking.

Getting the message through their four-inch skulls will be the difficult bit.

Until next week,

PB.