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David Hirshey, now able to eat during daylight hours again, writes regularly about soccer for Deadspin.

Of all the many weird and wonderful things we've learned six weeks into the season— and that includes the difference between bungs and bongs (the former is an under-the-table kickback to a sleazy agent, the latter is what I'm sucking on right now) — perhaps the most startling lesson is this: The Premiership is no place for Ukranian metrosexuals.

Yes, Andriy Shevchenko may have terrorized Serie A defenses over the years with his lethal finishing skills, but ever since his comrade Roman Ambromovich paid him the equivalent of a Volga of Vodka to play for Chelski, he's been as worthless as a vat full of fermented yak urine. I mean, who among us would have imagined that the Great Sheva, European Footballer of the Year in 2004, "the White Ronaldo," would end up as nothing more than a caddy for Didier Drogba?

Well, Giorgio Armani, for one. You see, when he wasn't scoring goals by the boatload for Milan, Sheva was poncing down the catwalk at Armani's fashion shows where, in fact, he met Mrs, Sheva, a tall, elegant American model with a fondness for posing nude. Granted, the tempo in the Premiership is not as leisurely as it is in Serie A, where Sheva had enough time on the ball to read the new issue of Italian Vogue before making his move, but still, you'd think that an assassin of Sheva's pedigree would adapt a little more quickly to the hurly-burly of the Prem. So far, in seven games, he has managed to deliver not a single signature predatory finish, not one scorching piledriver, not one goal of any kind, even though Jose Mourinho assured us last week that Sheva is not some "Mickey Mouse player" and that he expects him to be among the Prem's leading goalscorers at season's end. Has it occurred to anyone that the Special One is so protective of his 45 million dollar striker because he's hoping that Armani will ask HIM to model his clothes?

Clearly, neither Sheva nor Mourinho has been paying attention, or they'd know about the Curse of the Soccer Metrosexual. Look what's happened recently to sarong-wearing fashion god David Beckham. Stripped of his captaincy and place in the England team, he has started the last four Real Madrid games on the bench and has been forced to turn to Tom Cruise for solace. Maybe Cruise can convince his mate to ditch Real for the far more metrosexual-friendly confines of New York and the Red Bulls, where, in time, he could link up with Sheva.


You might ask why I even give a rat's ass about Sheva, considering my less than altruistic feelings toward Mourinho and his band of mercenaries? Did I mention that he is on my Fantasy Football team, Missing Foerskins United, and I've been trying to dump him for the past month but have allowed my partner Frank "How Soccer Explains The World" Foer to talk me out of it because "all great players go through slumps." True, but how many try to break out of them by watching re-runs of Project Runway?

Do Svidaniya, Sheva!