May 24th, 2010

Pre World Cup 2010 Friendly Report: England v Mexico

EFFORTLESSLY EMINENT ENGLAND PROVE DESERVED CONQUISTADORS OF MISERABLE MEXICANS 3-1

He is a rum fellow, Diego Mexican – conquered, with ease, of course, by Spain in the 16th century, who were looking to establish a worldwide monkey empire of their own to run in parallel to those established by the Northern peoples. The hapless Mexicans offered little resistance to the Spaniards, merely using their panpipes as makeshift sawn-off blowpipes in order to fire dried beans at the invaders (a strategy that would have been taken up as UK Defence Policy had the Socialist Party retained power for a fourth successive term in the British Isles). Finally admitted to the human race by a narrow vote of world nations in 1919, theirs has been a negligible contribution to global affairs. In an amusing constitutional quirk, they have their own, token “President”, whose job is to be helped into a suit by a UN delegate and to look solemn and attentive as he takes his orders from an IMF representative to sack nine tenths of his Civil Service. Thereafter, all that is left to him is to wait patiently to be assassinated, a fate that has befallen 19 of the country’s previous 22 leaders, at my estimate.

It was against such a people, whose principal exports have been the wave and the bean, that England’s chiselled Knights were ranged this unseasonably warm evening. It had been said, by sideshow turn Signor Capello’s keepers, that England would experiment with a selection of 30 players in this fixture. However, in truth, any 11 of any 30 Englishmen would have been more than adequate to take on these dazed little fellows, doubtless airlifted by crate from across the Atlantic. Yonder stout, bald fellow in the stands and your equally rotund compadres with the letters “E-N-G-E-R-L-A-N-D” painted across your bellies, little pencil moustached fellow from the East Midlands shaking his fists in a high, febrile manner to camera, step forward. You would have done.

For little they are, the Mexicans. They do not run to height. It is said that the tallest ever Mexican reached the height of 5’10” and was considered such a quirk of nature that he was toured from village to village in a mobile wooden cage and pelted by small children with orange peel as the womenfolk gathered up their skirts in horror. One feared that as the camera panned across the two teams lining up prior to the match, it would only catch the tops of their heads, as they were dwarfed by the English mascots. Thanks to the British technology of adjustable tripods, this humiliation was at least averted. However, the national anthems would reveal a far greater disparity. Ours was delivered by every man jack in white with customary gusto – it must be a comfort to Her Majesty to be assured that, much as if she were a football punted speculatively from 30 yards out moving about in the air at David James, that God, like James, would surely save her. As for the Mexican Anthem, its ominous, martial air suggested that the crashing timpani on the second chorus was a cue for a renegade lieutenant to fire a cannon directly at El Presidente, plume hatted, upright and saluting in the stands. But this was a clash on many fronts.  Bulldogs versus Chihuahuas. Baked versus refried. The Coldstream Guards versus fat men in ponchos making yelping noises. Catastrophic earthquakes every few years versus barely a rumble in our green and pleasant land at all. For all this, we were fighting.

One questioned the selection of referees, all of whom came from Japan. Our own Prince Phillip has in the past questioned whether this people have the appropriate range and depth of optical capability to officiate at a match of this import. My own sentiment was that, since the pitch had been covered copiously in sand beforehand, it was perhaps lax not to have buried these officials up to their necks in it all afternoon prior to the game on such a hot day, as lenient retribution for what the Japanese did to our own Mr David Bowie, as shown in the documentary Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence. An oversight by the groundsman, I feel.

The game commenced at a cracking pelt, with England setting a measured, controlled and above all manly pace – Walcott blasted the ball at Gerrard, Gerrard blasted it at Rooney. As England charged about, almost keeping possession at times, they were indubitably imbued with the red, white and blue spirit, with no sense of the words “red” and “white” having been replaced with “arsed” and “flies”. Theo Walcott ran down the wing, time and again, to the extent that it seems unfair that a finishing tape was not hung between the left goalpost and the corner flag, so as to reward his efforts appropriately. Steven Gerrard incurred a head injury and could count himself among the walking wounded. It would certainly have made a great deal of fucking difference if he’d merely been carried round on a fucking stretcher in circles in the midfield by the equally useful and utterly descript  Carrick and Milner. The uncertainty as to whether Frank Lampard was playing lasted right up prior to the game, and indeed right through till the final whistle. And, as the Mexicans advanced time and again in attack they were easily repelled, with England fans at no point forced to wonder what the fuck a team with any kind of fucking attacking edge might do against a fucking defence like ours with more holes in it than a fucking second hard dartboard.

By the second half, with England three to the good, the game was essentially a waltz, a reminder of gayer times. The pitch was like some ballroom of old, with England’s players cavorting with glee and abandon, while the opposition shambled about them, abject and dusky, like so many waiters and underlings performing the clearing up chores appropriate to men of their subordinate caste. They had shown themselves a poor lot – Sven Goran-Eriksson had led a Swedish expeditionary force to Mexico, stepped ashore and declared himself manager of the team a few years ago but his altruistic efforts to bring European superiority to this rabble had proven in vain. By the end, England’s fans were chanting “ole, ole”! As England strung pass after pass together. First one, then another. Then, a few minutes later, another one. Followed by another.

It was abundantly clear, as the final whistle blew, that England this night displayed all they will need to in order to bring the World Cup back home to Great Britain where it belongs, where it can at last be set in the British museum, perhaps adjacent to the Egypt room or the Elgin Marbles. With Ledley King so deadly from one foot out, particularly when given the space his due, and Peter Crouch equally lethal from one inch out, and with Glen Johnson sure to repeat several times the run and shot that led to his altogether typical goal, that all that remains is to check that the MOT on the open top bus has been properly carried out.

Treasonably, however, there were voices which suggested that Peter Crouch’s second goal might have been in some way illegitimate, on the grounds of his having practically performed a volleyball manoeuvre in order to steer the ball into the net. Absolute banana oil, of course. It was clearly a case of “ball to hand”, and for it have been penalised would have been as unjust as the censure suffered by England’s comely Champion John Terry for the “vagina to penis” incident for which he was recently so cruelly ostracised . . .

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March 31st, 2010

Interim Friendly Report: England v Egypt

EXCEPTIONAL ENGLAND PUT DOWN UNWARRANTABLE EGYPTIAN UPRISING 3-1

When one contemplates the perfidy of the Egyptian race, it reddens the very corpuscles with rage. Our young men, most notoriously in the 19th century under the command of Sir Garnet Wolseley, put their more rebellious and querulous element to the sword, thereby reducing the overall hotheadedness of their stock. Our middle aged men have attempted to instil in them the values of sensible borders (straight, not too squiggly) and of a good civil service, a social system in which each man knows his place, however lowly. Moreover, if literature is to be any guide, even our women have paid their part, both devising and then solving their murder mysteries. And yet, time and again, like the mangy, pestilential baksheesh hounds that they are if the truth dare be known, they have bitten the hand that has fed them scraps from the imperial high table.

What, after all, is the Egyptian legacy? A handful of glorified, oversized sandcastles, a propensity to worshipping small animals and the mistaking of plantpots for headjoy. A poor haul, old told, especially when contrasted with the spoils of Empire, our own, proud heritage as displayed at the British Museum. We are very different animals, we and the wild-eyed wearers of the tarboosh, and so it proved this night. Bulldogs versus camels – and it is abundantly clear who is the superior of those species.

The national anthems told the story, so much so that, looking round the stadium, it was clear that many of the crowd had left their seats and departed once they were concluded. Ours was bellowed with such vigour that even in the unlikely event that the Supreme Deity were a little hard of hearing, he would soon get the message via his ear trumpet and set at once about the business of saving Her Majesty. As for the Egyptian effort, well, doubtless FA officials obliged by pouring a pathway of sand in front of the line of players in order that they could perform their traditional dance; instead, however, they produced some ponderous, pseudo-martial dirge, which in its duration seemed to outlast one or two or the wars Egypt has fought and lost in recent times.

One did question the selection of officials – South American? With their hides still red raw from the thrashing we gave them in the Falklands? This was perhaps the one and only occasion on which I would have trusted a Hebrew in a position of responsibility, to run the line, at any rate.

The game began at full pelt, with the Egyptians clearly ruing their importunate impetuosity in agreeing to this fixture as England at once asserted their authority, if only in the redness of their shirts – the colour of Empire, in contrast to Egypt’s white, the colour of surrender. I was distracted when John Terry, our Captain, the very heart and loins of our defence, took receipt of the ball unchallenged and immediately passed it out into touch for an Egyptian throw-in, thereby averting any greater danger. I become aware of a rather queer droning sound. It recurred, the second time he touched the ball. I summoned my man, Seppings. “It appears, Seppings, that there is a nest of wasps in the offing, perhaps up in the guttering. Fetch a stick and the long ladder from the potting shed and investigate at once, man.” The retainer attempted to burble some response, pointing weakly at the television set, the crowd and the personage of Mr Terry but swiftly thought better of it as he met the full heat of my glower and departed to set about his chore.

England dominated the opening exchanges. Steven Gerrard was, as ever, excellent value for his haircut. Wayne Rooney played with the measured self-control of a man who has just shot himself out of a cannon, trousers ablaze. The only thing faster than Theo Walcott is the ball following his first touch, which is certainly saying something. Robert Green was so cat-like in goal that it is a wonder the Egyptian players did not fall to the ground in abasement and present him with burnt offerings. Frank Lampard, meanwhile, offered a masterclass in how to play the game (that is to say, book one, page one – assuming the basic standing position onfield). Wes Brown, was as ever, extraordinarily orange in defence.

And yet, to the shock and disgust of the world, it was Egypt who took the lead, their striker ungallantly taking advantage of temporary English indisposition and rifling home past goalkeeper Green, who had quite rightly not expected any such audacity. This was reminiscent of the insolence of Colonel Nasser in 1956 (one has to ask, as with Gadhaffi, why the generals in his army did not pull rank on him at the time). Sir Anthony Eden was doubtless turning in his grave, as indeed he did at the time, when a certain seniority was expected of British Prime Ministers.

Come half time, and the media reported feverishly on events thus far, the British correspondents with their telephones and laptop computer machines, the Egyptian with his hammer and chisel. As I took stock, I noticed outside that some damn fool had left a ladder placed adjacent to the window, a sure invitation to footpads. I duly strode over and with one smite of my cane, sent it clattering to the ground. Meanwhile, as mascot Signor Capello was dispatched to sell ice cream to members of the crowd, English members of the management team hatched a plan to confound the opposition. Using the element of surprise, they removed from the field our best player, Frank Lampard, leaving the Egyptians puzzled as to why we would make such a bizarre tactical selection given that he hadn’t played like an inert, useless, spacewasting crock even by his own staggeringly fucking twat-high spacewasting standards in the first half.

The plan worked and in the second half, England ran riot, the Egyptians swiftly capitulating under the English assault, reminiscent of Sir Garnet Wolseley suppressing the Urabi Revolt, the stadium resounding to cries of “Aaaeiiiieeeeeee!!!!”s as Peter Crouch in particular applied the length of cold steel to which the peculiarly constituted North Africans are so inimical. The Egyptians prayed loudly to their dog gods, Ra, Allah and suchlike, in vain. I called for Seppings to recharge my brandy tumbler only to hear a low moan in response – looking out the window, I saw that he was lying in the courtyard below in a pool of his own blood, bones broken, as if having fallen from a great height, But even the bumbling clumsiness of a manservant could not cloud my satisfaction at yet another superlative England victory.

If there was one blot on this performance, I will concede that it was defensive error on England’s part. It was an error by Wayne Bridge, at left back, not to put his wife or partner at the pleasure and disposal of our good leader and true John Terry. This breach of established protocol may have sent a ripple of disquiet through our back four which benefited the Egyptians. For John Terry’s heroic reputation has only been burnished by certain stories that have recently emerged. He is what in my day was known as a Rutter. He ruts, ruts, and ruts again, for team, for country, for Queen, sending each thrust victorious, happy and glorious. I envisage his fellow players forming a guard of honour with their involuntary salutes beneath which he ruts each of the players’ wives or girlfriends in turn, for duty, for pleasure, for God, oh God Almighty . . .

As for the Egyptians, their ambassador will be summoned in this morning and, be summarily demanded the handover of the tribute due us following this glorious victory. Egypt, you owe us the following;

1. The wife of your left back.

2. One canal.


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June 14th, 2008

Three Football Reports

An eerie paralysis has settled like a fog across the city of Liverpool this morning. Bicycles, upon which kids performed wheelies around shopping malls just yesterday lie abandoned today. No whistled melody plays on the lips of the milkman as he does his rounds. The lead on the church roof remains strangely unstolen, Jimmy Tarbuck and Tom O’ Connor, for once in their lives, have only completely unfunny observations to make. At TV rental shop windows, hushed folk gather around in the hope of updates on our manager, who surely faces a fight for his life over the next several days. At Anfield, fans form a long, patient queue, waiting to leave floral tributes at the point where the tragedy occurred, just 25 yards from the hallowed Kop End. One, spelled out in red and white roses, reads simply BARNSLEY?? This is a city united in grief, under the world spotlight, a city wondering to itself; did John Lennon of The Beatles die for this? George Harrison? Stuart Sutcliffe?

This is as a time for mourning, and for lessons to be learned from the dreadful events of what will be known as 16/2. And the first lesson that needs to be learned is by the friggin’ Barnsley players, in how to read. In case they didn’t notice, there’s a sign above your heads as you come out of the dressing room that reads THIS IS ANFIELD. It’s supposed to put the fear of Yosser Hughes into you. You don’t ignore that sign, you quail and genuflect. Then you go out and lie down as Liverpool Football Club walk tall, with passion and pride in their hearts and guts in their bellies, all over you.

It was quite obvious the way Barnsley played that they had completely the wrong attitude. No respect for their betters, or for the sacred turf they charged around on like kids misbehaving in church. How can you play like that, desecrating the memory of great players like Tommy Lawrence, Tommy Smith, Emlyn Hughes and Jimmy Carter with every last-ditch clearance, slide tackle and friggin’ 25 yard screamer? How can you do that in front of the Kop, where surging fans would sing Freddie & The Dreamers songs and piss in each other pockets? That was the community spirit we had back then  every man a toilet for his neighbour. There were no inside lavs back in the 60s, remember  when you need to go, you knocked on the door of feller in the next house along, he’d let you in, and you’d go in his overcoat pocket. And you’d do the same for him. Great days. Talk of the romance of the Cup rings sick and hollow this morning. To people who say that, I say  Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. Was that romantic? It was not. Neither was this. Cilla Black has quite literally been laid prostrate and defecated upon from a height of 30 metres once more and forced to crawl around eating the plop that didn’t land directly in her mouth. Cilla. Our Cilla. Well, I hope you’re happy.

But we are Liverpool. Over the next few days, the watching world will see an example of how a city copes with adversity, its citizens united, never walking alone, standing together, showing solidarity in their grief, except for the Everton scum, the city of Liverpool, together in unison as one.

There is a time for grieving but also a time for bitter recrimination. So, as of this morning, I am organising a city-wide boycott of all Barnsley products. Coal. Clogs. Michael Parkinson autobiographies. Barnsley shall feel the wrath of the people of Liverpool where it hurts. I’m also organising a Barnsley Appeal Fund. I’m hoping Marji Clark will agree to sing a few songs at a big show I’m planning, maybe get Paul McCartney to write one of them oratorios of his, in honour and memory of the Heroes who Fell At the Fifth, or reunite the cast of Bread to record a rousing version of You’ll Never Walk Alone. ‘Cos, you see, I’ve realised, if there’s one thing we can learn from the tragedy that was 16/2, it’s that we, Liverpool Football Club, need to buy more players. Stevie, Jamie, Stevie, they’re great la’s but they can’t do it all by themselves. Maybe, in future, a tragedy like this could be averted if we threw more money at a bunch of players who turned out to be un-useless and totally succeeded in gelling. That, and appoint Ricky Tomlinson as team manager. Passion! Heart! . . .

Aston Villa 4-1 Newcastle Well, At Least We Scored, And, Like The Man Said, Goals Are Hard To Come By Against Top Flight Teams

9/2/08

Howay! Tommy Toon here. Well  Tommy Sunderland actually, but Newcastle through and through, Newcastle till I die, then I’d have to stop, like, on account of being dead. I’ve just seen the game against Villa  bit of a rollercoaster, that one. We were cock a hoop when trusty little Michael Owen nodded us one up and it looked like it was going to be our day. I don’t know what King Kevin Keegan said to the lads at half time but it did them a power of good  even after they conceded a couple of quick goals at the beginning of the second half, they battled away just like you’d expect of a Keegan team, kept their heads up after Villa scored a third and showed typical never say die attitude when Villa popped in a fourth from the spot late on. You couldn’t fault the Magpies spirit  it’s just a shame they couldn’t sneak those four goals that would turned defeat into victory. Such a fine line. Still, like the man said, at the end of the day, that’s football  as well as the rough, you have to take a few knocks.

One thing about Newcastle, players and managers may go on their travels but the lure of St James is always liable to bring them back, the way it did Kevin, thank goodness, after he’d run away to join the circus and that. It’s like Paul Gazza Gascoigne  he went and found fame and fortune in the bright lights of London town, but I knew he’d return back north one day. And so he did, bonny lad. To Rangers, admittedly. But that didn’t stop a whole crowd of us turning out to wave to him from the platform at Newcastle Station as his train passed through from London to Glasgow. A lot of us turned out again when he took the train from Glasgow to Middlesbrough, a few years later. I like to think he spotted us and waved back. There’s always a pie, a Mars bar and a car parking space awaiting him on Tyneside.

Gazza was one of the Toon legends all right. But like the man said, at the end of the day, he’s not the only one. I think back over the last ten years, and some of the signings we’ve made  names like Steve Barton, Warren Taylor, Scott Taylor, Steve Warren, Taylor Parker, Scott Barton and Steve Parker. Between them, I’d reckon we paid a tidy £123 million for their services and great servants they’ve been to Newcastle United, especially in the relegation battles that followed them joining the club. Still, the daddy of them all, for my money, was Albert Shytehawke, centre forward of Newcastle’s most recent league championship winning team, in 1926-27. Young nippers today, you mention his name and they burst out laughing  it’s understandable, I suppose, the name Albert sounds a bit quaint to kids in this day and age. But it’s grand to hear a section of our support still honouring Shyte’s memory by chanting his nickname, as they have done quite a few times this season.

Anyway, I’ve got in my possession an old, yellowing cigarette card with a lovely pen and ink drawing of Albert Shytehawke, in his black knickerbockers standing on a laced football. It belonged to my grandfather, who’d had it passed down to him by his grandfather in turn. Sort of a family heirloom, really, even it’s got a bit stained over the years  nicotine, brown sauce and that. Anyway, that Antiques Roadshow came to town, so I thought I’d go down there and see what it might be worth, like. There was quite a queue, but I waited me turn and eventually I’m in front of one of their experts, feller with a moustache, who looks up, a bit testy.

”Well?” he says. So I pull out me cigarette card. He looks at it as if he doesn’t even recognise Albert Shytehawke.

”What the fuck’s this?” he says, which took me aback, because you don’t expect that sort of talk off telly. “Have you been wiping your arse with it, or what?”

”It’s a family heirloom, like, I explained. Collector’s item, I should think. Albert Shytehawke. Big hero round these parts. Scored 56 goals in 1926-27. Not sure if they had goalkeepers back then, but  anyway, I was just wondering what it might be worth.”

“He tosses it back at me. I’d give you a quid.”

”A pound?”

”Yeah. A pound. And he fished one out of his pocket. You fucking people. Talk about timewasters  I just had a bloke show me a shoe. One shoe. He said he’d lost the other one. Here you are, there’s a pound. I’m paying you a pound to go away, basically, not for this piece of arsewipe. Get it? It’s a Fuck off pound.”

Well, you can imagine what I made of that. A pound’s a lot of money and I admit I was tempted. But in the end, I decided the card was of too strong sentimental value so I thanked him for his kind offer but declined, and took my leave. Like the man said, at the end of the day, you can’t put a price on some things.

I always watch Toon games at the Shinner’s Arms. Funny, really, because me and the landlord don’t always see eye to eye. It’s one thing that you can’t smoke tabs in the pub any more, but now he’s introduced a new no farting rule as well. Said there’d been complaints, about me in particular. Farting’s one of the few pleasures I have in life and I’ve always farted considerately but without the smoke to mask the smell, well, there’s your problem in a nutshell. So now I have to go outside to break wind, which at this time of year, well, it’s cold, when all you’re wearing is a string vest. But like the man said, at the end of the day, that’s progress.

Thing about the Shinner’s Arms is, it’s my lucky pub. I was here a few seasons ago, when Newcastle played Chester in the FA Cup 3rd round, at home. I was so proud of our lads that day. If pride, passion, commitment and effort counting for anything on the scoreboard, we would have run out 10-0 victors. As it was, we went down 0-2, a result which flattered Chester, to my mind. Anyway, I was drowning my sorrows, feeling a bit down in the dumps afterwards and I mumbled to the landlord, ”I must admit, Len, I was expecting better from our lads than that.”

”What’s that?” I turn round and there’s this lad, a Chester supporter I could tell by his scarf, in a smart grey suit. Some sort of salesman, I think. Cut above, drank his beer out of a bottle. ”What’s that?” he repeats.

”Well, I was just saying -” 

”Yeah, I know what you were saying. Typical fucking Premiership aristocrat attitude. You sit up there on your perch and think you’ve a divine fucking right to win against the little teams like us! You were all high and mighty, you just thought all you needed was turn up, take a giant dump on us! Well, just for once, just for once, it was the underdogs’ turn. Yeah, yeah, we haven’t got money to throw around like you spoilt arseholes, as he said this, he produced a wad of £20 notes with a silver clip and starts waving it around. Think you can laugh at us for being dirt poor? Well, we may not have your money, but we’ve got something you Premiership glory hunters forgot about years ago. We’ve got integrity. We’ve got soul. And every now and then, you fat cats get complacent and we fucking turn you over. So take your fucking spanking, you with your big stadium and executive boxes. You’ve no idea what it’s like in the lower leagues, losing, week in, week out. Well, you’ve had a taste of it now, you fuckers! You make me fucking puke my fucking ring, you arrogant, self-righteous scumbags!” And with that, he sups up his bottle storms out the pub, climbs in his BMW and drives off. Well, the last laugh was on him, like, because if he’d known, just 100 yards down the road, there’s one of the most splendid car parks in all of the North East  ten storeys high. It was opened in 2003, after they knocked down the old community centre. Sometimes, if I’ve nothing better to do, I like to go down to that car park, you know, just to look around.

Anyway, I had hoped to watch the Villa game at the Shinners, but I’m actually writing this from hospital. See, I had a bit of a run-in last night. I’d been saving my brown coins all year for one of them customised club football shirts  y’know, the ones with your name on the back. Well, it came back yesterday. So I decided to give the string vest the night off and wore it down the pub. I’d hardly walked in the door, when one of this group of lads, our lads y’know, Toon, taps me on the shoulder.

”What the fook’s this, like? What’s with the fookin’ shirt? Some sort of joke, or what? You tanna piss? ‘Sunderland’?”

”Yes!” I said. “See, that’s me. I’m Sunderland.”

”You’re Sunderland?”

 “Aye. Sunderland. That’s me.”

Well, you know, sometimes there’s no explaining things to these big lads and the top and bottom of it is, I was in overnight for minor concussion and two broken ribs. I tell you, if Newcastle United can demonstrate the same passion, strength and commitment to the task these lads displayed as they beat the daylights out of me, then we’ve nothing to fear this season. Toon!

MUST WE LAVISH MILLIONS ON THESE WOMEN?

By Hugh McLaughton, Broadsheet Correspondent, 2/11/07

They say a woman is a costly commodity and as one whose patience with the comelier sex has oft been put to the utmost strain, I find that I cannot but concur. Ask anyone from any profession, be they sportswriter, executive editor, or senior manager in any field and they will tell you the same tale of woe – of the perfumes, stoles, and assorted fineries they have had to lavish, the milliner’s bills they have had to run up, in order to placate their wives and thereby preserve their conjugal rights, as must be demanded when stumbling in at three in the morning after a fortifying dram. Women, as the old Scottish sage Wilfred O’ Muchterlauchty once put it in phrases hewn from the granite of his infinite wisdom, ”are the apples of God’s eye. But they’re also the scum of the earth. Painted whores, every one of them, destined for the Inferno. Remember that, laddie. Aye, yere mother too.”

One wonders what that good man O’ Muchterlauchty, who died at the ripe old Scottish age of 37, would have made of the women of today? I speak, of course, of those roundly rebuked from the very heights of Ministerial Office, to wit, the likes of John Terry, Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo, women indeed to a man as sure as gruts are gruts, who earn, according to ministerial figures, roughly one million pounds a day to act the perfumed pansy upon the too-pristine pitch, while to the North, the men of Govan are forced to forage on slagheaps in order to fill their coal bunkers for the coming winter.

Where is the passion of yore? The grit? The gruts? The granite? The grime? The gruel? One casts one’s mind back over the sadly elapsed decades to more straitened but economically rational times, in which footballer’s benevolent, tophatted paymasters did not have to abide to the behest of greasy, swarthy Shylocks, or agents (one hesitates to call them Jews) in order to decided how best to reward their footballing charges with the money they had honestly accrued thanks to the industrial revolution being, fortunately, not a revolution of the Russian sort. One thinks of The Potter Brothers, men of their word, for whom a spit and a handshake was worth more than any contract. When they signed young Stanley Matthews in 1932, they offered him the then princely sum of one shilling and sixpence a week, ample enough for a young lad to make a trip to the Flicker Gallery, feast on a Knickerbocker Glory then catch the last tram home. When he retired in 1965, the Potter Brothers showed their consistency and their moral mettle. The deal had been sewn up as surely as the leather casing on a football. Despite his advanced age, they did not reduce his wage by a single farthing. A shilling and sixpence a week was the deal in 1932 and a shilling and sixpence was the deal 33 years on, plus all the dubbin he needed to keep those wizard’s boots to a high shine.

One thinks also of wee Archie McGaughlicuddy, the Mercury Midget, the 4’6 Wonder Winger whose jinking runs would guarantee near-sellout gates of 320,000 at Parkhead when he turned out in the green hoops of Glasgow Celtic. The munificence of Harry Protheroe, the somewhat autocratic but fundamentally benign chairman and bankroller of the great club, was appropriate. He saw to it that the millions of pounds of revenue generated by McGaughlicuddy’s magical caperings did not go unacknowledged. To that end, when a reckless fondness for gobstoppers saw the winger turfed out of lodgings, his sweet tooth precluding him from keeping up with the pound a month rent, Mr Protheroe (as he was known to his close friends and wife Agnes) saw to it that McGaughlicuddy was put up on his very own estate  in Mr Protheroe’s very own coal bunker, to be precise. There, away from the temptations of Mrs Miggins’s confectioner’s store, McGaughlicuddy thrived. The more so, I should hasten to append, because he received from the great and goodly Mr Protheroe personally the finest advice he would ever receive in his life. ”If the yen for a gobstopper takes you,” said the furlined Captain Of Industry, ”suck on a lump of coal instead.” This the tiny winger took to heart. (Sadly, he died, aged 26, of coal poisoning, the way many a good Scotsman met his Maker back in those terrible, wonderful, terrible, wonderful days.)

Show the likes of a John Terry a tin of dubbin and she would doubtless apply it to her hair. Show Cristiano Ronaldo a lump of coal and advise her to make a meal of it rather than those manly challenges she clatters in a heap to of a week, and she would probably have to be revived by her agent with smelling salts. The Inferno surely awaits both these ladies . . .

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December 5th, 2007

It’s a gentle poke in the eye with a soldering iron for Morrissey in . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of sautéed button mushrooms, poached free range eggs, dry wholemeal toast, grilled herring portions and my own urine from last night topped off with a pint of overproof rum, I enjoy my reviving repast, set aside the tray and peruse a pile of recent journals in order to catch up on the events of recent days. I read that Morrissey is currently having something of a run-in with the New Musical Express, over comments he is quoted as making concerning England having lost its identity. He contrasts this with Germany. “If you travel to Germany it’s still absolutely Germany,” he remarks. Morrissey is indignant about the publication of his comments and denies that he is a racist.

Yeah? Well, I’ll tell you what you f***ing are, and that is a f***ing addled, self-absorbed, middle aged adolescent f***ing c*** with more braincells in your f***ing hair than your f***ing head! You’re still in a f***ing sulk because in England we’re not all permanently suspended in some sort of f***ing black and white kitchen sink melodrama, living in some quiet, desperate state of f***ing cobblestone misery, making f***ing scrapbooks of clippings of the f***ing Moors Murders for kicks, all for you to f***ing wank lyrically over from afar from f***ing Rome or Los Angeles or wherever the f*** you’ve fetched up in as an immigrant nowadays! “Travel to Germany, it’s still absolutely Germany”? You gangling, greasy f***wit! If Germany was still “absolutely Germany”, they’d still be f***ing goose-stepping to f***ing work, England would be a province of the f***ing Third Reich, and you’d be wearing a f***ing pink triangle! Just be f***ing thankful modern Germany consists of f***ing idiots in red trousers and braces with all-advised f***ing moustaches with names like DJ Hot To The Max Uli! Stupid f***ing arsehole!

Last week, the Week In Politics show, presented by Andrew Neil, fronted one of their trademark amusing items. It was based around the remark by Vince Cable, acting leader of the Liberal Democrats, to Gordon Brown that he had transformed himself from “Stalin into Mr Bean”. It featured a Week In Politics reporter in a bowler hat, amid an array of different costumes.

No, you wretchedly befuddled, useless, leaky f***ing wankbuckets, that wasn’t f***ing “Mr Bean” it was f***ing Mr Benn! MR F***ING BENN, YOU F***ING MORONS! This should be the f***ing cue to have this smug, smirking, piece of shit show thrown off the air like a f***ing shopping trolley into a f***ing canal! Just have one last f***ing edition where Dianne Abbott finally jumps f***ing Portillo and shags him till his f***ing eyeballs pop and have f***ing done with it!

Tim Henman has hinted that Andy Murray is definitely the man to lead the British team in their upcoming Davis Cup fixture – he has the resilience and the leadership skills.

Oh, for c***’s sake, Andy Murray? What the f*** is the fuss about? He’s ranked number f***ing 11 in the world! And who’s f***ing ahead of him? A f***ing farrago of spoiled South American f***ing playboys, a former Yugoslavian with f*** all better to do, some c***, some other c***, and a couple of other c***s! There’s only about f***ing 200 people in the world f***ing play tennis, aren’t there? And still, Murray actually manages to f***ing lose to most of them in the f***ing Fourth Round, usually from having to retire hurt having sprained his jaw from whingeing at his latest f***ing coach! He is, in every f***ing sense, one long, miserable f***ing losing streak! Scottish Murrays were only f***ing good for sucking, and that’s the one thing he’s not f***ing shit at!

Finally, it seems that American punks Green Day are to follow up the success of their 2004 album American Idiot with a new album next year.

Oh, my giddy f***ing arse, Green Day are still clinging to the f***ing chairback of relevance like a dead Grandfather’s dried out bogey from two f***ing Christmases ago? I’m surprised they haven’t shrivelled up of f***ing shame! Corporate punk, an oxymoron created, sold and bought by f***ing morons! What’s it gonna be, another f***ing album of blasted out edgy rock anthems to toss on the f***ing cesspit of sameness that is your pointless f***ing career? F*** off, back to the untidied Californian bedrooms that spawned you, you loathsome little c***s!


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November 21st, 2007

Liverpool, India Knight, Amy Winehouse, it can only be . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of smoked kippers, herring pieces, low calorie flakes, muffin, Gala melon slices and alcoholic tramp’s vomit sucked through a straw, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse a selection of periodicals, to catch up on recent events. Therein, I read that Liverpool has been designated European Capital of Culture in 2008 and in January, to kick things off, a one-off event entitled Liverpool – The Musical will take place featuring Sir Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Dave Stewart and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Also to appear are Echo & The Bunnymen, Pete Wylie and The Christians.

F*** me sideways, you could take all of the words out of the above paragraph except f***ing “Dave Stewart” and this would c***idious enough but Christ on a f***ing cockstick, Liverpool – The Musical? how f***ing far into this sub-prime farrago of self-congratulatory cheesewank is anybody gonna be able to get before the end off tearing off their f***ing left legs and beating themselves over the heads with the f***ing sticky end? The Christians? If they’re f***ing playing, who the f*** is gonna minicab people home after the concert? Liverpool is no more the f***ing Capital of European Culture than f***ing Marseilles is the f***ing Capital of European Hygiene! If this were a celebration in music and verse of a city’s longstanding tradition in f***ing insurance fraud, then they might have a f***ing point, but it f***ing isn’t, is it? City of Culture? City of f***ing self-congratulatory, self-pitying, phlegm-spraying f***ing losers, more f***ing like! You might as well ferry back and forth across the f***ing Mersey selling each other f***ing hubcaps because the f***ing Transatlantic trade link’s long f***ed, and you extraneous Scouse c***s with it!

It seems that 70s rockers Led Zeppelin have decided to add more dates to their highly successful comeback tour.

Let’s f***ing face it, folks, a world so many of whose f***ing citizens choose to cram themselves in like slaves on a f***ing ship to watch these three ancient, histrionic f***ing prunes creak through the f***ing motions is a world that deserves to f***ing choke to death in its own f***ing waste products! Jimmy Page looks like the f***ing disinterred and bewigged corpse of the f***ing late Tony Banks MP, Robert Plant looks like some sort of f***ing overgrown, geriatric, caterwauling f***ing elf and how hard would two men have to pull at the lead of a f***ing dog to persuade it to come along and watch f***ing John Paul Jones if he was playing f***ing solo, the cockend?

Choppy waters for the government as Alistair Darling was forced to announce that 25 million people’s child benefit details stored on two CDs have been mislaid by a junior official by HM Revenue & Customs.

F*** me, we knew f***ing Gordon Brown was a f***ing miserable, irascible, scrotum-faced old Scottish c*** who can barely put his f***ing tie on the right way round but if this is an example of his f***ing fiscal prudence then f***ing excuse me while I sew my f***ing savings into a f***ing mattress and leave it out in the middle of the f***ing street! You don’t f***ing save money by scrunching two f***ing huge departments into one, you stupid, myopic f***ing skinflint, any more than amputating your f***ing left leg is a sensible way of losing f***ing weight! Still, this is Brown’s chance to get rid of f***ing Chancellor Darling and replace him with Chancellor f***ing Baldrick! Useless c***!

Finally, something of a double treat – India Knight of The Sunday Times has devoted her latest column to Amy Winehouse. Detailing the recent adventures of Britney Spears, Pete Doherty, Kate McCann and Ms Winehouse herself, she deplores a culture in which “we” “gawp” at celebrities in difficulties. She offers the original thought that the public like to see the famous cut down to size but wonders if “our” relatively small and insignificant lives are really so much better than that of the “brilliant” but wayward Winehouse.

Well, f***, yes, that’s me put in my insignificant f***ing place. Yes, we do gawp rather, don’t we? All of us. And that’s not at all rich coming from a f***ing columnist who spends most of her f***ing personal and professional f***ing life gawping till her jaw’s practically touching her f***ing knees at the f***ing drearily endless vacuous tabloid parade of f***ing dysfunctional celebdom in the f***ing hope of finding 800 f***ing sanctimonious words to submit, at least 100 of which will be the f***ing word “we” every f***ing week! India Knight talking about the public’s unhealthy f***ing relationship with celebrity is like a f***ing vulture complaining about unhealthy relationships with the f***ing recently deceased!


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