Andy's Glasses

Today is the day that Common Riding is celebrated in Hawick. Because its ‘common riding season’ in the border towns. My favourite time of year. Hmmmm. Never actually heard of it before today but its just one more fantastic reason why Europe is the coolest (and most bizarrely stupid) place in the world, and must never be allowed to congeal into one great big, featureless, homogeneous cesspit lacking the wonderful individuality that makes every place so special, unique and daft.

Common riding is a Scottish tradition, celebrating something that happened on the border 500 years ago and so a few angry Scots, or Scots pretending to be angry (I’m gonna reckon these will be the ‘YES!!!’ voters in referenda to come) ride around on common ground, just like their ancesters did celebrating some ancient and meaningless historical bollocks because that’s the way its always been done, going all the way back to a time before Mel Gibson was a rabidly anti-semitic fundamentalist Catholic extremist.

Its like running the bulls in Pamplona. Stupid fucking idea, but some old Spaniard 200 years ago said: eh, I ‘as a groovy idea; let’s all go into da streets and get trampled on by bulls! for fun!!’ Hemingway thought that sounded just fab and now everyone does it. Get bored or gored; there is NO third option in Pamplona.

Back here we have that day when they have cheese-rolling in Gloucester, a bit like the bull-run but 3kg of cheddar is less potentially harmful than 3 ton of prime beef. And lacks horns.

Marching Season has always been a particular favourite of mine. When Irish protestants or ‘orange men’ as they are known, errrr… well, march. They don’t know why they march but ‘pissing off the catholics’ is always a good reason to do anything in Northern Ireland, so they take to the streets, these Orange Men. You don’t get Orange Women; they live in Essex and their ‘orange’ comes out of a bottle you buy in Boots.

In Germany on April the 7th they have Schpraugersnachtelwurst Jumping. When Bavarians dress up as milkmaids, but with high heels, take a piglet in each arm and jump over as many schpraugersnachtelwursts as they can round up in one evening, ending at 11.07 pm, when they all drink 3 steiners of Vodka mixed with anti-freeze and spend the rest of the month in hospital. Its as much fun as you can ever have. In Germany.

And this is just one small sample of the wonderful array of stupid, ridiculous, dangerous or just downright pathetic events happening in a European country near you any time soon. Don’t just sit by passively and let life pass you by; get involved. Swallow a leming tomorrow. Rape a strawberry next thursday. Roll down a Norweigian hillside with with a corpse in July.

and have a lovely Saturday

A xxxx

Men who are hungry prefer larger women than men who have just eaten.

Why? Do they want to eat them? See them as a fuller plate? Probably not but its a ‘fact’. Not necessarily a fact as we know it, but it has statistical significance. All testing needs that. And what that means is that the results show a probability greater than could have been achieved by random chance alone. Not that every hungry man craves Hattie Jacques, but that enough do so that the test is valid.

So this latest ‘test’ is part of a whole load across the world working out who we find attractive and if we want to eat them. And about the links between love and food (well, I really love food so I should be just frikkin perfect for this experiment) both of which are controlled by the hormone oxytocin in our bodies.

So you go to the queue at KFC (hungry people) and ask them if they fancy fat birds and more than half said ‘fucking right, I do’. Then you ask the men leaving the store looking satisfied and a bit bloated, with ketchup on their chins and grease all over everywhere else and ask them and they ay ‘fuck, no! I likes ’em skinny, innit’. And that’s brilliant, blah, blah, blah, p=0.005, publish them results.

In fact it needs to be a bit more ‘criteria based’, a bit more robust, reliable, repeatable, standardised, normalised and quantifiable. So what they actually did was get two groups of men, half of them hadn’t eaten for 6 hours (we’ll call those, to avoid ambiguity, ‘the hungry group’) and the other half had just pigged out on whatever and were full. Then all the men were shown the same pictures of women in red bikinis and asked to rate them for attractiveness. And we know the scores.

But how big is ‘larger’? How full is ‘a fuller figure’? Where is that line between waif and wonderful, between ‘voluptuous’ and ‘tank’? There ya go again, gotta be done proper. Find me 66 women in red bikinis and fetch me my tape measure and hand-warmers.

This was my true vocation. To be a tester of the truly worthless, whilst spending inordinate amounts of time in a room with a dozen red bikinis. ‘How was your day today, honey?’

In an associated test, they found that when people are fearful, their ratings for the attractiveness of their companion go up ‘significantly’. Because when you’re scared your heart rate goes up, your pupils dilate and you sweat, the same physiological changes that happen when you’re aroused. Which is why when someone is about to smash a bottle on your head, its sometimes difficult to know whether to knock him out or kiss him. Same autonomic system. Kind of. But apparently that is why horror movie first dates are sooooo popular. Because you’re halfway ‘there’ before the popcorn’s over. Particularly when dating serial killing zombie vampires.

So I hope that has now cleared up the entire testing scandal once and for all. Clear as something that hasn’t been tested at least 95% of the time.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Richard Dawkins is my least favourite professor of the popularisation of science, possibly of all time. Even though he’s the only one that’s ever existed. He’s an atheist, which I’m fine with, and an almost evangelical Darwinist, which is fine, and he’s not afraid to offend people with book titles like ‘The God Delusion’, which I approve of; he just makes my skin crawl. Mainly because he’s so pompous, but also because he abuses everyone’s God-given (oh, sorry Richard) right to be an arrogant fucker. He crosses the line between “I think…” and “you’re a complete tosser if you don’t think…” Because his is the only way. He leaves no room for anyone else’s ideas nor beliefs, if they aren’t 100% congruent with his own.

And he says sentences like: “Its rather pernicious to inculcate into a child a view of the world which includes supernaturalism”. Those words alone go against the very theme of his existence; popularisation of science. It makes the populus think all scientists are pretentious fuckers and stuffy losers who would rather speak in ‘Chaucer’ than the common tongue.

Dawkins thinks we shouldn’t tell fairy tales to our children. They may grow up believing in dragons and princesses and white knights and Walt Disney and Harrods Christmas Hampers at 984 quid including 2 bottles of Moet. The Professor feels that we’d be better off debunking these sad old tales and instead paint them ideas of the world from a scientific viewpoint. Teach them to be skeptical of the highly improbable. If you think a frog turning into Prince Charles ‘improbable’. Maybe witches and wizards simply ‘evolved’ over the millennia. That’d be a cruel irony.

Let kids enjoy their fantasies. The grim scientific realities come along soon enough to sterilise their world view. Let them have fun while it can last.

The World Cup will be fun. Apparently in the 30 degree temperatures England with face in Manaus, along with the excessive Rainforesty humidity, can result in losing up to 2kg of bodyweight during a match. At which point, the effects of dehydration cause reduced perception, increased errors, poor judgment and mental impairment. Its like being a UKIP voter. But this is serious stuff as not just players but referees will be suffering in the same way, affecting both their mood and judgment. Which then makes you wonder what will happen at the 40+ degrees they expect in Qatar in 2022 (if it goes ahead). But mainly, it will be quite interesting to see groups of hallucinating footballers wandering aimlessly around the pitch bumping into each other kicking at mirages. And stumbling may occur, which may look a bit like ‘diving’. Therefore the danger signs may be more difficult to notice with the Luis Suarez types and the entire Spanish, French and Italian teams who spend most of every game hurling themselves floorwards in regular temperatures.

And they all lived happily ever after.

A xxxx

There’s only two reasons to play sport. One is that you love it, the other that you get paid fortunes for doing it. These two are not mutually exclusive. You can have both. Or ‘live the dream’ as its known in some circles. Or maybe its then not the dream. That if you spend all day every day hitting a tennis ball over a frikkin net, hour after hour, day after day, that it ceases to become ‘the thing you love’, even though the money’s not bad if you’ve made it that far. But tennis isn’t a dangerous sport. Boxing is. Yet the rewards can be massive. I don’t know why, its a game that does nothing for me, but in a way that’s the whole thing. What excites and pleases YOU as an individual. Running the streets for hours on end? Swimming up and down pools endlessly? Kicking a ball about and swearing a lot? Rowing across a grimy reservoir in Luton on rainy days in January? Ahhhh, the dream.

Some sports involve danger. Motor racing is apparently a ‘sport’ though I’ve never been sure why. The cost/benefit analysis of that event is that drivers can earn millions of moneys but one wrong move and you’re Ayrton Senna. Which adds to the glamour, the glory, the heroics. And attracts the women like fake-tan to a Cup Final party. Or lawyers to a class action suit.

Boxing similarly is, in case you missed that bit, rather brutal. The point of the game is nothing but brutality. Two people trying to beat each other senseless. How Roman. And yet, how pure a ‘sport’ is that? Mano against mano. Big gains for the winners (and often for the losers too, just for showing up and playing punchbag) but it has now been shown (like: doh; we needed medics to tell us) that repeated concussions and being bashed around the head all the time can in fact be dangerous! Who’d’a thought that? Does any boxer, particularly in the last 50 years, really not understand that his work is doing him damage? But its the risk he takes, for which he is often handsomely rewarded and from which he gains too massive pleasure of a combined sado-masochistic nature.

And now American Football, the uber-macho gridiron, where men are men and gays keep really really quiet, has realised that their game can be rather dangerous. Again: who’d’a thought that? A game so tough, so big-hitting, so full-on that the players wear crash-helmets and pretty much full body armour, who’d’a thunk you could get hurt? For your paltry $5 million a year.

So a group of gridironers have got together with Liebevitz, Lipshitz, Litigate and Retire, noted 5th Avenue class action specialists, to sue the NFL for damage caused by repeated concussions from… er… well, playing the game which is big-hitting and big-payout, which is why they got all the cheerleaders at High School. Even the great Miami Dolphins hall of fame (that’s a good thing, in case you don’t follow nfl), quarterback (another good thing) Dan Marino (used to be a good thing, now I’m not so sure) is joining the suit, just in case ‘he develops any problems later’. Or he gets a better lawyer who can get him a few mil even without any sign of damage.

And I hate this kind of litigation. Its horrible, its a clichee and its sadly part of American culture. Bandwagon jumping against BIG corporations or insurance companies for the further enrichment of lawyers. But especially in a sporting context. Because its all about responsibility. No-one forced Dan Marino to be a big NFL superstar, get paid zillions of dollars in wages and the endorsements that accompany his status as a demigod, to suffer ‘that lifestyle’ of never having to buy a drink for yourself, never having to book a table in any restaurant; they’ll always find you one, never having to buy a ticket to any event. Awful. And I’m sure that on some level Dan realised that in playing his game, there was an element of risk. Yet now he (and his lawyers) have decided that the NFL should burden the full responsibility of that risk. For giving these guys a platform upon which to ply their trade, play their game and earn a fucking fortune.

And THAT is why I play bridge.

Happy wedensday

A xxxx

Hasan Fidan moved to England from Turkey in 2006. So he missed the bit in our national laws which protect swans as they were passed in the 12 century. And swans don’t do twitter. They more, kind’a, squawk. Loudly. As this one did the other day as Hasan jumped on it, in a park, cut its head off and stuffed the rest of it into his rucksack for later consumption. Unfortunately, a local fisherman heard the commotion and took photos of the event and Mr Fidan was fined 110 quid. The family of the swan have been notified. As has the Queen, who is the nominal ‘owner’ of all swans, apparently.

Hasan, who is unemployed, said he was having difficulty buying food for his family, saw this ‘big bird’ and thought: ‘hmmm, that’d make some good cookin” and fortunately was in possession of a very sharp knife as he strolled innocently through the park, with an empty, swan-sized rucksack, stumbling across this snow-white national treasure. What a result. All you can eat fowl down on the common.

Its enough to make you vote UKIP.

I wonder what the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals would have to say to Hasan? And would he understand them? I’m not sure anyone really understands the RSPCA, they’re an odd lot. And currently they’re restructuring their board. And some silly, stiff, double-barrelled old crone, standing for the chair of that esteemed organisation, is a devout (yes, I think that is the correct word here) vegan, is opposed to farming of animals and had the wonderful, global understanding and intelligence to compare the practice (farming of animals for food) with the Holocaust. That although animals aren’t human (she’s good at science then) they are ‘sentient beings’. Yep, ok. And she actually said: “you talk about Jews, but this is a holocaust too”. An interesting point. IF YOU’RE A STUPID FUCKING VEGAN HEADCASE. For normal people the comparison between animals living in less than luxury before being slaughtered for market, and 6 million people being systematically murdered in the worst genocide of the 20th century, is not one that springs to mind. I’m going to eat 2 hamburgers today in protest against this vile and inappropriate woman.

Meanwhile, its all kicking off in New York as the latest football team (and this is ‘proper’ football, played the English way, with the feet) starts stocking up. The MLS’ newest team, named New York City, after Manchester City who share an owner, can’t really be called a football team if they don’t have any players. So with all that Abu Dhabi cash they’re out shopping. First purchase, David Villa, oldish Spaniard superstar. Now they’re lining up Frank Lampard who is superfluous to Chelsea’s requirements now he’s an old man. So this new club could in fact, when the season starts next year, field the All Star Team of the Year. Unfortunately, it will be for the year 2007, but young superstars won’t play in America. Where the MLS remains the ultimate pension plan for footballers.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

So yesterday, sunday morning, glorious, sunny, fab. Came downstairs, put the kettle on (because I’m English and that’s just what we do, without thought, pause, delay or consideration) and opened the front door to retrieve the papers. Ahhhhh. That pesky paper boy had transgressed. Had defied one of Mel’s rules. He put the newspaper on the doorstep. Ahhhhh. Well, he doesn’t have a key, funny enough, but knows to put the papery bits of the Times through the letterbox, because whilst its fine to leave the plastic bagged magazine bits on the step, leaving the ‘bare’ newspaper can see it infested with all manner of pestilence within seconds. And being sunday morning, one minute you’re sipping tea in bed whilst enjoying the rugby report, the next there’s a biblical plague of fucking locusts eating the bedclothes!!!! Ok, whatever, but Mel has a ‘thing’ (one of sooooo many) about anything dirty on the bedclothes. Other than me. So I took the outer bit of the paper off and left it downstairs, where the insect problem can be contained, if required. And never got round to reading it.

And it was in fact, the front page of the Sunday Times, in which the whole Qatar World Cup corruption thing was (sort of) exposed. So even though I’d made accusations of corruption and cheating, that was prior to the present shit-storm. Prophetic? Not really. If you spend as much time insulting everyone as I try to do, occasionally you get one jump ahead of reality.

Yet the corruption allegations aren’t new anyway, they’ve just now found those guilty and the financial mechanisms by which bribes were distributed and money passed around. Because really it makes no sense otherwise for Qatar to win hosting of a World Cup. Its a tiny country, with a population of about 2 million, only about 300,000 of whom are ‘citizens’, the rest are workers, servants, slaves, hookers and people to wash the Lamborginis, the usual middle eastern stuff. And Qatar has no massive love or history of football, yet will have to build 8 brand new, mega, fuck-off stadia to house the event. And after the World Cup, once the fans have left, the alcohol been once again moved out of sight, the mess cleared away, what do they do with those stadia? It would be like me building 8 fantastic tropical fish tanks in the house. I fucking hate fish.

Then there’s the heat. Problem. In fact its a problem for camels stading in the shade during Qatari summertime. For actual humans, standing in that sun leads to dehydration, third degree burns, death. So running around for 90 minutes is a great idea. Really great. Though obviously, those with good complexions like Rooney, Paul Scholes, its less of a problem…

And finally, Mr Blatter, you useless, worthless heap of Swiss former-wedding-singer slime, there’s what Qatar represents elsewhere. Like the place where the 5 Taliban leaders just realeased from Guantanamo in exchange for the American soldier, the place they went. The place they call ‘home’. The place where terrorists are welcomed like heroes.

So Qatar 2022; good idea?

Happy monday

A xxxx

this is a picture taken of the wall in my study. I’ll take pictures of the rest of our walls in due course, riveting that they are. But this one is special. As you can see. It has a photo (quite small) of The Family and a signed photo (quite big) of Pele and Jairzinho in the 1970 World Cup. This, some would think, represents my personal value system: little consideration and concern for the family but a massive love and devotion to football. If this wall truly did represent my values, Pele’s picture would obviously be much bigger, there’d be one of my car and if any room left, maybe a thumbnail of my nearest and dearest.

Anyway…
that photo of Pele not only shows the greatest footballer ever (ok, that’s debatable, but as it my page, keep your opinions to yourself) but as part of the greatest team that ever played the game (and that’s not even in question by anyone). And in the best World Cup ever.

Because there was 1966, which I remember, but only just, which was massive for England and the finals that we, as a nation, have yet to live down, nearly 50 years later. But 1970 was simply magical. Wonderful. Brilliant football, most of it played by the ‘ultimate’ Brazil team who won with such style, such panache, such silly names, that their achievement will never be overtaken. Until it is.

So can England win this tournament? I’d hazard a guess at ‘not a fucking chance in a zillion’ but there’s always some slim possibility. I like Roy Hodgson, and respect more than anything that he is actually prepared to drop Wayne Rooney if necessary. A sentence previously treated in the same light as: I’d murder my own mother, if necessary. I’d rape my own grandfather, if necessary. I’d vote UKIP, if necessary. Because so many managers have ‘built the team’ around Rooney. To bring out the best in Him. To accentuate His strong points. And then he puts away a kebab too many, lays on a few pounds, gets his head in the wrong place (up a grandma’s skirt) and generally tragically disappoints. Yes, he can be brilliant (that goal against Arsenal when he was 9 years old and wearing an Everton shirt), but more often than not he tragically disappoints, so a plan B is essential.

Is the World Cup still ‘the ultimate tournament? Now the Champions League is so massive at club level? Well if the World Cup is devalued in the eyes of the fans, its only because of what those moronic fuckwits at FIFA have done to it. Well, ‘moronic’ is being kind. ‘Corrupt’ is the alternative explanation for awarding the 2022 finals to Qatar. The single most ridiculous thing in sport, ever. Qatar is not a footballing nation, its just a stinking rich one. Its not a nice place. It averages over 40 degrees all summer, when the World Cup is played, and if Israel were to qualify, their team wouldn’t be allowed in. Unless they collectively used fake passports and pretended they were Koreans.

I am a little excited. Just a little. Mainly at the wonderful prospect of four weeks with endless football on tv. Assuming ‘Brazil’ is finished on time.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

On Question Time the other night for the weekly Dimbleby political debate, were the usual Westminster luminaries (UKIP), losers (lib-dem), tossers (tory) and no-hopers (labour), plus A.N.Other. They always have one. Someone outspoken and politically savvy, maybe a journalist, political columnist, author, satirist, tv commentator or someone ‘worthy’. This week it changed. They chose someone unworthy. A bleedin footballer. Not just any footballer (they were greatly limited by the requirements of ability to speak English, the ability to string a sentence together without a dozen ‘ya-know’s and ‘at-de-end-a-da-day’s, and an IQ at least as big as their shoe size) but Joey Barton. One of the finest English footballers ever to have a disciplinary record (both in football and in the criminal courts) way longer than any honours he’s earned plying his trade. Yet despite the fact that Joey has been imprisoned for assualts, for violent conduct on and off the pitch, for the best sending off ever in a football match (at Manchester City when he was red carded for elbowing Carlos Tevez in the face, but on his way off the pitch found time to kick Sergio Aguero AND try to headbutt Vincent Company as well; credit where credit’s due here) and for being a provocative and aggressive fucker for all his career, I really like him.

Not just because I’ve always thought him an immense talent which, if he spent as much time working on it instead of causing trouble, would have seen him as one of England’s best midfielders of his generation. But also because he is actually rather clever and very funny. Not always intentionally so, but funny nonetheless. And never more funny than when you’re not merely being mildly offensive, but when you’re taking the total bollox that is political correctness and ramming it up the enormous arse of some fat tart who could use a good shaggin’ by a big black geezer who’s her uncle.

And this, unintentionally, was what Joey did. When asked why he thought UKIP had done so well at the elections, Joey made an illustration in his terms, in words that all ‘young’ people can really get their heads round. And he said: its like going to a club and there’s four really ugly birds and you think; well, this one’s not the worst, so I’ll give it one. That is the parallel. UKIP; the ugly bird that 30% of the population is prepared to vote for as a ‘charity mission’. Brilliant, Joey, just brilliant.

But footballers are no the only ones who really need guidance before being allowed to speak. Gwyneth Paltrow (blessed be her name, and the stupid names of her children) is so upset by people criticising her and being offensive about her that she has likened her role to ‘like being in a war’. Ok, good one, Gwynnie. So being a soldier on the front line with bombs going off and bullets firing all around; that’s like being a blond bimbo who drinks green slime and writes ridiculous rubbish her innane blog. Yep, I get that one too.

Whereas Charlize Theron likens the constant intrusions into her life by papperazzi and journalists and whomsoever, that she says ‘its like rape.’ The only difference being, presumably, that one is actually, er, ‘rape’, with all its evil, physical and psychological associated trauma, and a horrendous assault that lives with the victim probably forever; and the other is spending half your life being an attention-seeking self-publicist who has trouble turning it all off.

Ahhhh, its all so tragically fucking inappropriate, like farting in front of the Queen. Or being a UKIP candidate.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’m not a religious man. Though if people get pleasure from praying 6 times a day, good luck to them. Whatever floats your beard. But I do appreciate the value, historically, of a religious framework for society which, in days of old (like those frikkin Romans) generally defaulted to debauchery, hedonism, slavery and murder based solely on socio-economic lines. The rich had the fun, the poor got raped, beaten and subjugated into slavery. That’s why God invented football, to give the poor something to watch between beatings.

So a ‘Christian framework’ presented a moral code. The basics, upon which the western world developed its values. In fact a ‘judeo-christian’ framework, because the Moses got in first with the 10 commandments, 3 thousand years before Jesus famously turned the other cheek and invented mooning. Or whatever.

So religion set the morality; don’t murder, don’t commit adultery (unless you can get away with it and use a superinjunction), do not covet your neighbour’s wheelie bin and basically, don’t be a naughty boy or girl, within the value system we now employ. Easy peasy. And common sensy too. As life is to be revered. Help people to live, is the message, and you’ll be blessed. Which does beg a few interesting questions when state-sanctioned murder is allowed. Like death sentences for convicted criminals. Like warfare. And what about things that are worse than death? Like watching Spurs give up a 2-0 lead at home to Scarborough?

But generally, and in most cases: people do bad shit and its the job of the state to protect us, save us and punish them for their transgressions. That’s the way it works round here. Generally.

Yet elsewhere that ain’t the case. And more and more frequently I find myself deeply troubled by the plight of others, in foreign lands, where values are ‘different’. I can’t judge things by any values other than my own. Its who I am. And I want to understand that in other nations, other regimes, they come from a different starting point. The basis of which is not the judeoo-christian morality.

And they’re allowed to do whatever they like, because its their countries. Even though that understanding itself is pretty much unique to western thought. Western tolerance to others.

So in Pakistan a woman is beaten to death on the street. By a crowd. Led by her own father and watched by, among hundreds of other ‘spectators’, police and court officials. Who did nothing during the 15 minutes it took to murder this woman accused by her father of dishonour. She married a man he didn’t like. I suppose ‘grounding for a week’ wouldn’t quite fit then. The father, it now transpires, had previously murdered his other daughter in an ‘honour killing’ 3 years ago.

Whereas in Sudan, Meriam Ibrahim has just given birth to a baby daughter. In prison, whilst chained to the floor. Where she is awaiting the death penalty for adultery and apostasy. The ‘adultery’ is because she had a relationship with a man (her husband, in fact) in an unsanctioned relationship, ie one that wasn’t Islamic. Because Meriam was raised as a Christian and married another Christian. But due to having a Mulsim father, is an apostate. A denier of her faith. So will be hanged.

So just a couple of questions that spring to mind:

1. Why do these people hate women so much?

2. WHAT THE FUCK???????????

Happy Friday, here in the West

A xxxx

Mauricio Pochettino is the new manager at Spurs. Yay. We have a new boss. A new masterplan. A new broom. A new regime. A new methodology, a new paradigm, a new future, a WHOLE NEW FUCKING WORLD!!!!!!!!

Ok, sorry about that. But its new; let’s leave it at that. And I’m really excited, really pleased, really everything I should be about this appointment. Even though I’ve known 9 previous such appointments under Daniel Levy in the last 13 years of his chairmanship. And they all generally end the same way. With a 5th/6th in the league position, with the fans pissed off because we’ve been playing like Stoke, with everyone else seemingly impressed that we’re doing ok with our 1-0 wins and 0-0 draws and goal difference of 3 after 25 matches, and with the little bald chairman looking inscrutable and unimpressed.

So to Mauricio I say ‘welcome’ from the bottom of my heart. And to Daniel I say: ‘NOW FUCK OFF AND LET HIM MANAGE’. Because whatever happens, we need a long term strategy. We need to dispense with Baldini, not because he’s a worthless piece of shit, which he is, but because the role of Director of Football makes no sense to anyone other than Daniel Levy who is so loyal to that post within his organisation that even the great 100 million pound debacle of 2013 still hasn’t changed his thinking.
Let’s give Mauricio time and more importantly, let’s give him the power to control his own destiny, by letting him select the players to buy. Because he has to ensure they fit in every way and become part of ‘the plan’. Rather than Baldini’s more Cleggish approach involving headless chickens and throwing money down a toilet. “Hey, got any coffee coloured midfielders there? Gotta be really big, nice and slow, nothing too quick or exciting, more lumbering and leaden… ok, I’ll take half a dozen. Can you wrap those, please?”

One day at a time, Mauricio, just one day at a time. That’s what your contract says, even if its not in actual words.

Meanwhile, we may not win World Cups, but we can still top league tables, here in our small, modest little island. This time its the table for ‘fattest girls in Europe’ and we’re up there with a totally, pizza-hoovering, stonking 30%!!!!!
Yes, 30% of our girls are obese or overweight. Applause, applause. For a moment there it looked like those Greeks were going to lay on some extra moussakas, wrap them in pitta and deep fry the whole lot in hummus but sadly their economy’s so shitty they just ran out of chick peas, so we pipped them at the post. to claim victory. A spokesman for the British Fat Bastard Society said: “our girls done us proud, (chomp, chomp, chew chew), this took a massive sustained effort over years; victories like this don’t just arrive overnight, ya know. And our gels (bite, chew, chew) have had to make big sacrifices for this. They’ve sacrificed virtually all exercise and most healthy food for the last 5 years. They’ve supersized everything from Coke to their hips. And now they’re reaping the rewards with a result like this. Where’s the nearest heart hospital?”

Ahhh, happy thursday

A xxxx