An Irishman walks into Spearmint Rhino one night. Rather, an Irishman staggers into Spearmint Rhino one night, blind drunk, and, remembering nothing of events the morning after, finds a credit card receipt from that worthy establishment, to the tune of £7,500. Its not a joke, but sure has a worthy punchline. Had he been sold a used car by some unscrupulous saleslady writhing on his lap wearing nothing but a thong? Did he buy a work of art? Some bespoke suits?? He couldn’t remember. He apparently had nothing to show for his expenditure other than the receipt which includes the signed (by him; or a very drunk version of him) acknowledgment that he is in ‘full control of his faculties’. Yeah, right. And the bill was for some booze, sure, but mainly for the tokens they sell to be used for ‘private dances’. He must have danced the night away. And all his mates on the stag party too, at his expense, and a majority of the rest of the fair town of Bournemouth, where this travesty occurred.

And thus he is suing Spearmint Rhino for ‘exploiting’ him when he really wasn’t in a fit state to make expensive decisions. And he has a point. Though not a very convincing one. And accusing Spearmint Rhino of being immoral is like accusing a petrol station of ruining the planet when you go to fill up your car. Its like complaining that the ISIS soldier beheading a prisoner wasn’t very smartly dressed.

Spearmint Rhino are in the business of exploitation. They exploit weakness and frailty. In a very overt way. They sell you drink to the point that you make ridiculous decisions arising in your gonads. And if, as they say, ‘a standing penis has no conscience’, if you couple that with ‘a drunken Irishman has no fucking sense, other than to impress the women, drink more and lay a credit card on the table’, then a fair picture of this tragic scenario takes shape.

What’s the shortest distance between a virtually naked hard-bodied, pneumatic babe and my lap? The answer: Seven and a half grand.

In an unrelated incident, Emmanuel Adebayor, Spurs (alleged) striker has spoken out that the recent dire fucking disgrace of what the team call ‘form’ of late, is due to the fans. They’re booing. And this booing has caused the team to become nervous, jittery and unsettled.

I’m not one of life’s booers. I don’t boo. I can do. I know how. I just choose not toooooooooo. But the fans are allowed to express their displeasure, their unease, their collective shame at what the players are doing in our name. Because its our club, not theirs. We pay them, we adopt them, we provide everything for them and all we want in return is some loyalty… oh, yeah, forgot, and some DECENT BLOODY FOOTBALL. Surely that’s not too much to ask. And its our club because they come and go. Managers certainly come and go. Owners, we wish would come and go more frequently, but its sadly not the case at the moment. Yet the fans are loyal. Stupid, daft, like a bunch of hapless, hopeless labrador puppies, because we are the club. Its all we know. And we can forgive missing open goals. And we can ignore fluffed passes, stupid fouls and any and all measure of ineptitude and catastrophe. But we can never forgive a complete lack of effort. We can’t forgive lethargy, tying bootlaces when a corner’s coming across and apathy.

The booing is not the cause of the terrible form. Its the result of it. My advice to the Togan Tosser, and all others who are honoured to wear ‘the shirt’ is MAKE A FUCKING EFFORT!. That’s all we ask. Its not the defeats that irk but the manner in which they’re conceded.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx