Having spent the day visiting regions that would be best served by a guidebook penned by Mr Dante, I find that I am wrong on so many counts, and need to open a new thread to respond to all the fond messages from my adoring public. You do read on a Sunday, and write so attractively as well.
Mike: Yes, the Super 14. Very sad. Does puff have the same meaning where you are as it does here? I personally don’t having any opinion on Mr Carter’s sexuality – his being the greatest rugby player alive would excuse him for performing oral sex on Jeffrey Archer on centre court at Wimbledon as far as I am concerned – but you must get up to date on the local vernacular if you propose to move to Monmouth. And, alas, my anger was only a literary affectation used for rhetorical purposes only. (and if you say any different I’ll kick your fucking head in). I suspect there was some residual anger left from watching Michael Moore’s films this week. Both Fahrenheit 9/11 and Bowling for Columbine were on, and I watched them on successive evenings, never having seen them before. I am not entirely supportive of Mr Moore – I suspect that some of his arguments could be presented more coherently, but I am grateful to him for saying it. (For those of you who have not seen the films, but would like them summarised, here is my attempt: No matter how much of a complete cunt you think that George Bush is, you have grossly underestimated, and if you guessed that his IQ reached single figures, you got that wrong as well). But I don’t normally get angry about sport. Actually two of my favourite moments in sport come from sports that I dislike, Arthur Ashe winning
Raincoaster – should that have been “Ask any of us who were there”?
Raincoaster – should who have been “Ask any of us who were there”?
Raincoaster - all of the Don Cherry clips were too long for me tonight – I might try them another day, but you have uncovered a morsel of patriotism in me that I would have sworn did not exist. I think that these royal islands are undisputed home of the awful commentator. Henry Blofeld? Bob Willis? John Motson? Trevor Brooking (so bad he can’t even pronounce his own name)?
Richard boasts of being nabbed by the fuzz in
Tom corrects me again. Will my gratitude to this man never end? He points out the value of the build up to the competition, helping us to identify all of the participants, and chastises me for preferring classical music to ‘Big Brother’. Well, dear old friend, of course you are so right. Were I to quit my mortal coil now, and not know the names of the children of Paraguay’s reserve centre back, or the favourite colour of the Venezuelan goalkeeper’s pet goat, then I would, quite rightly, be denied entry to the celestial kingdom. No, Tom, complete bollocks as you well know. Whilst on my journey today, I invalidated my claim that I would not listen to lobotimised knuckle-dragging throwbacks, and drank in the wisdom of Mr Dwight Yorke. What seemed like ten minutes of the babbling of a drunken four year old. Nothing to say, but a great compunction to say it anyway. I was glad to that I stuck it out to the end, because I was rewarded by a moment of BBC brilliance that lightened the day. (Mr Yorke is noted for his ability to ‘score’ off the field more often than he scores on it, allegedly).
At the end of the interview the interviewer said “That was Dwight York from his hotel bedroom” to which his colleague riposted. “Remarkable, being able to find him in his own bedroom”. Yes, Tom, record the collected wisdom of all of those who will be interviewed before the world cup. If you play it to your horses, the RSPCA will be round quicker than the next inappropriate cliché or meaningless platitude issues from the lips of that squeaky voiced twat of an
MJ. Much as I love you all, as each day goes by I feel myself less likely to ever visit
Kat – please note I am urging everyone to read your comment. It was poetry.
Geoff – who is Neneh Cherry? I think you make these names up.
Zoe – you little tease. If you carry on like this I will have to publish those pictures of our weekend in Bridlington.
Kyahgirl says that she doesn’t talk much about football so has nothing to say. All of you – listen to this very carefully – having nothing to say will never be an obstacle to posting here.
Frontier editor. Welcome – not sure whether you have ever commented here before, but I have seen your lovely face and lovely comments elsewhere. Yes, you are quite correct. Einstein and I. Unfortunately, I do not have the original photoshop file, I had to scan that picture. You may not be surprised that most people assume that I look like that in the alternative universe that we don’t mention here. The original was done as part of a departmental Christmas card at my place of employment, (and done by those more expert and patient than I in those techniques) with the caption “Of course light has to bend to get round that fat bastard” or something similar.
Adam gives a frightening report on the harsh regime in an American college. Not for the faint-hearted. Neither is Adam. Adam, sweety, escape while you have the chance. You can come and live in
Krusty. A better sport than the world cup is running a competition as to who can use the current space-filling, meaningless word or phrase of the moment in the highest concentration. At the moment the phrase is “to be honest”. It superseded “basically” on