“Never trust a man in a shell suit”, is what my mum used to say…unless they’re stuck in some sort of parallel universe where Ali G is King and the music of Salt-N-Pepa is put on loop. Needless to say, this mantra should be universally recognised. From the public sphere to the media, everybody needs to know that – “if his suit’s made of polyester, he’s most probably a molester”.
So how can people be so surprised by the recent allegations against Jimmy Savile? I mean, yes his private life was forever shrouded in mystery but don’t tell me that the guy didn’t look like a sex offender in the making. For starters his hair looked like a combo of flattened down candyfloss and tensile cotton wool (apparently his barnet was so stretchy that Savage Garden were able to take it “to the moon and back”. No joke…). And as for those eyes? Come on, they were nothing short of a horny hawk’s gawk! Believe me, I am not shocked in the slightest. In fact, what surprises me most is how long the story has dragged on for; as if we need any more evidence to incriminate the man. Indeed, he once said, “I don’t own a computer because I don’t want anyone to think I’m downloading child pornography”…or something like that. If that’s not damning enough for you then what on earth is?! But, just to show how long the case has gone on for, since the 1st allegation of this series of ‘Jim’s Abused It’ came out the world has changed dramatically:
14th October – Man breaks speed of sound
16th October – Cats feud at Downing Street
20th October – Liverpool win league game at Anfield
The whole saga has gone on far too long now. So much so, I expect that the ‘awe-inspiring’ Ed Sheeran will write yet another subtly titled track – ‘Paedophilia’. A track where he’ll tepidly parody the lives of Gary Glitter and Freddie Starr before realising that’s where his lukewarm sardonicism is destined to take him. Although I’m not entirely sure if I believe the stories I’m reading anymore. In fact, I’m starting to dream up conspiracies whereby the Daily Mail has fabricated stories in a feeble attempt to try and humiliate the thing they love to hate the most. No, not Northern-Labour-voting-teachers… but the BBC.
Yet, it is not a dream, for the BBC must face the consequences of having let such savages slip through the net. However, whereas Fleet Street got the steely-eyed Lord Leveson, the ‘Beeb’ have to deal with the wrath of someone from the National Trust!
So don’t expect an end to this mess anytime soon but do make sure to look out for the likes of Jonathan King, or indeed a John Peel-shaped poltergeist lurking about Stourhead. Alternatively, if you’re lucky, you may even catch a glimpse on Lundy, so how’s about that then?!
It’s sad to admit, but our 21st Century society has become nothing short of a bevy of neurotic hypochondriacs… or should I say cyberchondriacs. Alas, for I speak of internet diagnoses!
For years when people had health problems a simple appointment with their doctors would suffice but now (oh how things have changed!), now we speak of our GP’s with a wave of fear in our words. “Go see a doctor!”, they’d say – what used to be nothing more than 4 words of simple encouragement has turned into a phrase of dread, as if your loved ones have turned against you, summoning you to the dark depths of hell!
Phewy chop suey, it was just a dream! But it isn’t, it’s reality. So what do we do (well, I say we, I mean most men…)? We decide to take matters into our own hands and diagnose the problem ourselves. That’s right, instead of confiding in someone who’s had years of medical training we decide to google (other search engines are available) the blooming thing so as to allow everyone to see several pages of ‘testicular pain’ filling up your history like some sort of nightmarish shopping list! I mean, why oh why do we assume that for some barmy reason we’re going to find:
- the correct diagnosis
- the diagnosis we want to hear
Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every 6 months – Oscar Wilde
Never have I ever seen a more horrendous sight than the ankles of a man sporting socks with sandals. Crime against fashion I
hear you cry? Yes, but surely it’s a crime against social decorum! I mean, who on earth ever believed that such a bizarre concoction should have the right to create amazing results? The sort of results that have women swooning at the mere sight of a man’s bottom half stepping off a bus; or have them rushing over to an escalator to see their hideous combination slowly being unveiled like some sordid prize on a quiz show… No, no, NO! No one, surely no one believed this could ever be possible, so why even try it?!
Only a small minority would think this, to spend that extra amount of time rummaging through their drawers looking for the most repulsive pair of white socks – as if drawing attention to yourself is a good idea! What is more, they agonise over trying to achieve that perfect S&S look – sock colour? Check. Sandals colour? Check. Sock height? Check. The latter is the one that really gets me. I assume that, if the measurements aren’t perfect and you’re sock doesn’t grip your shin about half-way up, you’re not allowed to gain Saint of the Socks and Sandals status (or, as we like to call them here at wordpress.com – St. S&S). Indeed one must earn the right to join such a clique through hard work and dedication… but most importantly – terrible fashion sense.
Admittedly, wearing socks with shoes does have its benefits (albeit only 3):
- Socks help keep your feet clean, protecting them from dust and moisture (although toe-fluff isn’t exactly the nicest thing… unless you’re throwing it at your enemies)
- Socks stop your shoes from rotting like old apples (no one likes rotting fruit)
- Socks make nice puppets (everyone loves a good ol’ sock bunny)
… or is it?! Duhn, duhn, DUHHNN!
Phew… it’s over! As the curtain falls on God’s greatest creation, we can all take a moment to breathe, a slight hiatus to all us to regroup and reflect on what has been a truly remarkable season of football. From chickens draped in flags of protestation to grown men chaining themselves to goalposts (...with handcuffs of protestation) it’s hard to think of a more dramatic season. However, I’ve managed to narrow it down to 5, and here they are…
5. Conquered Catalonia (and Neville’s Orgasm)
As Chelsea marched through the gates of the Barcelona Empire, they knew that, despite winning the first battle, the war was not over. An army of 18 strong men, laden with armour, swords and shields strode onto the grass and refused to move an inch. Chelsea took the first blow going 1-0 down before their leader, self-proclaimed ‘Commander of Monogamy’ shot himself in the foot as he looked to flee from the supposedly sinking ship (…these wartime metaphors doing anything for you?). Another goal would inevitably ensue until… what’s this?… a moment of Brazilian brilliance (minus the cockney input of Lampard) made it advantage Chelsea! Barcelona were stunned into silence – in fact, the only things heard were the dulcet tones of John Terry’s Barking accent as he tried to seduce Di Matteo’s wife in the stand (by the way, all this is fictional… so please don’t sue Zoe).
Yet, suddenly, the crowd were awoken again as 2nd in Command, self-proclaimed ‘Executive Officer of Playacting’ caused a player (I don’t remember who exactly, ok?) to tumble in the box. Penalty Barcelona, Penalty Messi, Goal Messi… but no! Denied! Would they ever find that 3rd crucial blow or would this continental battle turn into a war of attrition?
To cut a long story short, they didn’t find that goal that would’ve sealed their ticket to Munich. In fact, I’ll show the moment when Chelsea finally slew the dragon courtesy of the most unlikely of knights…
(P.S. Gary Neville’s climax at the end is worth being on the list alone however I thought it would be fitting to marry the two)
4. Super(cilious) Mario
Now, I know it’s not a very rare sight to see arrogance on a football pitch – deary me, it’s full of overpaid children puffing out their chests, spreading their peacock feathers while carrying around the latest brand of STI’s, however one man takes the mickey. OK, so it can’t be certain that he has syphilis (Jennifer Thompson didn’t spill all) but what can be sure is that he shows as much (if not more!) chutzpah than one of his biggest fans – Liam Gallagher. Some might say he’s arrogant, some might say he’s hilarious but we can all agree that he is good value for money (if you’re willing to pay £22 million for a children’s entertainer!). From scoring goals with a shrug of a shoulder to promoting firework safety (days after having burned down his bathroom with… a firework), he’s provided all we could have asked for in a player! If I’m honest, I sure am going to miss his mercurial talents if he leaves next season!
Oh, did I mention that he can’t dress himself?
3. Papiss: Prolific and Prodigious
13 goals in 13 games – who says that winter transfer signings struggle to settle? Well, whoever it was must be eating their words after what has been a truly remarkable demi-season for this spectacular Senegalese. As Demba Ba’s goals slowly started to dry up, Cissé stepped forward and has delivered some great performances. Forget that he can’t speak a word of English, forget that his neck is longer than a giraffe’s, this man has been a welcome addition to the Premier League. Not only does he score goals but the manner in which he does is a joy to behold… so much so that I think we should let his goals do the talking. Show me the ocular proof!
2. City Cheer While Sir Alex Sobs
“Should I watch the City game or should I just wait until Match of the Day’s on later?” Thank god I made the right decision!
Going into the last game of the season, Man City knew that a win over relegation-battling QPR would see them clinch their first title in 44 years, regardless of what their neighbours conjured up on Wearside… but nothing is that simple is it? As the blue moon rose in the mid-afternoon, everything was going swimmingly until disaster. Man City found themselves 2-1 down early in the 2nd half and, despite being a man to the good (courtesy of Joey Barton doing his best Rambo impression to confirm that he has the worst haircut in the league…). However, in an attempt to emulate what Chelsea did in Barcelona, QPR dug in and wouldn’t lie down. Like dominoes stuck to the ground with extra-strong superglue, they refused to self-destruct until… until… deep into ‘Fergie-time’ Man City found the breakthrough they needed, most importantly, twice.
I don’t even support them but, on hearing the final whistle, I erupted into a state of pandemonium as I couldn’t wait to see the smiles on the smug faces of messieurs Rooney and Ferguson being duly wiped off. In a matter of seconds Man Utd had gone from securing a 20th title to, possibly, witnessing the start of a Blue Revolution – and that’s the beauty of football!
Have Man City broken the Manchester Monopoly or will United recover and come back stronger next year? Either way it’s going to be an exciting prospect for the future!
1. Muamba’s Miracle
“I asked God to help me… and he didn’t let me down.” – Fabrice Muamba
Therese Neumann, Joseph of Cupertino, Jesus… people, certainly in the 21st Century, are sceptical about genuine miracles, attributing such events to coincidence or luck. However, I think we can all agree that, what happened with Bolton midfielder Fabrice Muamba truly was miraculous. “I am walking proof of prayer” – indeed, regardless of whether or not we were affiliated with a religion, everyone was praying for Fabrice.
78 minutes – that’s how long he was ‘technically’ dead for, so to come back, without even suffering repercussions, is incredible! What is more, it brought fans together. No longer were rivalries relevant, indeed relegation seemed a mere, insignificant dot, for one man had stared death in the face… and lived to tell the tale.
So, as what has been a wonderful season (it certainly has had its fair share of ups and downs!) closes on us for another summer its easy to forget the bigger picture sometimes. Indeed, the most spectacular part of the year was not what happened on the pitch, but what occurred outside. Football is more than a just about a 90 minute game, it’s about building a community and, through the support shown for Fabrice, it certainly has got a lot stronger.
(P.S. If I’ve missed a favourite moment of yours, please feel free to comment underneath! Thank you and good night!)
As heavy eyelids meet under darkened skies, a melancholy leg hangs down from my headboard. Brushing gently against the wood, his hirsute ears stay motionless… listening but never responding; a muted friend, safeguarding me from the nighttime’s unseen mischiefs. As a ticking radiator groans, arousing the watchman’s attentions, my peepers have long been fastened… secretly concocting fruit-flavoured dreams behind closed doors. While elves use up their reserve tank of niceties and fairies run low on magic, my friend sits peacefully, wide awake, devoted to the cause.
They don’t mind if their work goes unappreciated – glory wasn’t part of the deal. Quietly and subtly they get on with the little things. However, like fundamental bricks forming the base of mankind’s most staggering architecture, they’re needed. Man can’t live without water just as much as they can’t live without such creatures, for no bed is the same with a bear-shaped-hole in its pillow… they’re part of the furniture aren’t they? Besides, why break something that doesn’t need fixing…
4, 9, 14, 23, 39, 47, 58, 62, 71, 80… You’re never too old for a teddy… or 3!
(P.S. mine’s called Cyril… what about yours?)
I’d like to thank you personally for not beating about the bush.
But answer me this. Why is that, in an age of such awe-inspiring technological advancement, people are happy to retreat into shades of grey? It should either be black or white – ambivalence and ambiguity don’t find answers, only more questions… and, while Politicians and World leaders alike dilly dally, carving out Neanderthal toys with rudimentary tools made of flint and wood, the important issues are often over-looked.
It’s the 21st Century, not the 18th. If we claim to strive for racial equality, if we can recognise that there should be parity between men and women, then why can’t we eradicate homophobia?
Let’s hope that, for civilisation’s sake, your words of honesty and assurance can start to make the world a better place.
Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy
It’s tough meeting new people. I mean, let’s be honest, we all dread it to some extent don’t we? That inevitable awkward silence waits around the corner, as the small talk starts to slowly deteriorate into digressing eyes and twitching feet. Take being at gatherings for example. I bet many of you have had conversations similar to this:
- You alright?
- Yeah, not bad thanks… you?
- Yeah I’m good thanks.
- Nice house isn’t it?
- (walks off in search of the family dog)
- You seen this guy’s bannister?!
- Bloody hell! How much would you love to slide down there?!
- Hmm I’m not so sure to be honest, my piles are pretty bad at the moment…
- Ah come on! We’ll put some cream down it, you’ll be reet!
- Oh go on then!… It’s Matthew by the way.
Well ok, I know most of you probably haven’t had an exchange exactly like this, but you get my point. Alcohol causes the brain to shut down and we begin not to give a monkeys about what the people around us think. Slipping into an inebriated state the most personal of topics can suddenly appear, popping out of nowhere like some sordid jack-in-a-box… arms wide open to embrace the truth and reveal your darkest secrets!
I wonder if those Mesopotamians who discovered Beer had similar experiences. Just imagine them sat down with dead-pan faces as they contemplate their recent invention of the wheel, until Dave comes along with a pint of Mesopotamia’s finest brew:
- What you chumps up to?
- Just thinking about this thing here.
- Huh? It’s a bloody great big chocolate biscuit! What’s to think about?
- Boil the kettle, we’ve got some serious dunkin’ to do!
Nevertheless, although it may seem like a polar bear at first (an ice-breaker… geddit? Oh never mind!) it does have its disadvantages. To some extent, alcohol merely covers up the fact that someone is incredibly boring in real life (i.e. sober since being drunk is like living in a parallel universe) – you take away the beer, you take away the personality. So before I leave I must warn you:
1. Drink responsibly
2. If they’re no fun sober, then ditch ’em.
Wrestling with insomnia…
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Even with a digital clock in my room I can still hear the monotonous drones of a second hand working its way round the vicious circle of my sleeplessness. Chained to the bed in a straitjacket of my own inner-turmoil I toss and turn searching for the answers to release me from this incarceration of insomnia, but, sadly (or rather typically), none are forthcoming. In an ideal world I wouldn’t be conscious enough to notice the valuable hours of sleep slowly slipping away in a countdown to inevitable fatigue and agitation the following morning – in fact my shop front should have been well and truly shut hours ago but instead the sleep-stealing delinquents are about doing their worst… and I’m helpless to intervene!
“Why don’t you count sheep?” they’ll ‘helpfully’ suggest “it’ll make you so bored you’ll want to sleep!” Oh hardy harrr Mr. Sagacious! Well, I’ve tried counting sheep many times before but, believe me, it never works – 1 sheep… 2 sheep… 3 sheep… I mean, logically, it should be a simple remedy for my restlessness however the problem I have is that I always end up over-complicating matters. Instead of systematically going: 1 sheep… 2 sheep… 3 sheep… it’s much more chaotic, like this: 1 sheep… 2 sh- no 3 sh- no 6 sheep… where the heck are all these sheep coming from!? Where sanity would normally prevail, I’m left picturing sly ewes slipping under the fence while others hide behind their friends as they leap for freedom! You see, I’m far too busy wondering where the hell the blooming shepherd is who’s abandoned his flock than to be in a relaxed frame of mind to rest my weary head! Actually, d’you know what, I’d like to find the person who concocted this farcical means for curing insomnia and give ’em a good slap round the chops! Ok, maybe that’s going a bit too far. Please forgive me for my extreme anxiety but I didn’t sleep well last night as there was a series of rogue sheep on the loose; filling my darkened sky like fluffy clouds of unease… how I despise them! Come on, surely there must be an alternative?
“Make yourself a nice warm drink!” Mmmmm… warm cocoa… warm milk… warm Robinson’s Blackcurrant… Like with counting sheep, I’m pretty certain that there are many of you out there who find the abovementioned drinks very soothing when it comes to hitting the sack, yes? Well not me. Either I’ve developed some sort of immunity to them or the rascals at Horlicks have laced my hot chocolate with a heavy dosage of e-numbers; knowing full well that I won’t be able to get a good night sleep which, in turn, will turn into a 3 hour, non-stop Angry Birds fest! Not only that but whenever I indulge in a nice warm drink I’m overcome with a sudden urge to reach high into the heavens of the biscuit tin. I don’t know about you but feeling bloated after gorging yourself on chocolate fancies is not the best way to help you to sleep… damn you Horlicks! Come on, surely there must be another alternative?!
Aha, but of course! How could I have been so blind?! Alas, for I have found my saviour in white! A refreshingly new face, an inviting smile bearing the necessary powers to seduce me to sleep. “Who is this force you speak off?”, only the cool side of the pillow! Where have you been all this time? Why have I hidden you away for so long? So many questions needn’t be answered as the most important problem has been solved – my insomnia. Wrestled to the ground I have managed to smother my wakefulness with a the warmer side of the pillow; suffocating it and moulding it into blissful dreaming!
Thank you Billy D Williams, you really have helped me to drift on off to dreamland and for that I am eternally grateful!