Monday, May 21, 2012
Chopper's Grandma
Sunday, May 20, 2012
An entry only partially inspired by the prospect of the Europa League
So Chelsea eventually land the Champions League!
No doubt all their "supporters" enjoyed every minute of what has to be the second most important day in the club's history - only behind the day Roman Abramovich walked in with his billions by about a fraction of a light year.
The fans must be really happy - I bet it is nearly as proud a moment for them as when they were Liverpool supporters in the Eighties and the Reds won the European Cup for the third time. Absolutely superb memories. At least it will stop them having to apply for Manchester City's membership scheme for a few more years.
Turn in your grave, Osgood, Houseman and Hutchinson - your team has become the Leeds you despised - your team have cynically destroyed the beautiful game you once espoused, and fouled and cheated it's way across Europe at all costs. Park the bus and do whatever is needed.
And all for what - to crave the indulgences of a Russian megalomaniac who has built his empire based on bribery, corruption, and fraud.
Peter, Peter and Ian, does anyone tend your graves?
Friday, May 18, 2012
Big Saturday beckons
Good luck to Jedward, Leinster, Spurs, Chelsea and most importantly the 'Ammers. We know about the fear so stay calm.
I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air,
They fly so high,
Nearly reach the sky,
Then like my dreams,
They fade and die.
Fortune's always hiding,
I've looked everywhere,
I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air.
I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air,
They fly so high,
Nearly reach the sky,
Then like my dreams,
They fade and die.
Fortune's always hiding,
I've looked everywhere,
I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Poetry - The bastard son of Dean Friedman by Half Man Half Biscuit
When someone thinks you're something that you're not (Ed).
Well I heard a lovely rumour that Bette Midler had a tumour
So gleefully I went to tell my friends
But they said it was a lie and she wasn’t going to die
“And by the way, have we got news for you?”
And they told me that the man I had always known as Dad
Hadn’t met my Mum when I was born
And they reckon that I am but I hope to god I’m not
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
And my schoolwork fell behind with this bombshell on my mind
But the art teacher said he understood
But he could only sympathise with the sadness in my eyes
Even though he showed me his Magritte
And in the corridors of fear I would shed a lonely tear
And ridicule flew at me from both sides
And they mocked me in my mocks and embroidered in my socks
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
SupercalifragilisticBorussiaMoenchenGladbach
And you can thank your lucky stars that you’re not
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
The bastard son of Dean Friedman.
Well I heard a lovely rumour that Bette Midler had a tumour
So gleefully I went to tell my friends
But they said it was a lie and she wasn’t going to die
“And by the way, have we got news for you?”
And they told me that the man I had always known as Dad
Hadn’t met my Mum when I was born
And they reckon that I am but I hope to god I’m not
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
And my schoolwork fell behind with this bombshell on my mind
But the art teacher said he understood
But he could only sympathise with the sadness in my eyes
Even though he showed me his Magritte
And in the corridors of fear I would shed a lonely tear
And ridicule flew at me from both sides
And they mocked me in my mocks and embroidered in my socks
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
SupercalifragilisticBorussiaMoenchenGladbach
And you can thank your lucky stars that you’re not
The bastard son of Dean Friedman
The bastard son of Dean Friedman.
Championship play-off - West Ham v Blackpool
Around the Airtricity League 2012
Empty terraces Flancare Park.
Longford Town tactics for corners.
Linesman at the RSC.
Away enclosure Fahy's Field.
Excited ballboy Waterford v Salthill Devon.
Foreboding skies at the RSC.
Marching orders for Barett.
Jackman Park.
The way out, Terryland Park.
It's the real thing.
The Bilberry Goat.
Longford Town tactics for corners.
Linesman at the RSC.
Away enclosure Fahy's Field.
Excited ballboy Waterford v Salthill Devon.
Foreboding skies at the RSC.
Marching orders for Barett.
Jackman Park.
The way out, Terryland Park.
It's the real thing.
The Bilberry Goat.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Mission Impossible - The Dichotomy (A response from the Blueshirt)
“Good morning, Mr . Gerry.
Your mission Gerry , should you decide to accept it , is to comment on the dichotomy of being a decent Chelsea fan. As always should you or any of your Blue Army Faction be caught, killed or uncovered, the Editor will disavow any knowledge of your actions.
“Hello , my name is Seb , Seb Shaw , SS as I am known. I live in Cricklewood with my partner Jessica , I love Jess. We have a girl , Chelsea , I love Chels”.
Seb stands before the world (it was a big TV audience , well up to the point that it was 5-1 anyway) and raises his right arm. He holds it at a 45 degree angle to his sturdy , tattooed , body. He roars something , we are not sure what , but we are sure that it sounded like something nasty. We tell ourselves we don’t like it.
Once upon a time (this is no fairy tale) a long-haired geezer walked upon this earth and told us , “let he who is without sin cast the first stone”. (Note to Editor , apparently even agnostics sin).
If this is some sort of philosophy by which this person was pleading with us to live our lives, it is one that has never been practised by most (any ?) true football fans. Where would we be in life if we didn’t indulge in being judgemental about other people.
Who told us that he “hated” Alan Pardew remembering (and never forgiving or forgetting) some after match comment made at a moment in time following on from , for him and his team, a glorious victory ?
Who was the person, based in continental Europe and with a most tenuous connection with the great city of Liverpool and all its peoples , who told us that he “hated” Liverpool , yet when we watched the two tribes from that proud city clash most recently we saw (not for the first or the last time) red and blue shirted Liverpudlians (genuine ones , not the Brussels Blue type), fathers , mothers, brothers , sisters, sons and daughters sitting proudly side-by-side.
In fairness, he did not raise his right arm at 45 degrees when he told us these things , no he told us as he sat in the comfort of Dean Street Townhouse on a miserable wet Sunday sipping (by raising his right arm) his £9 a glass mojito (suggested by yours truly).
Outside those living in the cardboard boxes under Blackfriars Bridge were sodden.
Who has told us repeatedly that “de Rovers” are nothing but scumbags, that he hates all that the Celtic Tiger stood for and is nauseated by the continuing , singular , pursuit by so many Irish of wealth ? (Mind you he seems to have looked after his personal pension arrangements rather well. Now let’s see , Cayman Islands look nice.) Need I mention his feelings about one Patrick Bartholomew Ahern , Pee Flynn and the FF party ?
Again, in fairness, he did not raise his right arm at 45 degrees when he told us these things , no, he too told us as he sat in the comfort of Dean Street Townhouse on a miserable wet Sunday sipping (by raising his right arm) his £9 a glass mojito and having caused havoc to the mental equilibrium of one of his closest friends by engaging in pension penalisation propaganda.
It was still very sodden under Blackfriars Bridge.
And so you see , Seb , or should I say SS, just like the other two great unnamed, is nothing more than all of us , a man , flawed (some more than others)and prone to be a right (wing) eejit on occasions , but on Monday , and every other working day, Seb rises from his bed , gives Jess a kiss and Chels a cuddle, proudly , but momentarily, surveys his home ( his castle in Cricklewood), dons his suit, takes the Tube and heads to “the City”, just as they do in Dublin and Brussels. He works hard, he reads his paper, he goes on line and has banter with his friends and then he heads home to Jess and Chels. Occasionally he , and they, go to a game , sometimes the police escort them, Chels can’t understand why. He shouts abusive comments and makes the most offensive of gestures. Others sit , simmering silently, “fcuk you Drogba, you cu*t Terry, he fcuked him ref—off, off ,off” they mime.
So that’s the dichotomy.
Different strokes (of the right(wing) arm) for different folks.
Have you a stone to throw?
Mise le meas , you are in there somewhere , you know you are.
(All rights reserved).
Your mission Gerry , should you decide to accept it , is to comment on the dichotomy of being a decent Chelsea fan. As always should you or any of your Blue Army Faction be caught, killed or uncovered, the Editor will disavow any knowledge of your actions.
This piece will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck Mr . Gerry”.
“Hello , my name is Seb , Seb Shaw , SS as I am known. I live in Cricklewood with my partner Jessica , I love Jess. We have a girl , Chelsea , I love Chels”.
Seb stands before the world (it was a big TV audience , well up to the point that it was 5-1 anyway) and raises his right arm. He holds it at a 45 degree angle to his sturdy , tattooed , body. He roars something , we are not sure what , but we are sure that it sounded like something nasty. We tell ourselves we don’t like it.
Once upon a time (this is no fairy tale) a long-haired geezer walked upon this earth and told us , “let he who is without sin cast the first stone”. (Note to Editor , apparently even agnostics sin).
If this is some sort of philosophy by which this person was pleading with us to live our lives, it is one that has never been practised by most (any ?) true football fans. Where would we be in life if we didn’t indulge in being judgemental about other people.
Who told us that he “hated” Alan Pardew remembering (and never forgiving or forgetting) some after match comment made at a moment in time following on from , for him and his team, a glorious victory ?
Who was the person, based in continental Europe and with a most tenuous connection with the great city of Liverpool and all its peoples , who told us that he “hated” Liverpool , yet when we watched the two tribes from that proud city clash most recently we saw (not for the first or the last time) red and blue shirted Liverpudlians (genuine ones , not the Brussels Blue type), fathers , mothers, brothers , sisters, sons and daughters sitting proudly side-by-side.
In fairness, he did not raise his right arm at 45 degrees when he told us these things , no he told us as he sat in the comfort of Dean Street Townhouse on a miserable wet Sunday sipping (by raising his right arm) his £9 a glass mojito (suggested by yours truly).
Outside those living in the cardboard boxes under Blackfriars Bridge were sodden.
Again, in fairness, he did not raise his right arm at 45 degrees when he told us these things , no, he too told us as he sat in the comfort of Dean Street Townhouse on a miserable wet Sunday sipping (by raising his right arm) his £9 a glass mojito and having caused havoc to the mental equilibrium of one of his closest friends by engaging in pension penalisation propaganda.
It was still very sodden under Blackfriars Bridge.
And so you see , Seb , or should I say SS, just like the other two great unnamed, is nothing more than all of us , a man , flawed (some more than others)and prone to be a right (wing) eejit on occasions , but on Monday , and every other working day, Seb rises from his bed , gives Jess a kiss and Chels a cuddle, proudly , but momentarily, surveys his home ( his castle in Cricklewood), dons his suit, takes the Tube and heads to “the City”, just as they do in Dublin and Brussels. He works hard, he reads his paper, he goes on line and has banter with his friends and then he heads home to Jess and Chels. Occasionally he , and they, go to a game , sometimes the police escort them, Chels can’t understand why. He shouts abusive comments and makes the most offensive of gestures. Others sit , simmering silently, “fcuk you Drogba, you cu*t Terry, he fcuked him ref—off, off ,off” they mime.
So that’s the dichotomy.
Different strokes (of the right(wing) arm) for different folks.
Have you a stone to throw?
Mise le meas , you are in there somewhere , you know you are.
(All rights reserved).
Guest piece from The Colonel
Get out if you don't like the rules!
I spluttered my sugar smacks all over my Mac this morning on reading that the begrudgers are turning on his Holiness "Kiss my ring" Cardinal Brady ("blessing on his name"). Give the man a break ! He was there simply taking notes! He was obeying orders! Now we see a bunch of liberal middle class softies (led by the Irish Times which seems incapable of keeping its nose out of other peoples business) crying to high heaven asking for his resignation. Give me and him a break!. What did they expect him to do. Voice his concerns that Smithy still had his fingers and ..whatever... in a child's nether regions.
Did they expect him to question his seniors, ask embarrassing questions , spend time wondering if Smithy was still at large - and still be in the refectory in time for dinner? These people have no idea of the demands made on a young celibate priest. They are quite content to sit in a pew and assume that the young fellow up on the alter reading from a book has nothing better to do then worry about every paedophile priest in the country.
My message to these tight arsed, straight backed trouble makers is very simple - If you don’t like the way that we run the church then get the f**k out of it. And that includes the young fellows who Rip van Winkle like have suddenly woken up and remembered that they were buggered 25 years ago. Did they never read the bible? "Turn the other cheek"
The (disgusted) Colonel
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Mensa test - total failure
Test 1 - the challenge to retrive a ticket from a exit turnstile. Clue - don't look in the entrance turnstile.
You're Spurs and you know you are
Oldest trick in the book - lull the keeper into a false sense of security with chants of "You're Spurs and you know you are", "Yiddo" and "England, England's number one" and then sit back and watch as he loses concentration and dreamily fails to cover the far post at the free kick.
Then watch him make a despairing attempt to stop Kyle Walker's thunderbolt from hitting the back of the net.
Then watch him make a despairing attempt to stop Kyle Walker's thunderbolt from hitting the back of the net.
Gooner at large
Efforts to finally rid ourselves of the meddlesome Russian, Chelski, reached new heights when we tried to draw attention, in the "packed" Spurs shop, to the fact that he was a Gooner in disguise. The only thing they hate more over at the Lane than an Arsenal fan is a miserable, mean European bureaucrat who eats Tatyo crisps.
The Irish diaspora and Tayto
Don't you just love the graceful way Brusselsblue accepts the Tayto each year?
Always smiling, willing to turn up at prresentation ceremonies at all hours of the day or night and to shake hands (next he'll be cuddling babies) with anyone willing to give him something for nothing. Never asking, sorry giving, anything in return and having the dignty to wait until the Eurostar has pulled ut of St Pancras before opening the first packet and eating them all himself.
The act is highly symbolic - a nation on it's knees, without the arse in its' trousers, scrambling together to raise a few bob to send to those "less fortunate" who had to go overseas in the hope of bettering themselves. And them fuckers having the life of Reilly, at dinner parties, theatres and Irish clubs every night of the week and writing home less than once a month.
Like the 50's but not the 50's if you know what I mean.
Always smiling, willing to turn up at prresentation ceremonies at all hours of the day or night and to shake hands (next he'll be cuddling babies) with anyone willing to give him something for nothing. Never asking, sorry giving, anything in return and having the dignty to wait until the Eurostar has pulled ut of St Pancras before opening the first packet and eating them all himself.
The act is highly symbolic - a nation on it's knees, without the arse in its' trousers, scrambling together to raise a few bob to send to those "less fortunate" who had to go overseas in the hope of bettering themselves. And them fuckers having the life of Reilly, at dinner parties, theatres and Irish clubs every night of the week and writing home less than once a month.
Like the 50's but not the 50's if you know what I mean.
The Bengal Tiger - a symbolic appearance on a stormy night
What the photograph below does not reveal is the fact that the Bengal Tiger did not hand out any savage mauling on the night, sitting on its' pedestal and observing that its' normal rituals (focused dismemberment of innocent unsuspecting victims) was being handled admirably well by another of its' species, Brusselblue.
Mike hopefully your experience around the role of Brian D'Arcy in the church will teach you not to challenge the might of the Europeans ever again. And if you do decide to engage with any Germans in the near future, keep your trap shut because your naive innocence in thinking these people will listen to your side of the argument will land people like me and Gerry in trouble as well. So zip it in future, the peasants in Ireland have no right to free speech.
Mike hopefully your experience around the role of Brian D'Arcy in the church will teach you not to challenge the might of the Europeans ever again. And if you do decide to engage with any Germans in the near future, keep your trap shut because your naive innocence in thinking these people will listen to your side of the argument will land people like me and Gerry in trouble as well. So zip it in future, the peasants in Ireland have no right to free speech.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
