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).
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