Now I've actually reached the end of my limited creative resources. There is no good reason to title this post Jorge Ben Jor, other than that it begins with a J and that he is one funky motherfucker. Watch this:
So I popped into the local shop on the way home. I could see quite an old-looking geezer peering intently at a tin of something or other. He was wearing thick glasses, and I assumed he was reading the label. As I took my stuff to the counter, he lifted the can (which turned out to be Campbell's chicken casserole) towards the cashier and said:
"How much is this? 39?"
I could see the price tag, and part of it had rubbed off - half of the '8' in the 89p to be exact. I admired his diligence.
So, at least the farcical events at Newcastle have taken some of the attention off the balloon debacle, and we are hopeful that the FA will be receptive to the letter of complaint, leading to a replay of Sunday's game, before looking forward to a chilly night at Pride Park and the upcoming minute's silence at the Sty.
2 comments:
Dear fellows,
It occurs to me that a simple assuagance of the available portents would indicate that trouble, much like Norman Wisdom, is in store. The reformation of Led Zeppelin made for rubber air-bag demons. Bramall Lane in Kabbalic numeracy is: crap team fail and let's blame it on balloons.
Gee thanks Madonna
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