Oh Papa Papa

The time draws near. This blog's failing health is plain for all to see, and the burthen of carrying the hopes, dreams and prayers of millions of readers is taking its toll. It is time to leave the stage, to retire to a life of quiet, solemn contemplation. The allegations of financial mismanagement (some of the godless ones might go so far as to call it fraud) totally unfounded as they are, have no bearing on the decision to be taken over the coming days. In my place will come one chosen by the divine finger itself; a man of extreme modesty and humility who will cause the scales to fall from the eyes of those who watch; those who pour scorn on the sanctity of this seemingly endless, ludicrous and discredited pantomime. My fellow secret club members will not in any way influence the destination of the finger, and this I can wholeheartedly vouch for, having received the holy digit on my fundament myself, in those distant days when I was in full health and not having to explain yet another embarrassing incident of child sexual abuse. Amen.

Worried that I am starting to take on some of the characteristics of Jack Torrance in The Shining (it only took King four months to write the first draft of this magnificent book. FOUR MONTHS!) I am still seething over Saturday lunchtime and yet another ignominious defeat at the hands of the cursed Toffees. Despite the 3-0 drubbing in their previous match, I never expected an easy trip up the M62, and Goodison Park is a bastard of a place to go. My Rag mate nailed it I suppose when he said: 'No Yaya, no real rhythm really' - this just after he had returned my taunt to him ('Love a bit of Toffee mate') almost exactly a year ago. No Yaya, no Kun, no fucking hope - all combined with a jammy swerver in the first half and a breakaway goal in the second because we were chasing the game. It was very niggly early on. We were 'a bit slow' as Ratface (much as I hate to say it) rightly said on Sky Sports; rather too predictable and lacking in bite. Only Carlos really looked up for it, and we can really and truly forget the title now.

Fortunately, Spurs seem to be hitting a slow patch themselves, but Chelsea worry me with their players. We can only hope that fixture congestion causes a drain on their considerable resources, although I hope they beat the Rags in the FA Cup replay.

International break time approaches, and the demise of this sorry excuse for a blog draws ever closer. Come here and take your medicine you little fuck!

Once Upon A Time

It was inevitable, wasn't it? After such a disappointing start, and the current seeming inability to bulge the onion bag, we were always going out. Just a shame that there wasn't even a goal to celebrate against the youth of Dortmund, but truth be told we were probably lucky to get the penalty against the Toffees on Saturday, and the ignominy of the worst ever European campaign by an English side is ours to carry like a cross to Calvary. It is now with trepidation that we look to the big one on Sunday. Let's just hope that the Rags' largesse in front of goal continues so that we can at least bang one or two in, and have a happy Hanukkah. Enough of that. Time for a festive story to warm the hearts of my many readers.

Once upon a time, there was a wicked queen who lived in an ice castle in SW1. All in her land bowed down at her feet and did her bidding, in great fear of the spells she was capable of casting, when her eyes bulged and bore through the thick lenses of her glasses into the very souls of those over whom she ruled. An army of workers toiled for her throughout the year, from humble drones to cunning viziers, each one dropping everything to carry out her slightest whim, trembling at the prospect of the dreaded One to One Meeting.

Her trusted lieutenants whipped her dwarf slaves to hard labour in the dusty mines of the Ice Queen's caves which were spread thoughout the land, even unto the far reaches of SE10. The poor dwarves' fingers were nipped with frost and their backs were bent with the heavy weight of the sacks they carried hither and thither. In a clear sign of the wicked queen's cruelty, the dwarves were forced to listen to Heart FM (only the merry jester at the cave in SE1 dared to play a classic rock station, and somehow he escaped the Queen's wrath, using his Tottenham Hotspur laughing stick to distract her from her spells) all day as they laboured for the paltry rewards she threw down to them, as rancid scraps to whipped curs from the heaving feast table.

The only thing which gave the little men and women heart was the prospect of the one day of freedom in their long and wearying struggle which Christmas gave them. A day when they could cast off their cares, rest their aching bones and feel warmth and love in the bosom of their local pub. Now the queen hated Christmas, and wished in her cold and black heart that it did not exist. Yet even her great power was not equal to this sorcery, which only the mighty lords Tesco and Sainsbury were able to perform, so she seethed with anger and jealousy in her frosty tower and devised her plans. At last it came to her! Christmas would remain - for now - but Christmas Eve, which had by tradition been a short day, would become just another working day, with the dwarves held to their labour till darkness fell.

So it came that this year she summoned her lieutenant in charge of the dwarves to the feared One to One Meeting, and sat with her faithful raven, Stanton, perched upon her shoulder. Magnifying her eyes into the trembling lieutenant's lowered countenance, she spoke:

"What treachery are those loathsome dwarf swine plotting against me now, imbecile?" she snapped. Stanton blinked his black eyelid over his black eye and plucked the entrails from a small rodent, held down with one of his black claws. Stuttering, the poor lieutenant tried to answer:

"Ah yes, your majesty - ha ha... They are but lazy, conniving..."

"Enough!" shouted the queen in anger, causing Stanton to flutter up from her shoulder, trailing the mouse entrails across the breast of the queen's gown and leaving a red smear as he did so. Lightning flashed through the tower's arrow slits and thunder rumbled in the Mountains of Victoria in the distance. The lieutenant cowered and clasped his hands across his chest, waiting for the pronouncement.

"You will tell those... pathetic beasts... that Christmas Eve is cancelled!"

The queen smiled, Stanton squawked and swallowed his bloody entrails, and the lieutenant gasped in amazement.

"But... Your majesty... This is... Too much...!"

"Too much?" screamed the queen. "Too MUCH??!! When half the world is grateful for any work, when children are begging for food, when the dying are forced from their beds to seek labour, and when the great Lord Osborne takes away more of my feeble hoard for his steaming money forges each year? Do not tell me 'Too Much'! Go and set those feckless fools to work!" Suddenly she became still, stroking Stanton's midnight feathers and smiling as she rose to her feet. "Unless you wish to join... Them!" The sleeve of her gown billowed as she pointed through the arrow slits to the shambling, shuffling souls outside. Huddled against the cold, their scrawny arms outstretched, they waited for the leavings of the fortunate ones, their eyes hollow with hunger and the death of hope. The queen turned away, and the lieutenant dropped his head into his hands and wept.

And they all lived happily ever after. The End.

Please please

The devil makes work for idle hands, so they say. I’ve been struggling with inspiration (and occasionally technology) over the last few weeks, and have 6 posts on draft, none of which have really gone anywhere. Sometimes I’ve felt that I’ve been over sharing, and others that I didn’t really have enough of a point to make (’That’s never stopped you before!’ come the voices of Statler and Waldorf) so have dropped the thread. I also feel recently as if I have no time to myself, no time to think and prepare for a piece of writing.

I am intrigued by the issues of rape currently in the news, with yet another dangerous US Republican religious nut coming out with just such terribly depressing nonsense, and the unconnected issue of Julian Assange’s alleged infractions. I watched closely as a group of businessmen discussed these stories in the park today, wondering if any of them had ever sexually assaulted a woman. Then it was all capped off with the story of a 14 year old boy being raped in a department store in Manchester! Jesus.

I’ve been listening to the Tories tell us that we’re all idle, and thinking about those people who work 12 hour shifts as security guards or 'cooking' in McDonald’s; those who work as carers (obviously not the ones who beat old people up) or cleaners; all of those who struggle into a long day’s work at minimum wage day in and day out, just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Not for most the luxury of two weeks in Tuscany, a nice new car or some lovely new clothes. Yet, the problem clearly is that people are not prepared to work harder.

The (fairly) excellent series Toughest Place to Be A… has returned, with this week’s programme showing us the horrors of unregulated mining in Mongolia, and this is surely what those shiny faced little twats from Central Office want – British industrial practices on a par with those of the developing world. Rather than fighting to raise the standards of those less fortunate than us, thanks to many years of hard-won labour rights, they would have us all race to the bottom and a life of struggle and penury followed by an almost certain early death.

And then of course, the football's started again. Come on you Toffees!

All on now

Who'd a thunk it, eh? Certainly not me as I sat on the 329 in its interminable course along Green Lanes, furious with the BB as it echoed the bus's tardiness in returning a simple web query. Five or six refreshes and at last you get to the score of the current match, which was of course the Rags v Everton at the Sty. At that point it was 4-2 Rags, and naturally I felt that it was definitely Kenneth Wolstenholme, so dejectedly prepared to grab my messages from Waitrose and head home. Then, two text messages came in in quick succession from John the Brief; the first said 'Come on you toffies' (sic) and the second, simply: 'Happy days!' The prospect of again firing up the BB web browser was too much to bear, so I contemplated standing in the doorway of McDonald's and trying to pick up the Cloud wi-fi on my iPod, but instead sent John a text back. 'Out & about,' it said, 'Did they beat the Rags?' A few minutes later, and on my way to Holland & Barrett, came his reply: '4-4 f/t', and at the same moment a bloke (obviously a United fan) was talking to his mate on the mobile just behind me, confirming the wonderful news.

A spring now in my jaded step, I made it home and flicked on the radio, listening to the pundits saying it was perhaps the game of the season, listening to Bacon Face decrying his defence and sending Schadenfreude texts to my Rag mate, tempered slightly by the fact that the City match was still an hour and a half from kick-off. There was also much talk also of how City could wrest back the initiative by winning at Molineux, of how destiny had brought us to this point, and blah blah blah. I vacillated for some time, working out whether I wanted to spend almost £4 on a pint, whether I could be bothered to walk to the top of the hill, and - most importantly - what effect my decision would have on the outcome of the match, knowing full well that my choice would definitely influence the game.

Finally, I settled on going for one pint and one half of 90 minutes, arriving at the bar a minute or two after the start. Wolves looked bright enough, and were testing us with set pieces and high balls into the box, but their early threat faded somewhat, and we had a good few chances which were agonisingly close before Clichy played that absolute peach of a pass and allowed Kun the sniff he needed to bang in his 22nd goal of his debut season. What a player he is! Home again for the second half, and a few more scares before the quick thinking of Tevez gave Nasri an easy task to seal the points, sending the Yow Yows back down below in the process.

All on now for a week today, and a match to look forward to if ever there was one.

Broken Teeth

I've said it before (but can't be bothered digging up the post, sorry) and I'll say it again.

Danny fucking Mills.

What a pile of shite. As soon as I heard his voice on 5 Live, I knew we were in for another rough night at Goodison. Another soul-destroying slog through treacle with fuck-all to show for it at the end. Another midweek 90 minutes of desolation - 90 minutes of my life lost forever. I know, I know; Danny Mills can't be blamed for all (and they are certainly legion) of our current shortcomings, but it is somehow comforting to do so. Bring back Yaya! goes the cry. When will the Elephants stumble in the long grass? Who knows, but - like Mr Mills - the absence of the Mighty One cannot explain all.

Not good enough, Bobby admits that, not enough preparation (WTF?!!?) and a sense of complacency because we had won at Spurs (WTFF??!!!?). The usual suspects have come under fire - both here and elsewhere - in previous matches, and were culpable again at Everton. Dzeko, Barry, De Jong (replacing Milner? Really??) and AJ. And of course, two pens for the Rags, and the pressure is on. Every team, we know, goes through periods of a drop in form, and United are famously good at the back end of the season. I don't have a good feeling about the next few weeks. Yaya could easily pick up an injury out in Africa, and then where would we be? Relying on Pizarro's knee.

Anyway, hearing the news from Egypt kind of puts a perspective (yet again) on the whole thing. Another dark day in the annals of the game.

Up in the air junior birdman

The title of this post is from a Tom Lehrer pre-amble to his song: 'It Makes A Fellow Proud To Be A Soldier', just so as you know. The post itself has nothing to do with Tom Lehrer or the military; it was merely suggested by my synapses when I considered the words 'up in the air', which is where things are. Yet again. However, it really is an amusing song (on the album 'An Evening Wasted With Tom Lehrer', which I have blogged about before, so if you haven't done so, go listen.

But I was up in the air I believe. Yes, that wonderful work calliope has spun around again, and everyone's doing their damnedest to lick Gideon's boots by slashing and burning first and hardest. My little corner of public funding will not escape, and there will be somewhere in the order of a 20% reduction in posts come the new year. Naturally I'm a little nervous, being a new boy, that I will be one of the unfortunate ones and will once more be out amid the cold world's strife, searching for the gainful. But hey-ho. What can you do?  Whoever said that working in the public sector is an easy life clearly didn't try it, because ever since I've been involved, there's been nothing but change and challenge.

Speaking of evenings - or afternoons - wasted, I happened on the Everton game in Doyle's on Saturday, at least for the second half, when Eileen turned up and managed to get the German sports channel on, but realised pretty quickly that I shouldn't have bothered. As the game degenerated into a manic pinball session, I could see that the Toffees were going to do us again. And so it was to be. There's nothing funny about Balotelli when he gives the ball away so easily, and there was nothing funny about losing that match either.

On to the Tottenham boys tomorrow evening, and it could all go horribly wrong.

Crocker Shit

You may have noticed the presence of a ghost on here recently. Aptly enough, this ghost is a Toffee, so congratulations to his ectoplasmic form also on a barely deserved victory at Eastlands the other evening, which I had the misfortune of watching with him. Even if I had tried to punch him, my fist would have passed right through, but I didn't even get angry. Just goes to show that we do indeed bottle it at crucial moments. Or something like that. With 27 or so shots on goal (alas, only 4 on target, which - though decent - probably explains a lot) and 11 corners to their none, you would have expected a little more than the one solitary goal and no points to show for our pains. But, them's the breaks. We need better finishers (I'm looking at you, second only to Messi, Mario Balotelli...) I suppose you could say, though Kolarov came mighty close a couple of times; Tevez had one good shot well saved; Howard enjoyed one of his better games and Phil Neville got away with playing the bloody octopus all night long. My only criticism was that there was too much hopeful belting of the ball from the edge of the area when a bit more thought and craft might have delivered a more telling blow. Oh, and Tim Cahill really is an annoying little Aussie twat.

Moving on, we're well on to the meat of the Dirty Dozen now, and with the meat, time to bring Maggot into play. Who loves ya baby? Hero of many a boy from my generation as Kojak, Telly Savalas was a top star of the silver screen. During the mid 70s, every playground in England must have echoed with the word 'Crocker'; a million lollipops were surely brandished in the faces of fat kids with curly hair, and we even had our own 'Stav' who didn't seem to mind the sobriquet too much. He was a tough guy in Kojak - though of course with a heart of gold - and his character in the Dirty Dozen surprises somewhat if, like me, you saw the two things in the wrong chronological order. A nasty, racist rapist is Maggot, well suited to the horrors of war. Which I think sets the tone nicely for the climax of the festive season.

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas!

FWIW

Image stolen from Borat Media

This is how I see it panning out as we near the end of the season.

At the bottom, along with Pompey, I think we can expect to see West Ham and probably Burnley. Hull look likely to profit from Ian Dowie's presence, and whether or not I approve, it looks as if that will be enough for them.

At the top, in my contrary moments, I tip Arsenal to win the league, but I actually think Chelsea will do it, if you want the truth. This isn't entirely because I hate the Rags, and would beyond doubt prefer anyone to win except them. No, Chelsea have look damned good this season - with a brief dip over the past month or so - especially banging 7 in against Villa. Arsenal to finish second (despite the poor showing against Brum today) and the Rags third.



Now on to the all-important fourth place. Chelsea and Villa have done us a favour today, but the loss against Everton was a big blow, and Spuds are looking strong. So, there's my tip for fourth - Tottenham Hotspur. I have little doubt that Mancini will not be staying at Eastlands, and that's no great loss, if you ask me. What exactly has he done, apart from wearing that bloody scarf and that ridiculous wrestling match with Big Davie the other night? I'll tell you, shall I? Fuck-all. But I don't mind. It's been a fun season, with some real highlights, and there's the World Cup to look forward to before it all starts again.