Evening, fight fans. I've just been reading an article on the BBC website about the Maccarinelli-Haye bout this weekend, and they seem to be of the opinion that Haye will win. I can't say I disagree with them really, Haye is a big bastard and he can't half hit, so my money's on him and not the ItaliTaffy. I respect Enzo as a fighter and I certainly wouldn't want to get him in a bad mood, but the problem is I reckon if I was David Haye I'd be a lot more blasé about the idea, and would go about spilling his pints with abandon. Mostly I'm still operating on the dream I had a couple of months back about how Haye would wipe the floor with him, but my subconscious is rarely wrong. Though I am still waiting the evening involving Kelly Osbourne, a great big bed and some chocolate coated strawberries, so you never know. Still, if you fancy a punt on the fight, my tip goes to Haye.
I should know, I know a bloke that works in a Ladbrokes.
If you were planning on putting a bet on Lilly Allen turning up at the Isle of Wight festival, however, you're a bit out of luck, as she isn't going to, and that seems to have made the bloke responsible for organising it a wee bit miffed. Promoter John Giddings said that Allen cancelled her appearance because her album is behind schedule, and that he didn't book a record, he booked an artist. No you didn't mate, you booked Lilly Allen, who's about as far from an artist when she's singing as I am when I sit down for my morning shit. All in all, he comes off a bit like an angry teacher with a student who's just brought him a note from his mum saying he was at Alton Towers yesterday and couldn't be in GCSE Boredom, claiming that Allen's reason "is not a legitimate excuse". He was also crying and mopping his fevered brow with his unfunny comical tie. Probably. He then has an attack of eco-consciousness, and claims that he'll use Allen's fee to make the festival more environmentally friendly, which makes him a trendy hippie twat who makes me physically sick, so I'm glad the posh brat with the put-on mockney accent turned him down, and I hope it made him cry. He also says that Radiohead have announced they're not going to play gigs that aren't environmentally sound anymore, which makes them about four times more of a pretentious bunch of cunts than I already thought they were, and I've already heard 'Kid A'.
On the topic of moaning teachers, moving from celebrity insolence to police incompetence, which is a tenuous link and an even worse rhyme which even I'm ashamed of, coppers in Oxfordshire have been circulating materials to schools about a new designer drug called 'strawberry meth'; strawberry-flavoured crystal meth that evil evil drug dealing baddies in Lone Ranger masks and stripey shirts are distributing outside schools. Only they aren't, and it's a complete hoax, seemingly known to everyone except the Oxfordshire constabulary, moronic school faculties and the poor kids that have had to sit through countless assemblies warning of the imaginary evils of this entirely made-up drug. You couldn't make it up, could you? Not even Chris Morris ever managed to dupe the actual police into warning about a fake drug. Members of parliament standing up in the House of Commons, yes, but then it was the MP for Basildon and anyone from Basildon is demonstrably thicker than even your common garden-variety rozzer: The fact that the only story I can ever remember being local to Basildon being some bloke going loopy and blowing six kinds of shite out of a lamp post with a twelve gauge shotgun probably bears me out on this one.
Now a story for all you nervous single people out there. When you go on a first date, it's so easy to stutter, to spill your food, to do something, anything, that will create a bad first impression. Rest assured, fair singletons, for however you might embarrass yourself, no matter how much spaghetti you might get on your shirt, you still won't be able to create a worse impression than the bloke who stabbed his date thirty-one times in the face. Now that's horrible and obviously a hideous thing to happen to anyone, and I wouldn't normally be moved to make a joke about something so heinous, but this bloke is yet another contender for the 'silliest murder defence ever': Karl Taylor, 27, of Covent Garden, claimed that his victim, Kate Beagley, stabbed herself 31 times in the neck and head. Yes, you read that correctly, that's what he said: She did it to herself. "Oh, I was out with her, see, and we were just getting to the mints and coffee, and she, like, just started driving a kitchen knife into her face". That one's never happened to me, and I've been on dates with some very odd characters, let me tell you. I'm not sure if this beats the would-be necro nutter from last month, but it's got to be up there - you'd think with all the murder and violence going on in London, they'd know how to think up a good excuse for it by now, wouldn't you? Come on lads, if you're going to murder someone, at least take the time to get your story straight.
It probably would have been more believable if he hadn't also nicked her car. Idiot.
Anyway, there is a happy story to end on after that rather macabre story, though: a former stuntman in Nottinghamshire has set up traps for vandals on his property, including a trebuchet that fires railway sleepers and a catapult that fires chicken poo. I'm all for anything that puts off the average chav from kicking over your garden wall for a laugh, but I'm even more for it if it turns into a special, homicidal game of It's a Knockout and lobs a fucking great railway sleeper at them.
Anyway, I'd do the football but it was all pretty boring, really. Chelsea gave Olympiakos a thrashing while Liverpool thumped West Ham 4 - 0, but I don't think anyone really expected much else with the form all the sides involved are in. Poor Robert Green, eh? The two times Fabio Capello bothers to take a look at him and he lets in 8 in 2 games. Oh, and George Gillett tried to sell up to DIC but didn't, and Tom Hicks did something boring involving a big folder with lots of numbers in it. It wasn't a chequebook, which is what Liverpool need him to open if they're going to win anything next season, but oh well, that's life. I'm not going to cover Liverpool for anything other than on-the-pitch matters anymore until they've got that little squabble sorted out, because I'm starting to sound like a broken record. A record of Phil McNulty singing 'Ferry Across the Mersey' for sixty-eight non-stop minutes.
Also, can everyone stop playing that bloody Paramore band at me? This isn't really aimed at anyone in particular, and is more a general request to the entire world. The woman sounds like Avril Lavigne, and we've already got quite enough of that sort of post-pop shit-pixie clogging up the charts already. The thing is, I probably would this latest one if her head wasn't so enormous on her tiny, wasted body, but it is, so I wouldn't, so there's no redeeming features to the band at all. Oh well, I've linked to them now, so start the countdown to this blog being linked to on some infernal automated Paramore aggregator thing and flooded with 15-year-old emo twats. You lot want to be listening to some Madball, you do.
That's if it doesn't make your face explode, obviously.
Goodnight.
I should know, I know a bloke that works in a Ladbrokes.
If you were planning on putting a bet on Lilly Allen turning up at the Isle of Wight festival, however, you're a bit out of luck, as she isn't going to, and that seems to have made the bloke responsible for organising it a wee bit miffed. Promoter John Giddings said that Allen cancelled her appearance because her album is behind schedule, and that he didn't book a record, he booked an artist. No you didn't mate, you booked Lilly Allen, who's about as far from an artist when she's singing as I am when I sit down for my morning shit. All in all, he comes off a bit like an angry teacher with a student who's just brought him a note from his mum saying he was at Alton Towers yesterday and couldn't be in GCSE Boredom, claiming that Allen's reason "is not a legitimate excuse". He was also crying and mopping his fevered brow with his unfunny comical tie. Probably. He then has an attack of eco-consciousness, and claims that he'll use Allen's fee to make the festival more environmentally friendly, which makes him a trendy hippie twat who makes me physically sick, so I'm glad the posh brat with the put-on mockney accent turned him down, and I hope it made him cry. He also says that Radiohead have announced they're not going to play gigs that aren't environmentally sound anymore, which makes them about four times more of a pretentious bunch of cunts than I already thought they were, and I've already heard 'Kid A'.
On the topic of moaning teachers, moving from celebrity insolence to police incompetence, which is a tenuous link and an even worse rhyme which even I'm ashamed of, coppers in Oxfordshire have been circulating materials to schools about a new designer drug called 'strawberry meth'; strawberry-flavoured crystal meth that evil evil drug dealing baddies in Lone Ranger masks and stripey shirts are distributing outside schools. Only they aren't, and it's a complete hoax, seemingly known to everyone except the Oxfordshire constabulary, moronic school faculties and the poor kids that have had to sit through countless assemblies warning of the imaginary evils of this entirely made-up drug. You couldn't make it up, could you? Not even Chris Morris ever managed to dupe the actual police into warning about a fake drug. Members of parliament standing up in the House of Commons, yes, but then it was the MP for Basildon and anyone from Basildon is demonstrably thicker than even your common garden-variety rozzer: The fact that the only story I can ever remember being local to Basildon being some bloke going loopy and blowing six kinds of shite out of a lamp post with a twelve gauge shotgun probably bears me out on this one.
Now a story for all you nervous single people out there. When you go on a first date, it's so easy to stutter, to spill your food, to do something, anything, that will create a bad first impression. Rest assured, fair singletons, for however you might embarrass yourself, no matter how much spaghetti you might get on your shirt, you still won't be able to create a worse impression than the bloke who stabbed his date thirty-one times in the face. Now that's horrible and obviously a hideous thing to happen to anyone, and I wouldn't normally be moved to make a joke about something so heinous, but this bloke is yet another contender for the 'silliest murder defence ever': Karl Taylor, 27, of Covent Garden, claimed that his victim, Kate Beagley, stabbed herself 31 times in the neck and head. Yes, you read that correctly, that's what he said: She did it to herself. "Oh, I was out with her, see, and we were just getting to the mints and coffee, and she, like, just started driving a kitchen knife into her face". That one's never happened to me, and I've been on dates with some very odd characters, let me tell you. I'm not sure if this beats the would-be necro nutter from last month, but it's got to be up there - you'd think with all the murder and violence going on in London, they'd know how to think up a good excuse for it by now, wouldn't you? Come on lads, if you're going to murder someone, at least take the time to get your story straight.
It probably would have been more believable if he hadn't also nicked her car. Idiot.
Anyway, there is a happy story to end on after that rather macabre story, though: a former stuntman in Nottinghamshire has set up traps for vandals on his property, including a trebuchet that fires railway sleepers and a catapult that fires chicken poo. I'm all for anything that puts off the average chav from kicking over your garden wall for a laugh, but I'm even more for it if it turns into a special, homicidal game of It's a Knockout and lobs a fucking great railway sleeper at them.
Anyway, I'd do the football but it was all pretty boring, really. Chelsea gave Olympiakos a thrashing while Liverpool thumped West Ham 4 - 0, but I don't think anyone really expected much else with the form all the sides involved are in. Poor Robert Green, eh? The two times Fabio Capello bothers to take a look at him and he lets in 8 in 2 games. Oh, and George Gillett tried to sell up to DIC but didn't, and Tom Hicks did something boring involving a big folder with lots of numbers in it. It wasn't a chequebook, which is what Liverpool need him to open if they're going to win anything next season, but oh well, that's life. I'm not going to cover Liverpool for anything other than on-the-pitch matters anymore until they've got that little squabble sorted out, because I'm starting to sound like a broken record. A record of Phil McNulty singing 'Ferry Across the Mersey' for sixty-eight non-stop minutes.
Also, can everyone stop playing that bloody Paramore band at me? This isn't really aimed at anyone in particular, and is more a general request to the entire world. The woman sounds like Avril Lavigne, and we've already got quite enough of that sort of post-pop shit-pixie clogging up the charts already. The thing is, I probably would this latest one if her head wasn't so enormous on her tiny, wasted body, but it is, so I wouldn't, so there's no redeeming features to the band at all. Oh well, I've linked to them now, so start the countdown to this blog being linked to on some infernal automated Paramore aggregator thing and flooded with 15-year-old emo twats. You lot want to be listening to some Madball, you do.
That's if it doesn't make your face explode, obviously.
Goodnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment