Bloody hell, here I am, writing a post to my blog from my MacBook while sipping a hot drink out of a clear glass cup. If it wasn't for the fact I'm wearing last night's soiled Joy Division shirt and some copious bruising I'd almost look like one of those smug twats you usually see writing a post to their blog from their MacBook. At least I'm not in a trendy cafe, that would just about do it for my credibility. Oh, and it's tea in the cup, proper tea with two sugars and some milk. Posh teas and coffee are for girls and jessies.
Anyway, on to the news. Prince Harry has had his 5 minute stay in Afghanistan cancelled because of a media leak, which translates to 'found out he couldn't get the lads into a game of polo, so couldn't be fucked anymore'. That means he'll be back at Windsor within the hour, reclining on a bearskin couch and laughing about how the commoners ate out of packets while his fifteen private servants flew him six goose a day for him to chow down on. Quite the national fucking hero. I don't care how much the little bastard says he enjoyed his tour, unless he's stark raving mad he's obviously going to prefer having his every whim catered for and if he just did a tour as a novelty to see how the other half lives he really shouldn't have gone at all - there's only so much "so what's it like not being royalty eh? haw haw haw"ing you can do in a war zone before it distracts someone into getting themselves shot. And what's he doing saying he enjoyed his tour anyway? I'd say that's pretty much proof he didn't do what other soldiers have to do - the army isn't fucking enjoyable. If it was, people wouldn't want paying for it. Getting shot at in 50 degree heat by people that would slowly behead you with a potato peeler if they got their hands on you is not fucking fun.
In any case, he really ought to give up on all this 'man of the people' stuff and admit he's just your average toff; he's not going to become king anyway, unless he goes the whole hog and drops a daisycutter on his brother. Even then it probably wouldn't get through those huge blast-door teeth to get anywhere near that tiny, tiny brain. Incidentally, brother Willy is apparently going to be given a position of authority in the Navy next year. Heaven help us.
Back in Britain, once again the rail network has been severely disrupted by a bit of a brisk breeze. Two containers have fallen onto the tracks and the companies in charge of picking containers off of tracks say they can't possibly have it all cleared up until the 5th of never. I don't know what they're doing for it to take so long; trying to sweet-talk the containers off the tracks, presumably. I'd just use a crane and have it done in about four minutes, but then I suppose if you're being paid by the hour, it's a good idea to take forever to shift two jumped up tin cans off the tracks. As for the fact this was all caused by 'high winds', I'm forever amused by the rail network's inability to handle anything more than constant calm, still air. Remember that huge storm that battered the country about this time last year? I was coming back from Liverpool to Manchester in that, fresh from seeing the then-missus. Every other train company gave up the minute it started raining a bit, and the only trains that carried on running were Merseyrail, which gives you something of an insight into the fantastic Scouse attitude of "fuck it, I'm doing it, and the world can fucking fall down around me but I'm still going to fucking do it, so fuck off". The Mancs did indeed fuck off about 9.30 and left me stranded, but the Scousers got me home, even if they did only go as far as Manchester Victoria; everywhere east of there starts lurching awkwardly into Yorkshire, which was apparently completely flooded. Not saying much, really, as Yorkshire floods if someone upturns a bottle of Tizer.
In Entertainment news, if you can call it that, Amy Winehouse is in the news again, this time for being the latest personality (why do they use that term for people who usually don't have one? - Ed) to be found 'not guilty for reasons of celebrity', this time of perverting the course of justice in the trial of her husband, Blake Fielder-Civil, who is... who? Is he famous for something other than being a twat? Anyway, I suppose it's a fair cop, seeing as any attempts to pervert anything quite clearly failed, as Mr Fielder-Civil is now staying at her majesty's, and presumably Big Phil in Cell 51's, pleasure. Nothing about this is surprising or newsworthy, I suppose, when you realise it's almost impossible to convict anyone famous of anything. Pete Doherty's wrist has had more slaps from the British legal system than he gives himself when searching for a vein for his morning smack hit, and Michael Barrymore managed to get out of having a bloke in his pool fisted to death with nothing more than a cheery wave to the prosecution. Useless. I'd still do her, though.
On a darker note, a London man who put crushed abortion tablets in his wife's breakfast in a bid to kill their unborn child was described by his defence counsel as 'an eccentric Woody Allen character'. Yes, because when I think of infanticide, the first thing that springs to mind is kooky, neurotic New Yorkers getting into crazy, innocent japes. Or not. What I do think of is murderous nutcases like Gil Magira. Second worst defence ever, the first is still that nutter who claimed he didn't murder people, he just raped their bloodied corpses in the street.
Some short stories: Fame Academy host Patrick Kielty has been clocked at over 100 miles an hour on a notorious Scottish road. Good for him, but the only time I want to hear about this pointless nonentity doing 100mph is if he's doing it off a cliff. Continuing the theme of celebrity nothings, Lee Ryan, formerly of Blue, has pleaded not guilty to attacking a Surrey taxi driver, which I can believe, seeing as Lee Ryan is such an effeminate prick that I think the minute he tried to fight anybody he'd snap in half. Elsewhere Marks and Spencers are going to charge 5p for carrier bags in a bid to save the environment and make them a few million quid into the bargain, and in showbiz, Amy Macdonald looks like a man. Sorry, that isn't the story, the story is that she's got a new single out this week, but as her music is all derivative student pap sung in a voice that belongs on a Birkenhead docker, the real story is just how shockingly manly she looks. An ugly man in drag, but a man all the same. Still, at least she isn't Kate Nash. Thank heaven for small mercies.
In sport, because there's precious little happening anywhere else, the Zombie is starting to crack under pressure, lashing out at media 'lies'. Could this be the beginning of the end for the Zombie? I thought he did a fantastic job with Israel when he was in charge there, but Chelsea is a bit of a step up, and he did look extremely out of his depth in the Carling Cup final. He points to the fact Chelsea have only lost 3 games under his tutelage, but I'd be surprised if that squad lost three games under my tutelage, my mum's tutelage, or the tuelage of Alain Perrin, although that last one might be a little too harsh. Roman Abramovich seems determined not to bring in a world class coach, largely because I think the Russian billionaire likes picking the team himself, and no world class coach will put up with that. Grant will be out by the start of next season, probably, replaced by Henk ten Cate, who will soon be out on his ear as well as a succession of scapegoats starts up to take the blame for Roubles Roman playing Fantasy Football with real people. Though how much of a real person Frank Lampard is is up for debate, as I always regarded him as less a human being and more a seething ball of twat. Oh well, the BBC reckons he's off to Barca in the summer anyway.
Oh, and Jamie Carragher's been nicked for beating people up. You're a great defender, Jamie, but please don't turn into Joey Barton. I didn't like it when you threw a hissy fit and retired from the England team because you were asked to play left back, and I especially didn't like it when you tried to fight journalists that called you a bottler. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to defend Scousers to their detractors when the ones in the public eye keep doing things like this. If Paul O'Grady ever starts mugging old ladies I'll give up entirely and just keep my head low.
More later, after the football.
Goodnight.
Anyway, on to the news. Prince Harry has had his 5 minute stay in Afghanistan cancelled because of a media leak, which translates to 'found out he couldn't get the lads into a game of polo, so couldn't be fucked anymore'. That means he'll be back at Windsor within the hour, reclining on a bearskin couch and laughing about how the commoners ate out of packets while his fifteen private servants flew him six goose a day for him to chow down on. Quite the national fucking hero. I don't care how much the little bastard says he enjoyed his tour, unless he's stark raving mad he's obviously going to prefer having his every whim catered for and if he just did a tour as a novelty to see how the other half lives he really shouldn't have gone at all - there's only so much "so what's it like not being royalty eh? haw haw haw"ing you can do in a war zone before it distracts someone into getting themselves shot. And what's he doing saying he enjoyed his tour anyway? I'd say that's pretty much proof he didn't do what other soldiers have to do - the army isn't fucking enjoyable. If it was, people wouldn't want paying for it. Getting shot at in 50 degree heat by people that would slowly behead you with a potato peeler if they got their hands on you is not fucking fun.
In any case, he really ought to give up on all this 'man of the people' stuff and admit he's just your average toff; he's not going to become king anyway, unless he goes the whole hog and drops a daisycutter on his brother. Even then it probably wouldn't get through those huge blast-door teeth to get anywhere near that tiny, tiny brain. Incidentally, brother Willy is apparently going to be given a position of authority in the Navy next year. Heaven help us.
Back in Britain, once again the rail network has been severely disrupted by a bit of a brisk breeze. Two containers have fallen onto the tracks and the companies in charge of picking containers off of tracks say they can't possibly have it all cleared up until the 5th of never. I don't know what they're doing for it to take so long; trying to sweet-talk the containers off the tracks, presumably. I'd just use a crane and have it done in about four minutes, but then I suppose if you're being paid by the hour, it's a good idea to take forever to shift two jumped up tin cans off the tracks. As for the fact this was all caused by 'high winds', I'm forever amused by the rail network's inability to handle anything more than constant calm, still air. Remember that huge storm that battered the country about this time last year? I was coming back from Liverpool to Manchester in that, fresh from seeing the then-missus. Every other train company gave up the minute it started raining a bit, and the only trains that carried on running were Merseyrail, which gives you something of an insight into the fantastic Scouse attitude of "fuck it, I'm doing it, and the world can fucking fall down around me but I'm still going to fucking do it, so fuck off". The Mancs did indeed fuck off about 9.30 and left me stranded, but the Scousers got me home, even if they did only go as far as Manchester Victoria; everywhere east of there starts lurching awkwardly into Yorkshire, which was apparently completely flooded. Not saying much, really, as Yorkshire floods if someone upturns a bottle of Tizer.
In Entertainment news, if you can call it that, Amy Winehouse is in the news again, this time for being the latest personality (why do they use that term for people who usually don't have one? - Ed) to be found 'not guilty for reasons of celebrity', this time of perverting the course of justice in the trial of her husband, Blake Fielder-Civil, who is... who? Is he famous for something other than being a twat? Anyway, I suppose it's a fair cop, seeing as any attempts to pervert anything quite clearly failed, as Mr Fielder-Civil is now staying at her majesty's, and presumably Big Phil in Cell 51's, pleasure. Nothing about this is surprising or newsworthy, I suppose, when you realise it's almost impossible to convict anyone famous of anything. Pete Doherty's wrist has had more slaps from the British legal system than he gives himself when searching for a vein for his morning smack hit, and Michael Barrymore managed to get out of having a bloke in his pool fisted to death with nothing more than a cheery wave to the prosecution. Useless. I'd still do her, though.
On a darker note, a London man who put crushed abortion tablets in his wife's breakfast in a bid to kill their unborn child was described by his defence counsel as 'an eccentric Woody Allen character'. Yes, because when I think of infanticide, the first thing that springs to mind is kooky, neurotic New Yorkers getting into crazy, innocent japes. Or not. What I do think of is murderous nutcases like Gil Magira. Second worst defence ever, the first is still that nutter who claimed he didn't murder people, he just raped their bloodied corpses in the street.
Some short stories: Fame Academy host Patrick Kielty has been clocked at over 100 miles an hour on a notorious Scottish road. Good for him, but the only time I want to hear about this pointless nonentity doing 100mph is if he's doing it off a cliff. Continuing the theme of celebrity nothings, Lee Ryan, formerly of Blue, has pleaded not guilty to attacking a Surrey taxi driver, which I can believe, seeing as Lee Ryan is such an effeminate prick that I think the minute he tried to fight anybody he'd snap in half. Elsewhere Marks and Spencers are going to charge 5p for carrier bags in a bid to save the environment and make them a few million quid into the bargain, and in showbiz, Amy Macdonald looks like a man. Sorry, that isn't the story, the story is that she's got a new single out this week, but as her music is all derivative student pap sung in a voice that belongs on a Birkenhead docker, the real story is just how shockingly manly she looks. An ugly man in drag, but a man all the same. Still, at least she isn't Kate Nash. Thank heaven for small mercies.
In sport, because there's precious little happening anywhere else, the Zombie is starting to crack under pressure, lashing out at media 'lies'. Could this be the beginning of the end for the Zombie? I thought he did a fantastic job with Israel when he was in charge there, but Chelsea is a bit of a step up, and he did look extremely out of his depth in the Carling Cup final. He points to the fact Chelsea have only lost 3 games under his tutelage, but I'd be surprised if that squad lost three games under my tutelage, my mum's tutelage, or the tuelage of Alain Perrin, although that last one might be a little too harsh. Roman Abramovich seems determined not to bring in a world class coach, largely because I think the Russian billionaire likes picking the team himself, and no world class coach will put up with that. Grant will be out by the start of next season, probably, replaced by Henk ten Cate, who will soon be out on his ear as well as a succession of scapegoats starts up to take the blame for Roubles Roman playing Fantasy Football with real people. Though how much of a real person Frank Lampard is is up for debate, as I always regarded him as less a human being and more a seething ball of twat. Oh well, the BBC reckons he's off to Barca in the summer anyway.
Oh, and Jamie Carragher's been nicked for beating people up. You're a great defender, Jamie, but please don't turn into Joey Barton. I didn't like it when you threw a hissy fit and retired from the England team because you were asked to play left back, and I especially didn't like it when you tried to fight journalists that called you a bottler. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to defend Scousers to their detractors when the ones in the public eye keep doing things like this. If Paul O'Grady ever starts mugging old ladies I'll give up entirely and just keep my head low.
More later, after the football.
Goodnight.
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