Right, well, this 'Twitter' thing seems a bit pointless, doesn't it? Does anyone have a reason why this is the latest 'social networking' phenomenon, or is it just another one of those inexplicable, unexplainable events, like the Bermuda Triangle, or how Barry Manilow ever managed to get that shit song into the top 20, even in the musical doldrums that was the early 80s.
As far as I can gather, it's a tool used for documenting every minor nuance of your life via the internet. You tell the internet when you eat, you tell the internet when you have a bath, you tell the internet when you have a particularly vicious wank, etc. You know, like the internet actually cares. It's like a series of constant, very small, very pointless blogs, for those with nothing to say but a seemingly irrepressible desire to say it. Sort of like this, but for people with attention span that would have run out round about the time I mentioned Barry Manilow (That'll be just about everyone then; no wonder it's taking off - Ed).
Anyway, I tried it out for a couple of hours, to see what all the fuss was about. The website promised me that I'd be drawn in by the fantastic new phenomenon that is documenting my every move as if it's something of massive importance and, like a grieving lover left at the altar, I've been cruelly lied to once again by the social networking masses. This blog might talk bollocks from time to time but at least I put some thought into what I'm saying 90% of the time - either that or alcohol, and it's hard to tell one from the other at times, but still, the thought is there - whereas Twitter seems geared specifically towards people who really do want to document every second of their lives. All I found when I gave this a try was that, if you genuinely made an earnest attempt to record and document every single action you ever take, you'd never have any time to do anything new in. Which may explain Twitter's soaring usage statistics:
02:42:15 - I just posted to Twitter!
02:42:27 - I just posted to Twitter!
02:42:48 - I just posted to Twitter!
02:42:51 - Fuck me this is dull.
Anyway, I was going to include some proper news here and everything, but unfortunately, there's fuck all happening. There's an absolute dearth of funny stories this past couple of weeks and I can't be fucked trying to drag a funny out of something shit and boring like Nimrods being grounded, or not being grounded, or whatever the fuck's happened to the bloody things this week. I can't be bothered paying attention to be perfectly honest with you. Of course, there was that idiot that managed to blow his own face off while trying to bomb a restaurant, but that's easy pickings really - you've got to be remarkably stupid to try to test a nail bomb with your eyelids. So, to avoid everything going to the dogs, I'm going to talk about the football instead.
Well, sort of. I'm actually going to talk about Peter Kenyon, who's actually about as far from football as you can get.
Of course, as we all knew long before the Champions League final in Moscow, Avram Grant's days are numbered at Chelsea. The man who has done remarkably well for a man who's biggest achivement before his appointment was leading Maccabi Haifa to the Ligat Ha'el title deserves more respect for getting Chelsea as far as he has, pitting his wits and matching almost to the last kick of the game probably the greatest manager of our time than he's getting from the insipid bald cunt that seems to run Chelsea for Roubles Roman these days. Peter Kenyon has been telling the media that the near misses Chelsea have experienced 'worry' him, which is code for 'we're undermining Avram so when we sack him, we won't seem like such complete cunts'.
The man deserves more respect, plain and simple. The day Peter Kenyon can pit his footballing wits against Ol' Red-Nose and take him right the way to the final whistle, he can start complaining about Avram Grant's performance. Peter Kenyon is a symbol of everything that is wrong with football - a greedy, slippery, seedy businessman who is in the business for the bucks and not the love of the game.
A corporate snake in the lush manicured grass of the football pitch. A man who called himself a life-long Manchester United fan until Chelsea came in with a bigger wage packet, and a smug, self-serving marketeer who probably couldn't name three greats of either of the clubs he has managing director'd (whatever that means) and professed an affinity for, and a man so obsessed with his own profile that he accepted a Champions League losers' medal last week despite having probably never kicked a ball in his life, let alone ever playing for Chelsea or being at all representative of their history rather than their boardroom, and of the club as a club, and not as Kenyon's idea of a 'brand'.
By contrast, Sir Bobby Charlton, World Cup winner, veteran of the Munich air crash, winner of over 100 caps for England and over 750 appearances for Manchester United, declined a winners' medal when he presented his team to Michel Platini because he hadn't been involved in the game. That's because, whatever you feel about Manchester United or Chelsea, Bobby Charlton is class and always will be, while Peter Kenyon is an insufferable cunt who should fuck off to a small, dark hole and stay there until he's less of a complete cock-end.
Avram Grant will almost certainly be sacked or booted back upstairs to a role as Director of Football within the next month. His failure to win the Champions' League has sealed his fate if it wasn't sealed already, a victim of the players' and fans' bizarre love affair with the Man from Del Monte, who some quarters are thinking - hoping - will be back to replace the Israeli. Those with more realism expect it to be Roberto Mancini or Frank Rijkaard, big names to satisfy Abramovich's thirst for fantasy football. Whoever is in charge next season, Peter Kenyon will still pick up his seven-figure salary for doing fuck-all except taking snide snipes at his own club staff when things aren't going swimmingly for him. Makes you fucking sick, doesn't it?
Anyway, to cheer myself up after that rant I'm going to indulge myself a little by passing some minor comments on some strange things that seem to crop up in my traffic logs - you people seem to be a filthy lot, seeing as my most popular page is the one entitled "nude midget, nude midget, nude midget". I reckon a lot of people must be typing that phrase into Google and are getting extremely disappointed at finding me shouting at them instead of some hot shorty action, as I have no idea how far up the rankings for that phrase I am (I'm certainly not googling it to find out) but I reckon it must be quite high, as anyone searching for nude midgets on the internet is pretty certain to find what they want pretty quickly. I mean, fucking hell, a bloke put up an advert about wanting to eat someone and found some bastard bonkers enough to reply, so anything can happen on the internet. Still, to any midget fans out there have read down this far; sorry about that.
Second of all, I've noticed that the second most common referrer to my website is Google Image Search, and seeing as the only image I've really put up is my spoof Daily Mail cover, I reckon that must be doing the rounds somewhere as some sort of viral email, as it seems to account for around 20% of my total traffic. I'm tempted to replace it with some sort of horrible picture of an anus, but I reckon that's probably against the terms of service, not to mention way too much fucking effort. Also, about 5% of my traffic seems to be Arabic. Oops. I bet they're a bit pissed off at me. Oh, and everyone's still using Windows XP and Internet Explorer, so I'm evidently not appealing to the stylish 'Mac' crowd. So much for my MacBook bringing me popularity like some sort of neverending desirability spring.
Anyway, I'm fucking knackered, so I'm going to go to bed now. I've got a long day of watching Ricky Hatton punch Juan Lazcardo in the face over and over again ahead of me tomorrow, and I'll need to stock up on beer beforehand to enjoy the frankly atrocious undercard, so that's at least another two hours taken up already. Life's hard, it really is.
Oh, and I was right. Fuck off, culty.
Goodnight.
As far as I can gather, it's a tool used for documenting every minor nuance of your life via the internet. You tell the internet when you eat, you tell the internet when you have a bath, you tell the internet when you have a particularly vicious wank, etc. You know, like the internet actually cares. It's like a series of constant, very small, very pointless blogs, for those with nothing to say but a seemingly irrepressible desire to say it. Sort of like this, but for people with attention span that would have run out round about the time I mentioned Barry Manilow (That'll be just about everyone then; no wonder it's taking off - Ed).
Anyway, I tried it out for a couple of hours, to see what all the fuss was about. The website promised me that I'd be drawn in by the fantastic new phenomenon that is documenting my every move as if it's something of massive importance and, like a grieving lover left at the altar, I've been cruelly lied to once again by the social networking masses. This blog might talk bollocks from time to time but at least I put some thought into what I'm saying 90% of the time - either that or alcohol, and it's hard to tell one from the other at times, but still, the thought is there - whereas Twitter seems geared specifically towards people who really do want to document every second of their lives. All I found when I gave this a try was that, if you genuinely made an earnest attempt to record and document every single action you ever take, you'd never have any time to do anything new in. Which may explain Twitter's soaring usage statistics:
02:42:15 - I just posted to Twitter!
02:42:27 - I just posted to Twitter!
02:42:48 - I just posted to Twitter!
02:42:51 - Fuck me this is dull.
Anyway, I was going to include some proper news here and everything, but unfortunately, there's fuck all happening. There's an absolute dearth of funny stories this past couple of weeks and I can't be fucked trying to drag a funny out of something shit and boring like Nimrods being grounded, or not being grounded, or whatever the fuck's happened to the bloody things this week. I can't be bothered paying attention to be perfectly honest with you. Of course, there was that idiot that managed to blow his own face off while trying to bomb a restaurant, but that's easy pickings really - you've got to be remarkably stupid to try to test a nail bomb with your eyelids. So, to avoid everything going to the dogs, I'm going to talk about the football instead.
Well, sort of. I'm actually going to talk about Peter Kenyon, who's actually about as far from football as you can get.
Of course, as we all knew long before the Champions League final in Moscow, Avram Grant's days are numbered at Chelsea. The man who has done remarkably well for a man who's biggest achivement before his appointment was leading Maccabi Haifa to the Ligat Ha'el title deserves more respect for getting Chelsea as far as he has, pitting his wits and matching almost to the last kick of the game probably the greatest manager of our time than he's getting from the insipid bald cunt that seems to run Chelsea for Roubles Roman these days. Peter Kenyon has been telling the media that the near misses Chelsea have experienced 'worry' him, which is code for 'we're undermining Avram so when we sack him, we won't seem like such complete cunts'.
The man deserves more respect, plain and simple. The day Peter Kenyon can pit his footballing wits against Ol' Red-Nose and take him right the way to the final whistle, he can start complaining about Avram Grant's performance. Peter Kenyon is a symbol of everything that is wrong with football - a greedy, slippery, seedy businessman who is in the business for the bucks and not the love of the game.
A corporate snake in the lush manicured grass of the football pitch. A man who called himself a life-long Manchester United fan until Chelsea came in with a bigger wage packet, and a smug, self-serving marketeer who probably couldn't name three greats of either of the clubs he has managing director'd (whatever that means) and professed an affinity for, and a man so obsessed with his own profile that he accepted a Champions League losers' medal last week despite having probably never kicked a ball in his life, let alone ever playing for Chelsea or being at all representative of their history rather than their boardroom, and of the club as a club, and not as Kenyon's idea of a 'brand'.
By contrast, Sir Bobby Charlton, World Cup winner, veteran of the Munich air crash, winner of over 100 caps for England and over 750 appearances for Manchester United, declined a winners' medal when he presented his team to Michel Platini because he hadn't been involved in the game. That's because, whatever you feel about Manchester United or Chelsea, Bobby Charlton is class and always will be, while Peter Kenyon is an insufferable cunt who should fuck off to a small, dark hole and stay there until he's less of a complete cock-end.
Avram Grant will almost certainly be sacked or booted back upstairs to a role as Director of Football within the next month. His failure to win the Champions' League has sealed his fate if it wasn't sealed already, a victim of the players' and fans' bizarre love affair with the Man from Del Monte, who some quarters are thinking - hoping - will be back to replace the Israeli. Those with more realism expect it to be Roberto Mancini or Frank Rijkaard, big names to satisfy Abramovich's thirst for fantasy football. Whoever is in charge next season, Peter Kenyon will still pick up his seven-figure salary for doing fuck-all except taking snide snipes at his own club staff when things aren't going swimmingly for him. Makes you fucking sick, doesn't it?
Anyway, to cheer myself up after that rant I'm going to indulge myself a little by passing some minor comments on some strange things that seem to crop up in my traffic logs - you people seem to be a filthy lot, seeing as my most popular page is the one entitled "nude midget, nude midget, nude midget". I reckon a lot of people must be typing that phrase into Google and are getting extremely disappointed at finding me shouting at them instead of some hot shorty action, as I have no idea how far up the rankings for that phrase I am (I'm certainly not googling it to find out) but I reckon it must be quite high, as anyone searching for nude midgets on the internet is pretty certain to find what they want pretty quickly. I mean, fucking hell, a bloke put up an advert about wanting to eat someone and found some bastard bonkers enough to reply, so anything can happen on the internet. Still, to any midget fans out there have read down this far; sorry about that.
Second of all, I've noticed that the second most common referrer to my website is Google Image Search, and seeing as the only image I've really put up is my spoof Daily Mail cover, I reckon that must be doing the rounds somewhere as some sort of viral email, as it seems to account for around 20% of my total traffic. I'm tempted to replace it with some sort of horrible picture of an anus, but I reckon that's probably against the terms of service, not to mention way too much fucking effort. Also, about 5% of my traffic seems to be Arabic. Oops. I bet they're a bit pissed off at me. Oh, and everyone's still using Windows XP and Internet Explorer, so I'm evidently not appealing to the stylish 'Mac' crowd. So much for my MacBook bringing me popularity like some sort of neverending desirability spring.
Anyway, I'm fucking knackered, so I'm going to go to bed now. I've got a long day of watching Ricky Hatton punch Juan Lazcardo in the face over and over again ahead of me tomorrow, and I'll need to stock up on beer beforehand to enjoy the frankly atrocious undercard, so that's at least another two hours taken up already. Life's hard, it really is.
Oh, and I was right. Fuck off, culty.
Goodnight.
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