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My Blogs Bring All The Boys To The Yard

Damn Right, It's Better Than Yours



November 21st, 2007

I'm not ashamed to say, i ranted and raved and screamed and was mightily pissed off at England tonight, because, unlike some people, I care about my country.
What i don't care for is typical, 'we're shit, but we reckon we're boss. with all our boss players, we should raping teams like croatia up the arse' mentality. And the 'find a scapegoat and make his life hell' idea. The horrible fact is, tonight, Gerrard was raped up the arse, by that scrawny little non-jewish-looking-benayoun rat of a midfield magician Modric. And the croatian defenders let Crouch win the ball, and then made sure they won the second ball, so every flick on was as useless as Micah Richards.
Another horrible fact is it wasn't McClaren's fault- some players were just bad. Wayne Bridge is probably crying right now, perhaps being offered a cheer-up nosh by his extremely fit girlfriend, Scott Carson likewise. But face it lads, even getting her in the eye isn't gonna help you now- and in all honesty, you'd probably miss and get her hair which would just be messy. Bridge was inches from an own-goal which would have capped off his night, Carson's kicking (forget the error, that can happen to anyone) was shit. Losing possession every time was very costly, particulary in the second half when we sacked off a holding midfielder which was basically like taking a load of poppers and taking off our pants and bending over to examine the shit pitch right in front of a load of greasy-haired thrusting croats, with throbbing-erect-penis-like waves of penetratory attacks. Campbell and Lescott will struggle to sit down tomorrow. and Carson's handling, it has been suggested, was sloppy due to Niko Kovac's masses of slimey jizz.
Evvveryone is calling for McClaren's head, from people that don't know anything about football, to people who don't know even more about football. And to me. I think he should leave. Not because of this qualification campaign, not as some sort of punishment for giving us all something to moan about and giving us all someone to hate, christ he should be knighted. Without him, who would we be pissed off at in the football world. Would no-one be under pressure? Would we praise our national team for playing well?! No- we'd say how we didn't deserve to get through- when if u did get through- i.e collected the points required to beat other teams- you clearly did deserve to go through. The table doesn't lie. If we'd beaten Croatia today, we would rightly take our place at the finals. Oh but we did it the hard way. We scraped it. 
It doesn't matter if we had to buy our way into the finals by killing a load of dogs and turning them into one giant dead stuffed dog for a billionaire with a dog fetish and a magic passage to the finals. Performing this task (just like performing the task of winning games) merits a place in the final, idiots. Its ends justifying means. Its football, not strictly come to play football and get voted into Euro 2008 by old women and gays. It's a results business.
McClaren didn't get the results, but if i was convinced he could do next time. I would keep him. But i'm not. If the FA chief exec, is convinced he can- then fair enough. Lets give him a chance. Maybe the country would do well, if we had a bit of belief, if we didn't love a good moan and love coming up with ever-more elaborate insults and ways to ruin the lives of people that lost a football match.
Maybe if rather than blame the first face we see, we realised Croatia are a very good side, and maybe if we spread the blame to the players, then the job would be easier in the future. They say it's a poisoned chalice, the England job. Given the people of England, and their many bandwagons, and their little ladders that help them onto the bandwagons, and their cretinous newspaper editors of the sun and mirror etc, i'd say it was more like being bummed.

November 18th, 2007

Freezing Like Sunday Morning

If i was a glamorous premiership footballer, i would want to move abroad. Perhaps put my A Level french to use, and play in Bordeaux, except their team is shit. So somewhere in Spain would be lovely. Warm, more time on the ball, and penelope cruz. Perfect. That is how football should be. 
Except thats not true. That is not what football is about. Today i spent the morning in Croston, Lancashire. As i made my long-awaited return to the West Lancs U18s League, after spells floating in the wilderness and playing in West Darby under a polish immigrant and his translator that looked like Morrissey. "Who win the game?"... (in unison) "Krakovia!" Good times. Except we didnt win. Ever. And our best result was 1-4. It couldnt get much worse than that really. I had to get the train to sandhills and get a lift from ben, or i had to go to Bootle and get a bus and walk. I'd have about 3 bines on the way home out of sheer frustration and boredom and rage. 
Making my Tarleton Corinthians debut excited me. They were similarly shit. Bottom of the league, run by a burly lancashire type, who pronounces the letter R with the same gusto with which he eats pies.  He had a son in the side, Jake. An uncompromising centre half, with gelled down hair, and an earing, and a run like an ostrich. He reminded me of leggy ben, who i used to play with. He was leggy. And his name was Ben. He gave away penalties like no-one's business. Down to his legginess, usually. Not his name. And leggy Jake was partnered by Sutty, presumably some sort of reference to a name like Sutton or Suttcliffe. I doubted that another uncompromising centre half would be named after the childrens puppet. And if so, why had Jake not been called sweep, at least once, just for the comical symmetry? It was puzzling, but i moved on. There was a right back and left back whose names i forget, but a midfield of Jamie, Andy, Dan and Rozza. Rozza's real name, i worked out, was Ross- bit of a pointless nickname i thought, it was just misleading and harder to say. But i didnt want to question the validity of people's names at this stage, they hadn't even seen me touch a ball.
Up front was Murph and Sam. Murph to be fair, dropped into midfield a lot, he wasn't quite a striker. He was a handful- tall, quick and with good feet. He had a blonde streak through his gelled up dark hair, and had a rubbish beard. It was all patchy and fluffy and rather than make him look manly had an adverse effect. 
I was in the car with Murph and Dan, they started having a conversation i didnt know anything about. The goings on at Hutton High. I hadnt heard of Hutton, let alone it's high school, and they were painting a lovely typical picture of sixth form life. I wondered whether Murph had constructed this conversation that i wasn't privy to, simply to isolate me at an early stage, as if threatened by arrival. But i later realised his position wasnt the same as mine, and after judging his contributions to the conversation had him down as a tim-nice-but-dim kind of character, i thought not only would such a move be unnecessary for him, but probably intellectually beyond him. 
Shortly we arrived in Croston. The pitch was typically shit, the opposition were big and the changing rooms were also shit. It's familarity was nice. Maybe football would be my friend, even if no-one else would.
I was warming the bench. The bench didnt warm me. I could only watch with a sense of comfort, just what i'd been missing out on. The over-use of the adjective tremendous, they way managers compliment players by saying a word then yelling out their full forename and surname, as if to further emphasise their point, the literally ridiculous abuse of the referee. Some of his decisions weren't that bad, and people looked like they were going to kill him. 
When i came on, my feet were freezing and i had 20 minutes to impress. We were losing 2-1 and that was how it stayed. I made a few good challenges and passes and thankfully didnt do anything wrong. I was freezing, tired and filthy and i really wanted a brew. But I felt alive. Every long ball, needlessly bypassing me in the midfield was like nurturing arms of familiarity and institution patting me on the back and screaming 'Second ball!' in my ears, then kissing me on the cheek. Every lambast of the referee, was like a party and everyone was invited. Every slide tackle was like dancing with a beautiful woman and every goal was shagging her.
Lancashire is where football belongs. The mud, the swearing, the tackling, the toucline platitudes, the convoy of 10 year old saloon cars on a motorway in the rain, and the relaxing bath at home. You can give me a spanish villa, and the beautiful women, and the sangria and the marvellous style of play and the history and tradition along with the opportunity to play with some of the world's great players....
I'd probably take it to be honest, but then come straight back to Chorley St Gregs next week- i don't want to miss that, they have oranges at half time!

November 10th, 2007

47 reasons to not get a job


Ah, i should get a job. I should, i really should. It would offer me the independence i need before going to university, it would show aptitude and capacity to work on my UCAS form and it would get me out of the house so i didnt have to listen to my mum chisseling away at the brickwork of the house, painting on the walls, and threatening to tattoo my retinas with the 3 words she only ever seems to say to me; 'get a job'.
But the way i see is it different. Surely when i'm alone at university in my room, probably wanking over the latest picture of a pissed amy winehouse and struggling over an essay on metaphysics, i will have independence. Being placed alone gives you independence. Being alone, by its a very nature is independent. So a job, now, when i still rely on food from my mum, money from my dad, weekly dose of football chat and surpressed racism with my grandad and playstation company with my brother, will not give me independence. 
And my UCAS is already fairly snazzy. Just yesterday i came up with how to make listening to Mr Blower read out Camus's 'Les Juste' in our lessons and not following, sound like studying french literature with a powerful existentialist debate behind it. The applications committee at Durham should be convinced of my sick-ass philosophy skills. Not sick-ass enough to paraphrase 'the new nietzsche' into my personal statement though. Lets just hope they're not Christian :)

I actually tried to get a job the other week. I went into 'room 47' which is a trendy tapas bar in my local town Ormskirk. I thought getting a job as a cosmpolitan waiter would shut my mum up- it was walking distance, paid well and the smell of garlic bread and cheese was nice.
I walked up to hand them a CV (after UCAS applications i had mastered bullshitting to a fine art) and said i'd be interested in their job ad. The woman, who wasn't even the boss- probably just a waitress- said to me "you're hair's a bit scruffy to work here".
At this point i looked around to see if anyone heard because i was so amazed i wanted witnesses. I wanted to come up with some sort of snappy comeback, it was hard to criticise her looks because she happened to be quite attractive. She looked like the old presenter of brainteaser on channel 5 (the woman one) who used to practically tell idiots watching daytime tv what the answers were to get them to call in.

I said 'what?' And then she said 'You wouldn't be able to say 'what' to customers either'. I was so speechless, literally. I started to come up with conspiracy theories that she didnt want me to work there because i would be a better waiter, or she would be tempted to cheat on her comatosed boyfriend with me. When i say conspiracy theories, what i mean is fantasies. She said the manager would come out and take my application. I'd left before the manager got there, i didnt want to work there .

This sort of set the tone really- Mcdonalds; to scatty, Golf Course; too far away, Room 47; one of the waitresses was a complete cunt. It was hopeless. Nowhere in Ormskirk, the home town i inexplicably love, could offer me the job i wanted. I've tried everything and you either had to be 18 or it was full up. So instead i sit at home most nights and go out most weekends, sponging off parents and relying on satisfactory exam results to demonstrate some elements of reservation in a fastly down-spiralling lifestyle.
Not my fault. I'm just a kid with scruffy hair... or so i thought.

One day, whilst looking through the local paper, i found an advertisement for a poetry competition. It had to be about your local town.Well, I love ormskirk and i have always had a flair for poetry. And the prize is £1000.
£1000! That would buy a car. Or lots of gin and tonic and lambert and butler. And a haircut (NOT!)
This would be my job for coming weeks. By day and night i'll sample Ormskirk life, look for inspiration and come up with the £1000 poem that will solve my woes. It's a national competition, open age, so my chances are slim. But, imagine. When i bounce past room 47 with my window open, puffing a bine and listening to 'Homeworld (The Ladder)' By Yes and getting a whiff of the garlic bread and a glimpse of brainteaser bint in my used renault clio. That would be sweet. And i'll cruise up to Durham to check out my future home and remember what got me there- not serving wankers saucy chicken and chilled wine. Or helping chavs slowly die (although that does have some merits), but writing about my home town. 
As 'Yes' would say 'home is our world, our life. Home is our world'

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