A SPOTY Man

“I’d like to thank Superted, but he’s a twat.”

BBC television’s annual appeal to raise money to implant a personality into one lucky sportsperson has gone as well as it always does. Which is to say that speeches have been cut off before they were concluded, footage of people grinning after getting all a bit puffed out have been shown and terrible jokes have fallen flatter than a flat earth that’s been run over by a cosmic steam roller.

As an added extra this year the BBC decided to publicly humiliate David Baddiel and Frank Skinner by forcing the decidedly non-singing singers to perform ‘Footsport Is Returning To The Nation Which Dubiously Claims To Have Invented It’ in front of a blessedly forgiving audience. As the sequence proved, these two national treasures are most skilled at sitting on a sofa next to one another. They should write a song about that next time.

This year’s winner of the appeal for a personality ought to have been disqualified as he already has one, a nice, understated Welsh one that really doesn’t need mucking about with just so he can have a chance of being a captain on ‘A Question Of Sportsings’ when he eventually retires. They should have given it to Harry Kickbladder, who doesn’t even become more interesting when he grows some designed stubble and hurls himself into a tuxedo.

I won’t be watching Alan Sugar’s ‘Selfish Cunt Of The Year’ award which is being shown immediately after the personality appeal. We already have far too many of them.

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The Triumph Of The Will Of The People

“The will of the people!”

Those who voted to leave the EU in the 2016 referendum are currently as apoplectic and ham-faced as ever about the notion that two and a half years of botched planning for Brexit might necessitate another referendum. Gammonites appear unfazed by revelation after revelation that the Leave campaign was based on untruths and misrepresentations and that there were serious discrepancies with its funding. Their pork-cheeked faces flush an even deeper shade of pig should anyone question that 2016’s vote put a full stop on democracy.

Odd that they make no reference to the fact that the parliamentary system of the UK is one in which we recognise the will of the people can change with time. If we thought it stayed the same why would we go back to the electorate every few years and ask them to decide who will form the next government?

“Magna Carta, mate. It’s the will of the people. King John is king forever and the barons who signed him up to their big chart must be exhumed and given seats of honour in the Houses of Parliament.”

“We’re at war with Germany, mate. It’s the will of the people. The Nazis invaded France. Neville Chamberlain can shut up about peace in our time, it’s war. And always will be.”

“Football’s coming home, mate. Of course it’s the will of the people, we’ve been singing about it for more than twenty years. And anyway, we won the World Cup in 1966 and ought to be world champions until the sun dies.”

Times change. Life changes. Facts (not something many truffle-snorting Leavers are fond of) come to light and alter perceptions after which it is frequently necessary to change political policy, to reconsider previous positions and, at times, to return to the populace and canvas another, hopefully better informed, collective opinion.

Thirty months have clattered past since the referendum, thirty months in which the government has torn itself to shreds yet not one of those shreds has managed to be a shred of dignity or of calm, progressive planning. Theresa May’s latest robotic catch-phrase as she stumbles from crisis to crisis every day in parliament is to promise to deliver the Brexit people voted for. Yet if the last two and a half years has proven anything it is that the nastiest of the Conservatives and UKIP were never interested in what voters thought they were getting, they only want to drag this country further down the road of malicious, unfettered free enterprise and tax loopholes that has seen states such as the USA and Russia begin to look like lands in which only the wealthiest can thrive.

“It’s the will of the people.”

Hmm, you think you mean yourselves, don’t you, Gammoners? But unwittingly you’re promoting the desires of callous, self-interested, mendacious, super-rich cunts who couldn’t give a shit what you want so long as they benefit.

Tick Tock Goes The Not

Not o’clock. Half past dumb-ass in the morning. Twenty minutes to nothing. Outside the rain sounds like rain that is outside. I’m glad it’s outside. Inside rain is the worst. And face rain is worse than that.

When it comes to experiences you’d rather not experience, the year of two thousand and eighteen years since Jesus is filled to the groaning guts with them. Experiences you’d rather not experience, that is, not Jesuses.

Top of the list is same as any list of things not desirable for someone with health problems – health problems. No surprises there. But wakey wakey all not o’clock of a dumb-ass morning while there is the dark and rain outside is fast becoming a high climber on the list.

Oh and idiots.

Jingle Jingle

It’s beginning to look a lot like…

Argh! No! Stop that festive shit. Stop it right now, Mr Capitalism, and do a million laps of the planet with a fridge tied to your back and your feet on the wrong way round.

Bastarding yule schmaltz bleating out of every shop. It’s your fault, Mr Capitalism, and you know it. You turned a green-robed, pagan symbol of good cheer during the coldest days of winter into a Coca Cola coloured shithawk sitting in judgement of all children if they misbehave and of all adults if they don’t prove they care about one another by spending globe-killing amounts of filthy lucre on glittery turds.

I’m dreaming of a white…

And that’s just racist. What do you mean you were only talking about wanting it to snow? Pull the other one, Mr Capitalism, with your incredulously Caucasian representations of a messiah born in the Kingdom of Judah.

But baby it’s cold…

Don’t. Even. Get. Me. Fucken. Started.

Happy Halloween everyone.

Isn’t He Kamoze?

Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah!

I’m not the hotstepper. I’m not even the moderately warm stepper. I’m the brr fucking heck it’s bollocks cold stepper. The city centre has gone to jingle bells hell, a cup of coffee costs more than a mud hut in the south of France and my toes have stopped talking to me.

‘Twas the tail end of the week before the week before Christmas and all through the town black eyed soulless fucktards were shopping and I hate them, hate them so much I don’t even want to continue the scansion of that structure, nor do I intend to make anything rhyme with town. Except the word town again.

I wish I were the hotstepper. I’d step on them all so hot they’d combust. I’d step on them so fiery they’d think they’d been mugged by a vindaloo. I’d step on them so burny they’d imagine something else to do with hot things that I can’t even be bothered to conjure up. It’s Make Up Your Own Metaphors Thursday so you can finish that sentence yourself.

Excuse me mister hofficer…

Walken

One clumsy foot pushes ahead of the other then lets its clumsy brother play the game. This is the slow walking shuffle of the hunched up man with lemon drops for eyes and lungs all misty like a cloud. Loud, so much aloud about the breathing as ribs and sinews grumble at work. Murky sky, blurry mind, should have left the heart behind. One weary foot drags to the front and waits upon the other.

The air is cold as polar bear death from standing on a glacier mint. Thinking only hurts the head and sends the limbs antagonistic messages of blood red text that stand tall and ten foot wide. Inside at last, inside the anaesthetic light and colours of the universal waiting room where angels, demons, doctors or the lot of them decide today’s awaited fate.

One clumsy foot wakes up its frozen brother and somehow between the flimsy two of them they pull their owner home. Switch off the batshit phone and soak up silence till the evening rush hour drills into the brain again. Looks like rain again. Can’t complain again.

The Hardest Blogging Man In Showbusiness

Sweat. Not the good, James Brown king of soul sort of sweat. Shivery yuck kinda faint sort of sweat. The sort of sweat that makes you feel glad you have a doctor’s appointment today.

I don’t know if it got colder today or whether my shivery nonsense is just making me feel colder but either way I am opposed to it. I want warm. Lots of warm with added warm on top. Warm, huh, good god, what is it good for? Preventing coldness. Say it again.

Go on, say it again.

Feeling sweaty and shivery apparently makes my unconscious dredge up funk and soul tunes. Am I likely to need to go to a bridge later? I don’t think so but if I do have to I’ll hit it and quit one time like we did at the top.

Kinda reminds me o’ somethin’ Prince used to say. Shut up, already. Damn!