“Football? It’s a game of two halves.” Manchester City and France footballer Gaël Cliché
According to The Guardian, the decision by Swedish newspaper ‘Dagens Nyheter’ to rank footballing legend and sometime pony impersonator Zlatan Ibrahimovic to second place in their poll of Sweden’s all-time sports stars has really rattled his cage. ‘Zlatan anger at finishing second on list of all-time Swedish sports people’ screams the headline.
Okay, you may not be able to even name five Swedish sports stars yourself, but probably most people with half a foot in reality can think of at least one who stands out; namely seventies tennis legend and five times Wimbledon men’s singles champion Bjorn Borg. How, realistically, can anyone begin to get angry about coming second to Borg, for the love of God? What planet is Ibrahimovic on? Talk about arrogance. That’s the problem with modern footballers; they are just overpaid, over-hyped, arrogant shits with a hugely overinflated sense of their own worth and importance. What a shit!
Now let’s rewind, just a little. Angry? Just for a moment, let’s examine something that many people now find a little uncomfortable. It’s called ‘evidence’. It’s really useful when you are trying to get to the bottom of something to look for tangible support for any claim you make. Otherwise you look, well, uninformed at the very least. What basis are we given for the claim that Zlatan is ‘angry’ about what, on any view, is a tinpot poll in a tinpot newspaper. I’ll quote the Guardian piece in full, for the sake of completeness.
“Zlatan Ibrahimovic has reacted angrily to finish second on a list ranking Swedish sports people of all time. The PSG striker was the runner-up behind five-times Wimbledon winner Björn Borg as the Swedish daily Dagens Nyheter ranked the top 150 Swedes.
Ibrahimovic, however, was not best pleased with the result as the paper asked him for his thoughts.
Dagens Nyhether: Congratulations, you have finished second on the list of Swedish sports people of all time, how do you feel about that?
Zlatan: Thank you but to finish second is like finishing last.
DN: You have previously mentioned Muhammad Ali, Petter Northug and Ronaldo as sports people you rank highly. Who would have finished on the podium if you had ranked the best Swedish sports people of all time?
Zlatan: On that list I would have been No1, 2, 3, 4 and 5, with due respect to the others
DN: Björn Borg is No1 on the list and he has previously expressed his admiration for you and that he sees you as Sweden’s biggest star, “even bigger than IKEA”. How do you see Borg and his career?
“He is a cool person and a living legend.”
As I read, and re-read, this piece I began to ask myself ‘where the fuck is there any suggestion that Ibrahimovic was in any sense ‘angry’ about this poll? You will note that what started out being described as an angry reaction quickly becomes ‘not best pleased’. How the fuck can anyone reading that interview possibly conclude that Ibrahimovic was angry about it rather than, say, simply being ironic? He concludes by saying poll winner Borg is “a cool person and a living legend”.
What we have here is, from a supposedly respectable newspaper, an example of misleading bullshit that frankly deserves calling out. Maybe hyperbole where it comes to sports ‘stars’ is something that most people are prepared to blow off. But where does it end? Answer? It doesn’t. This is now standard media practice, and if you look at many news stories in anything other than a superficial way, you can see that the general public are being bullshitted by the media, day in day out, on an industrial scale. I am reminded of a sketch in the all-too-brief 1990s satire ‘The Day Today’, and have linked it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3BO6GP9NMY. Chris Morris had this bullshit taped years ago, and nothing has changed.
If you want to stay reliably informed, the last place to now look is the mainstream media. It’s time to declare war on it.
As Christmas approaches, casting its miserable shadow over the next couple of weeks, it is perhaps time to reflect that this will be the last Christmas before the next farce which we all know as the ‘general election’. Yes, in little more than five months, you will all be heading to some smelly scout hut, village hall or ‘community centre’ in order to waste your time placing a cross against whatever name takes your fancy, for another five years of bullshit, lies and scandal. Me? I’ll be staying at home, doing something far more productive – like scraping rabbit shit from the bottom of their litter tray. Much more fun, and you feel less, well, grubby afterwards.
However, as it is (probably) the end of that bunch of soulless liars we currently know as the ‘Liberal Democrats’, and bearing in mind the season we are now in, I pay homage to that disaster we now know as the ‘Coalition’ by re-releasing that Christmas favourite, ‘Fairytale of New York”. With the sincerest of apologies to one of the most brilliant artists this country has known in recent times, the late Kirsty MacColl, I give you “Fairytale of Westminster” sung by The Rogues. (The lead singer is Nick Clegg, with supporting vocals, in italics, by David Cameron. Make the most of it, Nick; it’s the only lead role you will ever have). Happy Christmas you arses, let’s pray God it’s your last.
A Fairytale of Westminster
It’s Christmas Eve, Dave
In the Commons bar
Vince Cable said to me
“Won’t see another one!”
And then he sang the song
‘Where did it all go wrong?’
I turned my face away
Forgot I had two!
We haven’t got that long,
Next May Lib-Dems are gone
I’ve got this feeling,
This year the party’s through.
So Happy Christmas,
I love you, Davey,
I see a better time,
When I’m working for the EU.
We got cars big as bars,
Lined our pockets with gold,
We’ve seen off the students, the sick and the old,
When you first took my hand on a warm summer’s eve,
You promised a new post was waiting for me.
We were charming
We were witty
But our policies, shitty
For a while there were those
Who just swallowed our shite.
To the public, we lied
Chris Huhne banged up inside,
We pissed on the poor
And then danced through the night.
And the future’s looking fucking dire,
They’re all singing ‘Go away!’
And we will do, come the next election day.
You’re a wanker, a prat
You’re a shiny-faced twat,
You’re a holiday-junkie, I wish you were dead.
You’re a self-serving git, you’re a gold-plated shit
Happy Christmas you arse,
We’re a five year farce.
And the future’s looking fucking dire,
They’re all singing ‘Go away!’
And we will do, come the next election day.
“I could have been someone.”
You are! You’re Satan’s son.
“You made my dreams come true,
My tea boy, that was you.”
I’m glad I made your day,
Now all you want to say,
Is ‘Fuck off!, Go away”
I built my dreams around you.
And the future’s looking fucking dire,
They’re all singing ‘Go away!’
And we will do, come the next election day.
The John Lewis Partnership has just announced that it will now be obligatory for all clients of its Waitrose outlets to walk around the aisles holding a cup of takeaway cappuccino. “We’re just enforcing what now seems to have become standard practice” said Waitrose ‘partner’ Gervaise Whippleton-Snark.
As we move towards the festive season, I would like to remind readers that this is a time for giving, and giving generously. So, in keeping with the spirit of Christmas, I propose to do so. In this short missive, I will be generously giving the middle finger to a host of seasonal bollocks and those richly deserving of the stiffy. So, in no particular order, I give you:
Anyone who decorates their house in a way which threatens the viability of the national grid; in fact, fuck it – anyone who decorates their house.
Anyone who eats turkey on Christmas Day. On behalf of turkeys everywhere……fuck you! You all deserve stuffing, right where the Christmas lights don’t shine.
The Queen: hard not to get indigestion watching the crone, even for ten minutes.
German Christmas markets: what the fuck do these have to do with Christmas? Or maybe Jesus was born in Berlin. Cheap crap sold out of converted pine sheds….big fucking deal!
Every supermarket which insists on playing the following shite on a loop: Merry Christmas Everybody, I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day, Last Christmas, Let It Snow, Stop the Cavalry, Fairytale of New York, So This Is Christmas. I’ll have a sick bag for Christmas, please.
Bob Geldof. Enough said.
And if anyone is offended…….I couldn’t give one.
Merry Christmas, you arse, let’s pray God it’s our last.
“Do they know it’s Christmas time?” How can anyone forget? Another fucking Band Aid song relentlessly played in every corner of the globe for the next eight weeks and beyond won’t let us forget it. Am I the only one to notice the coincidence between the Ebola outbreak in West Africa and the 30 year anniversary of Saint Bob Geldof’s pet project which changed the world forever? Thank God for Bob, eh, or millions of people in Africa would still be starving, getting exploited by the multi-nationals and western governments that couldn’t give a toss.
Apparently, God has just flicked Jesus off His right hand to make way for the ‘other’ son: you know, the better one. I mean, what is curing a few lepers and raising dead people to the achievements of the Holy One…..Bob Geldof. And in recognition of his contribution to bullshit, and in homage to the great ‘God-made-man’ I have penned my own version of that old classic, ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’
Do They Know It’s Piss-take Time?
It’s Christmas-time, there’s every need to be afraid,
Bob Geldof looks like he just crawled out of the grave,
And though his words are empty, think of this to bring you joy,
Put your hands around his throat, this Christmas-time.
But, fuck, say a prayer, here come the other ones,
Bono and Midge, on the gravy train that always runs,
They’ll be tugging on your purse strings, they’ll be trading on your fear,
Angry Bob will just talk bollocks, and suck away your festive cheer.
And he’s calling up Pope Francis, and getting in a stew,
“Frank, my fucking sainthood’s ten years overdue.”
And we won’t be free of Band Aid crap this Christmas-time,
They’ve just released another pile of shite,
There’s nowhere to run or hide,
They’ll take the public for a ride.
Do you know it’s piss-take time at all?
[Cue a selection of geriatric tax-dodging rock stars smiling and high-fiving]
Feed my ego, let them know it’s piss-take time.
It seems to have run out of steam. Or dry ice. Yes, this summer’s fest for f*ckwits, otherwise known as the “ice bucket challenge”, looks to have become yesterday’s old news. Hopefully the reason for this is that the only people left who haven’t engaged in this excruciating exercise in self-publicity, vanity and misplaced self-importance are those whose IQ at least reaches triple figures. That said, I am all for events which raise awareness: and this particular ‘craze’ has certainly raised awareness of the chilling number of self-important, self-righteous, mirror-kissing muppets the planet is home to. The exercise would have been far more interesting, from my perspective at least if, having poured the contents of the bucket over your head, the bucket (metal, of course) was then pressed down over it and volunteers, each willing to pay, say, £20, line up with a cricket bat and then get to hammer the f*ck out of the bucket as hard as they like three times. Nobody has to worry about the prospect of any of the participants suffering brain damage, and you get (quite literally) plenty more bangs for your buck.
I thought we had reached critical mass for stupidity with the ‘no make-up’ selfie a while ago. This is a genuine idea to raise money? You couldn’t make it up – quite literally! What kind of f*cking message is this sending out? That women (and women, I suggest. are the ones who make up the bulk of those who wear the stuff) are so ready to do ‘good work for charidee’ that they are willing to forego their usual vanity in order to photograph themselves without cosmetic products? Holy hell! What the f*ck did women ever do without Rimmel and Avon?
Of course, we are reaching that time of year when men get to make themselves resemble something less than a polished turd once more, with the onset of ‘Movember’. I say men, although I know several women who are well able to grow a fairly impressive quantity of facial hair above their top lip, many of them still practising at the English criminal bar. What is ‘Movember’ all about? It’s about growing a moustache for charity. If you haven’t worked it out yet, ‘Mo’ (the first two letters of ‘moustache’, unless you are from the US, in which case it is ‘mustache’) sounds like the ‘No’ in November. Clever, eh? I wish I’d thought of it. The fact that ‘mous’ or ‘mus’ (the first syllable of ‘moustache’) bears no sonorous resemblance to ‘No’ seems not to have troubled the creators of this dopey f*cking month-long event one iota. Mousvember doesn’t sound quite so catchy, does it. But why let that small matter prevent as many men as may be stupid enough from grasping with both hands the opportunity of making themselves look like tired extras from a 1970s American TV detective programme?
The idea? Apparently you shave your face clean on the 31st October, and over the course of the next 30 days you cultivate a moustache. The idea of this, according to the official ‘Movember’ website, is to ‘spark conversation and raise funds’. Spark conversation? Frankly, I don’t think I would give a kangaroo’s rectum whether someone I know began to grow a moustache. It certainly wouldn’t ‘spark’ any conversation from my end; I would be more likely to simply ignore it and just ponder in my own mind how fucking ridiculous the thing looked; but, hey – if you want to sport one, be my guest. Live and let live. No conversation, no awareness. In all honesty I would be more likely to spark up some conversation if, for example, a work colleague decided he wasn’t going to shower or use any form of deodorant for 30 days. At some point after seven or eight days, conversation would probably become essential, or at least highly pressing: “Erm, Reg? You smell like old shit. What the f*ck is going on, mate?” That kind of thing. It would have the further advantage of cutting down on your water bill for a whole month. You could call it ‘Charity Stinks’.
It will not have escaped your attention that I am not a huge fan of these events. However, if these mindless crazes are going to happen I would at least like to see a little more creativity and real fun injected into them. So, with that in mind, I have thought of one or two of my own ideas for charity ‘awareness raising’ which I hope will provide plenty of opportunity for giving the participants the kind of results I truly believe most of them deserve.
It may be a little late this year, but my first thought is ‘Sleptember’. This would be to raise awareness of the serious issue of ingrowing toenails amongst the indigenous tribespeople of northern Guatamala. The idea of this is that you remain in bed for the entirety of the month of September. This has a number of advantages. It keeps the f*ckwits who enjoy participating in these time wasting activities off the streets for an entire month. The only proviso is that you are not entitled to any form of access to social media for the entirety of the month. That should keep the f*ckers well ‘off radar’ for a good, long time, for a start.
Then, immediately after (and I have planned this deliberately to follow on from Sleptember), I propose ‘Shocktober’. The Society For The Trimming Back of Unsightly Nasal Hair Amongst the Elderly of Macclesfield have specifically requested that awareness be raised of this particular issue, and I am happy to oblige. Granted, this particular ‘awareness raising’ month is likely to leave most of the participants who have just spent a month in bed – and who hopefully have lost their jobs, and thereby their means of paying for their iPhone 6s – at the very least needing serious hospital treatment, if not the services of a box manufacturer. My good idea here is that you film yourself hooking yourself up directly to the mains by whatever means at your disposal. Go on! Be creative! How about taking a ‘selfie’ from the top of one of those really dangerous and high electricity pylons that you often see in picturesque countryside locations, towering above a field of Jersey cows, as you then allow millions of volts to liven you up a little? Go ahead – shock your mates.
You probably won’t be around for much of November after that, anyway, so hopefully the sane world will no longer need to wonder to itself why the f*ck Derek from accounts has suddenly taken to growing a moustache, and pondering to yourself whether he now bears a greater resemblance to John Cleese or Adolf Hitler. However, given the right treatment, you might just make it out of Casualty in time for the next fund-raiser: I call this one ‘Dismember’. This, once again, is for male members (quite literally) only. In order to raise awareness of the desperate plight of sex-starved chickens on the Indian subcontinent, the idea is to take a very blunt saw and whip off your todger – without anaesthetic!! Make sure you have plenty of bandages, antiseptic and a cool bag to hand before you start this one on the 1st December, though. It’s going to hurt, but it’s worth it for charidee. Those chickens will love you forever. And don’t forget to take a selfie while you saw, then upload it to social media and challenge at least three of your brain-dead mates to do the same. Hopefully it will lead to rapid evolutionary change in the next twenty to thirty years.
Okay. The last one may have sounded a little harsh. So here is another idea. Next year, we replace ‘Shocktober’ with ‘Cocktober’. This is where you get your severed member out of its cool bag and get sew it back on. Or shall we do it in Sewvember?
Was it mere coincidence that several hours after the news broke that another ‘Islamic State’ hostage was apparently executed last Sunday ITV decided to pull its listed screening of ‘Carry On….Don’t Lose Your Head’, replacing it with another in that series, ‘Carry On Loving’?
Whilst ITV appear to have neither confirmed nor denied that this decision was based on events in the Middle East, it seems reasonable to surmise that this may well have been an attempt on behalf of a high-profile corporation to avoid causing ‘offence’, and thereby avoiding the need to feel the full force of tabloid fury and censure after eleven complaints are received from irate and morally outraged members of a Baptist church in Shrewsbury, Quentin Letts, and his dog ‘Whitehouse’. Who needs that kind of bad publicity?
Romperredes has learned that following the initial decision to pull the film, ITV had planned to screen ‘Carry On Up The Khyber’ by way of an alternative. That, too, was pulled following a call from Number 10 Downing Street who complained about the following excerpt from the film:
The Khasi of Kalabar: They will die the death of a thousand cuts!
Princess Jelhi: Oh, but that’s horrible
The Khasi of Kalabar: Not at all, my little desert flower. The British are used to cuts!
The last couple of days have been utterly traumatic for the people of this country. There have been tears and anger in spades, and an outraged public left seething, as another hideous scandal has hit the front page and the country is left questioning itself and how to get over this latest shocking revelation. One of the protagonists has been quoted as saying that the ‘knives are out for her’ as the shock waves continue to reverberate. Indeed, it only seems a matter of time before the government will feel compelled to intervene to avert a national crisis, as it appears that Great British Bake Off ‘pariah’ Diana Beard has dramatically quit the show following high drama as one of her rivals, Iain Watters, saw his ‘Baked Alaska’ melt, prompting him to storm off the set.
Accusations appear to have been made that the dramatic turn of events was the result of Ms Beard, in an act of sabotage, taking the pudding out of the freezer, thereby causing it to melt. Ms Beard, who doesn’t possess one, strenuously denies these serious allegations and will undoubtedly be taking legal advice very soon. The BBC have indicated that they have to date received some 556 complaints about the episode, some of them branding Ms Beard as “evil”. Ms Beard for her part said “Why would I want to sabotage Iain’s Baked Alaska? I was very pleased to get through the first week – everything after that was a bonus. Iain does not hold me responsible at all for his failed ice cream. In fact, he rang me three days ago to warn me that the knives were out”.
In other news, it appears up to 1,400 children have been systematically abused over many years in some northern town.
It’s official. The moral fabric of the country has now undeniably rotted to rags with the decision of Travelodge, one of the country’s biggest hotel chains, to remove Bibles from its rooms. The chain cited increasing ‘multi-cultural diversity’ as one of the main reasons behind the decision.
The decision should have raised the question of what in God’s name, quite literally, Bibles are doing there in the first place. The practice of leaving Bibles in hotel rooms began in the late nineteenth century when a couple of American travelling businessmen had the idea of ‘witnessing for Christ’ on the road. Clearly these businessmen were not quite as financially astute as Billy Graham, since giving away books generally doesn’t generate much revenue and you’re also left in the position of finding funding to buy the books before you give them away.
Don’t get me wrong. I have generally found the presence of a Bible in the bedside drawer to be a useful thing in most of the hotel rooms I have stayed in. How else are you going to ensure that the fourth leg of that wobbly table is supported, or stop the badly fitting en-suite bathroom door from rattling in the dead of night? It is also a useful item to throw repeatedly at the ceiling when the couple in the room above are going at it in the squeaky bed until 3am, at the same time invoking the apt line from that Christmas classic, ‘Oh come, all ye faithful, and for God’s sake make it soon!’
I feel a little sorry for Travelodge. I mean, what if every denomination of every religion in the world wanted to leave a copy of its religious scripture in a hotel bedroom? Well, the first observation is that not only would a bedside drawer not be big enough, but you would probably find it impossible to push the room door open from the outside, due to it being filled from floor to ceiling with religious texts.
Of course, the answer many would give to this is ‘This is a Christian country, built on Christian principles.’ Oh, really? This would be the same religion whose religious text (the Bible, coincidentally enough) has such gender equality gems as “As in all the congregations of the saints, women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission, as the Law says. If they want to inquire about something, they should ask their own husbands at home;” (1 Corinthians 14:34-35). Neither was Jesus very big on having women as part of his ‘core’ ministry of twelve. I doubt many victims of the numerous, literal ‘witch hunts’ down the centuries felt much like applauding Christian principles as they were plunged into water or felt the flames licking their toes. Christianity is really not into democracy at all, when you think about it. I mean, when the whole thing is built on the principle of trying to shoehorn yourself into following a lot of instructions to make sure you can spend eternity endlessly worshipping an almighty ‘God’ whose feet you are not fit to lick, it is hard to see where the democracy fits in. ‘We don’t feel like worshipping today, Lord, and we’ve all taken a vote and decided we’re off to the pub.’ Yeah, right. Now back on your knees, before I get mad; which God does quite a lot of in the Old Testament.
But the best thing about the decision by Travelodge has to be that it will get right up the nostrils of two groups that really have no equal when it comes to mindless stupidity and misplaced moral righteousness; Daily Mail readers and evangelical Christians.