Tag Archives: author

I Blame Telly. Really, I do!

It fucking doesn't!

In all the soul searching and hand wringing that has gone on since the riots that engulfed London, Birmingham and Manchester barely two weeks ago, little has been mentioned about what I regard as one of the major factors to have impacted on the fabric of British society over the last 50 or so years.

For whilst much has been made of the role computer games have played in the desensitisation of violence and the fact that music videos are increasingly portraying women as little more than sexual objects (and where are the feminists in that debate? Gyrating to Rihanna along with their 8 year old daughters perhaps?) little has been made of the most powerful medium of all, television.

Now I love TV. It is an amazing thing and the people who work within it produce some incredible programming. Yet as a weapon, it is unrivalled. For it has the potential to shape public opinion in a way no other medium can and only a fool would deny that it has certainly been wielded plenty of times over the years and for all kinds of reasons.  Some good, most bad.

Never is this more graphically illustrated than in the soaps. Soaps are different to all other forms of entertainment in that they are infinite. Characters come, evolve and go, storylines unfold and die but the essence remains constant. This is of course, one of the great attractions and for many viewers that essence becomes so familiar that it takes on a sense of reality. A place it stops being the product of some writers imagination and is instead somewhere where the characters change from jobbing actors into into real people who actually experience real things. It’s Truman in all but name.

The arguement often put forward in defence of this type of programming is that it’s art mirroring life which would be fine if they showed lives, communities and problems which were actually ‘normal’ in the sense that yours and my lives are normal but they do not. Instead they paint a warped and necessarily condensed picture of a drama. One where hatred, shouting, violence, criminality and dysfunctional families are everyday normality.

And if you’re 7 and your evenings involve sitting in front of some screaming banshee supposedly living in a Manchester suburb and your only datum point is a home life which isn’t that far removed from what you’re seeing on screen, it simply becomes an extension of reality. When that is so destructive (and so repetitive) it can only have a negative impact because if anti-social behaviour is something you witness on a daily basis and it is rarely if ever condemned, how can you hope to learn that it is unacceptable in the real ‘real’ world? 

TV... do your job!

Therefore, those who develop these storylines must be made aware that they too have a responsibility to society to portray life is it actually is as opposed to the twisted vision they trot out for us. Because whilst I’m sure everyone involved with Eastenders is happy to work there, I doubt any of them would actually want to live there in real life.

And that has to be the defining question all producers and commissioners need to ask themselves before they put their signature on that line to sign off that script. Because if it’s not good enough for them, why on earth should it be good enough for us?

The Riots….

Looters are scum

Like most people with a brain in their head, I was incensed to see the events in London unfold over the weekend. Looting has to be one of the most despicable of crimes and to see it happen on English streets leaves me disgusted.

Inevitably, the do-gooders have been quick to climb out from under their rocks and indulge in the typically anti-authority tirades they use to apportion blame to anyone but those actually responsible. However, this time even they are starting to realise that there are no excuses for this kind of behaviour and none are going to be accepted. The people who thought it ok to smash their way through windows and steal in pure daylight are vermin, pure and simple.

The interesting thing of course, is what happens next. I know North London , it’s where my family originated, and I have seen how the gangs have all but taken over the streets and brought fear and terror to the area. Yet the stark truth is that this is not as the community leaders will have you believe, the fault of the police, it is instead the fault of the community as a whole because they are the ones who have allowed this cancer to grow from within.

For it is a fact that every gang member is a son, brother, sister, friend or neighbour so why have they not done more to stop this culture developing under their noses? They after all, are the ones most directly affected as we have tragically seen over the weekend.

Instead, they have for years abdicated responsibility which is ironic given that the people they have abdicated it to are the same ones they are currently busy trying to blame for it all going horribly wrong.

Bring back the stocks!
Bring back the stocks!

Only by individuals facing up to their responsibility as either citizens or parents can the people of North London ever hope to rebuild trust and develop genuinely a safe and caring communities. It’s also the only way that those who live outside the borough of Tottenham will ever come to regard the people who live their with any degree of respect. 

Because have no doubt, unless they are seen to act, that will be the long term consequence of what happened at the weekend. The lessons of Broadwater Farm should have shown them that.

Things that piss me off. People with no shame…..

The other day, as the hacking scandal was still in the early stages of unfolding, I became embroiled in one of those ‘what’s wrong with the country’ type debates. Now usually I relish discussions like these because given that I am always right, it’s inevitable that sooner or later people will come round to my way of thinking and so the entertainment value comes in the journey they take to get there. However, in this instance time was pressing and so I let loose my killer point. The one I tend to save until close to the end. Because the simple truth is that the main thing wrong with this country is that the concept of shame has been lost.

Usually when I make this statement, it results in a silence. After all, it’s a fairly simplistic way of looking at things but it’s very rare that anyone can ever provide any kind of argument against it.

How else can you explain politicians refusing to take any blame for the damage they inflict on the population whilst at the same time bleeding us dry by fiddling their expenses blind? Or footballing greats trying desperately to line their own pockets by selling clubs to far-eastern ‘businessmen’? The answer of course is that they have no shame and if caught out, merely fight tooth and nail to escape any kind of justice be it legal or moral. Justice which would almost certainly never come anyway because as a people, we are ruled by apathy.

The irony is of course is that in the past we have relied on the press to fight our battles for us but in light of recent events, can we rely on that any more? I hope so. Jaundiced as I am against certain sections of the media as a result of my own experiences, I know that there are far more honest and decent journo’s than dodgy ones.

But for me, bent politicians, sportsmen, journalists or even coppers isn’t even the worst of it. Because for me the real rot happens nearer home. When I was younger claiming the dole was unthinkable because of the shame it would have heaped on you but more importantly, your parents.

However, that was nothing compared to the idea of falling pregnant outside of marriage…. Christ almighty, that was the stuff of nightmares for entire families who not so long ago would have farmed daughters out to aunties in the middle of nowhere rather than endure the humiliation of having a knocked up (and unmarried) daughter at home.

Yet these days, continuing to pop out kids whilst living off the state or claiming jobseekers or DLA whilst working on the sly are both seemingly acceptable career paths. How the fuck did that happen? How did it become OK to sponge or steal off of everyone else because make no mistake, that’s what we’re talking about here.

I seem to recall once reading that it took 16 taxpayers on an average wage to fund just one single parent who wasn’t working. Now I don’t know how accurate that is but it has to be pretty close and even if you halved that number, it is little more than a national disgrace. Think about that for a minute…. 8 people (at a generous best). That’s you and 7 of your mates. Working your tits off simply to fund one person. Nothing else…. just that one person.

It beggars belief doesn’t it. So why do we allow it to happen? The answer is simple really, because no one understands the concept of shame any more.

Don’t get me wrong, I know enough single mums (and dads) as well as lads out of work to know that we’re talking the exception rather than the rule and I also know enough people with disabilities to understand that they need all the help that we as a society can provide. But the reality is that there are far too many exceptions. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of hearing ‘I’d be £10 a week worse off if I went out to work’ because to me as a taxpayer, what that translates to is ‘if you went out to work you bastard, this country would be X amount BETTER off’. So fuck off out to work!

The government of course, would argue that they are doing what they can to get people back into work and to be fair, they are making the best of what is a shite situation left behind by a shite Labour government.

But until the people of this country decide that they are sick and tired of being taken for mugs by the idle and the feckless and actually start to help the authorities do something about it, nothing is going to change. We cannot afford for that to happen, not just financially but morally.

And maybe that’s where the real shame lies. With us.

The Safe Standing Debate

Safe Standing
Safe Standing

The other day, whilst listening to the great Adrian Durham on TalkSport I became slightly irritated.

To be fair, TalkSport tends to do that to me these days which is one of the main reasons why I listen to it so infrequently. Indeed,Durhamis one of only three broadcasters on the station whose opinion I actually put some value in

However, I digress. What caused my irritation was a woman who came on to take part in a debate on the issue of safe standing.

Now I have no firm opinions on this matter either way although I do think that the imposition of designated seating has had a catastrophic effect on the atmosphere at games and anything which would kick that into touch is alright by me.

Anyway, the source of my irritation  was a spokesperson (sic) for the Justice for the 96 campaign who came on and gave an impassioned plea which revolved around the idea that a return to any kind of terracing would be a huge slap in the face not only to the memory of the victims of the Hillsborough disaster but to those who continue to fight for justice.

Now as many people will know, I’ve written a lot about Hillsborough over the years and to say that my opinions have not always been universally praised would be something of an understatement. But whilst I have every sympathy for the families of all of the victims, the more I listened to her the more irritated I became. Primarily because she was talking complete and utter bollocks.

Every football fan knows that whatever the causes of the Hillsborough tragedy, it changed football forever and in all kinds of ways. Yet it is a fact that football is an evolutionary entity and to claim that a return to terracing would mean that 96 people had died for nothing is, as far as I am concerned, a genuine insult to their memory.

Because I’ve stood on terraces which were so steep that climbing up them almost required crampons and others which were so packed you could barely breath let alone fight. I’ve stood and watched games through steel bars, been crushed against fences and been treated like shit by policemen simply because I’ve had the temerity to visit their town to follow my team (irony alert I know!). Yet because of Hillsborough, none of those things exist any more.

But just as importantly, the simple fact of the matter is that if people want to stand at games (as they still do in the lower leagues and in parts of Europe) then they are going to, seats or no seats and laws or no laws -and let’s not forget, the 96 who died were, in the main, usually to be found standing on The Kop at Anfield rather than sitting in the stands.

So if we are now able to provide an environment in which the modern day football fan can stand both safely and legally, then we should do it.

For if Hillsborough is going to provide the game with a genuine legacy, safer standing should surely be it.

Feminists Suck.

Feminists should man up!
A Feminist

I won’t bother to list any of those here as some have already been tackled whilst others are on my ‘to do’ list. There is however, one subject I have been putting off tackling primarily because I’ve been wary of causing offence. But now, in the spirit of my new found approach of ‘not giving a toss’ (see previous blog) I am happy to turn my opinionated howitzer in its direction. That subject is women.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love women, really, I do. As I’ve said before, I think they are more fun, more supportive, usually more intelligent and generally better all round human beings than the average bloke. I’d even go so far as to say that if I had to list my top ten favourite mates and working colleagues, at least 8 of them would be female.

Yet in spite of that, in common with the majority of my fellow males, I find women totally confusing. Well, to be brutally honest, I think they are all barking mad.

In essence, that was the central theme of my novel Billy’s Log. Written as a response to the anti-male propaganda that was Bridget Jones’ Diary, I used it to try to convey the shear frustration increasing numbers of men had come to feel whilst trying to find a long-lasting relationship in the face of the feminist man hating onslaught that took hold of the UK in the early 90’s and which manifested itself most visibly in the horrific ‘laddette’ culture.

Much of Billy’s Log was based on my own experiences as a relatively shy and very average looking male but it struck a chord with a lot of lads who had been through similar experiences (and response to the recent launch of the eBook version has shown little has changed!). Unexpectedly, it also attracted favourable comments from a number of women many of whom told me that it had finally helped them understand that being a bloke isn’t always quite as simple as they had thought. 

However, this isn’t a blog about blokes, it’s a blog about women. And the older I get, the more it becomes increasingly clearer to me that much of the confusion which forms the core of the modern day battle of the sexes stems from one simple truth. For whilst women have quite rightly sought equality both in the home and the workplace, when it comes to their relationship with the male of the species they have never actually been able to come up with a true definition of what equality actually means. Or to put it another way, they have no idea what it is they actually want.

What this means in real terms is that they are, to coin a phrase, fucked. Because without that definition the only thing they can do is to aspire toward what men have. That’s fine if you think equality means being able to get shit-faced, vomit in the street and act like a complete twat every Friday and Saturday night but not so fine if you actually want to hang on to your self-respect.

But more importantly, what this also means is that in the drive to be ‘equal’ (whatever it means) too many young women have given up the one thing that defines their sex; femininity. I mean for gods sake, this very weekend London will see women protesting under the banner of a ‘slut walk’. If it wasn’t so sad it’d be funny.

For me, this self-inflicted demise of femininity has been an own-goal of Ryan Giggs proportions. Not least because it has completely baffled entire generations of men who now take their emotional life in their hands whenever they open a door for a woman or perish the thought, pay her a compliment! (and lads, just for a laugh the next time you are out, say something complimentary to a random woman. Trust me, it will freak her out) and as a consequence prefer instead to seek solace in the company of other like-minded and equally baffled male souls. 

The tragic but inevitable result of this has been that the art of courtship and romance has all but vanished. Indeed, to me one of the great ironies of the modern age is that single women spend their lives bemoaning the lack of romantic men when they are the ones who have scared them all off! Women of course will argue that until the cows come home but from where I’m sitting it’s a cast iron fact. And let’s not forget something here…. that word, equality. It works both ways remember. So lads, when was the last time your other half did something romantic for you? I’m not talking permission for the odd fumble (which they told us for years wasn’t what they actually meant by ‘romance’!) or the odd pack of Primark pants, I’m talking flowers, chocolates, tickets to football or even an unexpected pack of Bud! I rest my case.

And that’s the bottom line here. Equality might mean equal but when it comes to relationships too many women don’t actually want real equality at all. They want the pick and mix version. The one where they get the good bits such as the romance and the emotional support but without having to give too much if anything back in return.

women, know you job. It's cooking, kids and sex.
Happy Wife

Yet what the hell is wrong with the idea of a woman who actually wants to stay at home to make it a warm and welcoming environment in which to bring up her kids? Absolutely nothing, that’s what! Let’s be honest, can you honestly say that this would not be a better country if more mums did that? Bloody right it would. Thankfully there are plenty of women who are happy to fulfil that most important of roles and so shouldn’t one of the major aims of the feminist movement be to recapture the dignity of the housewife rather than continue to tag it as some kind of subservient occupation for women who aren’t clever or ambitious enough to want to do something ‘real’ and more productive!

Domestic slave

For as most blokes know only too well, the truth is that women actually hold all the power already. Be it in relationships, work or in the home. They’ve just forgotten how to wield it.

 

No More Mr Nice Guy.

As requested ...

The other day someone levelled an accusation at me. I have, apparently, mellowed.

Initially, I dismissed this outrageous slur out of hand but as they pointed out, my blog, which was set up for the sole purpose of providing somewhere for me to get things off my chest, has recently become little more than a cross between a glorified diary and a series of plugs. And to be fair, as I pondered this later on, I realised that my accuser was right. The question of course, is why?

After all, I pride myself on my love of moaning and as plenty of people can testify, it’s not like I moan any less these days nor is it for want of suitable subject matter! Leaving aside my personal and working life (if only you knew the half of it!) I only have to pick up any national newspaper or turn on TalkSport and I guarantee that within 30 seconds I’ll be off about something.

Equally, I have always loved sitting down and tearing into something or someone but it is nevertheless a fact that my enthusiasm for letting rip has indeed waned in recent months. Which brought me back to the question of why?

However, before I could even begin the search for an answer to this most simple of questions, it landed in my inbox courtesy of The Purple Diva. An amazing woman and a fabulous writer who does things with words the like of which I can only dream about. And it came courtesy of a simple URL. A URL which led me to what I can only term a proper full bore championship winning rant.

It was sent in January 2001 by the famous author Hunter S. Thompson to Holly Sorensen, then a Production Executive at an independent film studio, The Shooting Gallery and related to the adaptation of his novel, The Rum Diary, to which Sorensen’s studio held the rights. Things had not gone well and eventually, Thompson reached boiling point.

Read on…..

Transcript

To HOLLY SORENSON / Shooting Gallery / Hollywood / Jan 22 ’01

Dear Holly,

Okay, you lazy bitch, I’m getting tired of this waterhead fuckaround that you’re doing with The Rum Diary.

We are not even spinning our wheels aggressively. It’s like the whole Project got turned over to Zombies who live in cardboard boxes under the Hollywood Freeway… I seem to be the only person who’s doing anything about getting this movie Made. I have rounded up Depp, Benicio Del Toro, Brad Pitt, Nick Nolte & a fine screenwriter from England , named Michael Thomas, who is a very smart boy & has so far been a pleasure to talk to & conspire with…

So there’s yr. fucking Script & all you have to do now is act like a Professional & Pay him. What the hell do you think Making a Movie is all about? Nobody needs to hear any more of that Gibberish about yr. New Mercedes & yr. Ski Trips & how Hopelessly Broke the Shooting Gallery is…. If you’re that fucking Poor you should get out of the Movie Business. It is no place for Amateurs & Dilletants who don’t want to do anything but “take lunch” & Waste serious people’s Time.

Fuck this. We have a good writer, we have the main parts casted & we have a very marketable movie that will not even be hard to make….

And all you are is a goddamn Bystander, making stupid suggestions & jabbering now & then like some half-bright Kid with No Money & No Energy & no focus except on yr. own tits…. I’m sick of hearing about Cuba & Japs & yr. Yo-yo partners who want to change the story because the violence makes them Queasy.

Shit on them. I’d much rather deal with a Live asshole than a Dead worm with No Light in his Eyes…. If you people don’t want to Do Anything with this movie, just cough up the Option & I’ll talk to someone else. The only thing You’re going to get by quitting and curling up in a Foetal position is relentless Grief and Embarrassment. And the one thing you won’t have is Fun…

Okay, That’s my Outburst for today. Let’s hope that it gets Somebody off the dime. And if you don’t Do Something QUICK you’re going to Destroy a very good idea. I’m in the mood to chop yr. fucking hands off.

R.S.V.P

(Signed)

HUNTER

Upon reading this, I immediately realised what my problem has been. Instead of embracing the concept that my blog allows me the freedom to say pretty much what I want about what I want whenever I want, I had instead begun to follow the ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’ ideal.

More worryingly, that had also begun to spill over into my working life. My god, I have lost count of the number of times in recent months I have encountered either ineptitude, deceit or even condescension and instead of sending off a Thompsonesque style missile aimed directly at the relevant anus, I have sat back and done pretty much sod all. In essence, I had somehow become ‘nice’.

Fuck off

Well fuck that. No more doormat for me. Normal service is about to resume.

Be warned….

It’s true. I’m in love.

Yes, I have recently fallen head over heels in love. Such an admission is, I know, not exactly blokey and I doubt many people who read these all too infrequent ramblings of mine will ever have expected to view those words here but it is nevertheless, a fact. I am besotted.

I’d actually go so far as to say I’m happy which, as anyone who knows me will understand, is not a phrase which normally sits comfortably in my shoulders but hey, a good female can have that effect sometimes.

We met, like increasing numbers of people in these hectic times, via the internet and it took just one brief glance at her picture for me to know that we were destined to be together. Call it love at first sight if you like but within 48 hours, we were a couple and I know my life will never be the same.

The object of my affection? A 1997 Mercedes Vito van who I met via the petrol heads dating site that is the motors section of eBay. And I say who rather than which for a reason. Because my van isn’t simply a collection of metal objects thrown together on some assembly line in Germany and used and abused first by the RAC and then an electrician from Redbourn, she has a soul.

I know that because she’s already responding to the love, care and attention I have been pouring upon her. I’m not just talking stuff like the obligatory scrub up here, I’m talking proper maintenance. Oil & filter changes, sorting dodgy wiring and let me tell you, nothing helps forge a bond between a man and his vehicle like changing a dodgy driveshaft.

The result? Well at the risk of this sounding like a sexual metaphor, each time I climb inside her she seems more pleased to see me than the last time. She starts easier, runs more smoothly and little things that didn’t work when we first met have suddenly and mysteriously started to function. It’s like my own version of ‘Christine’ but without the brutal massacre of people who cross me (although I am hopeful that may begin any day).

As for me, well driving, which I’ve always loved, has suddenly taken on new levels of pleasure and I feel increasingly like Toad of Toad Hall as we bowl around the country together, windows open and without a care in the world. And let me tell you, having a mobile space the size of a garage available to you is even more useful than you can imagine! Oh yes, I am a van convert.

But equally, the fact that she only cost me £500 means that….. no, I can’t say that. Of course I care about her and in no way is she disposable!

Yet deep in my heart I know that even though we are still basking in the dawn glow of our relationship, one day it will end and she will shuffle off to the great big car park in the sky (or more likely, Africa via Tilbury Docks). And whilst I will be heartbroken for a time, I’m sure that eventually a new love will come into my life almost certainly via eBay dating and possibly even a slammed VW T4 with air con and some decent alloys.

But until then……. 

 

Football…. enough said

I have recently received a number of emails asking me why I rarely seem to blog about football these days. It is after all the subject of most of my books and given that the bulk of the content is forged from my opinions, it is reasonable to expect that I will have comments to make on most things relating to the great game and that a blog is the perfect place to put them.

There is however, a significant difference between the two. Yes, I know I’ve written entire volumes which amount to little more than a series of rants about this or that but books take time to research and construct and even longer to make the leap from my laptop to the shelves in Waterstones. Blogs are more instantaneous and as such, the risk to both my blood pressure and my bank balance are immeasurably greater. After all, I am knocking on a bit and I’ve almost been sued twice for things I’ve put in books and they were viewed by lawyers before they went into print! I can have a blog online in seconds so who knows what trouble that could get me into!!!

As a consequence and in a rare fit of common sense, I realised long ago that if I’m going to rant about anything in my blog, it needs to be about things into which I can try to inject either some humour or some sarcasm. Possibly even both. That isn’t to say that whatever I write isn’t genuine or heartfelt because in the main, it will be but if I’m going to do it, it’ll only be because I enjoy it.

That’s the problem I have with blogging about football. For there is so much about the great game which just simply pisses me off that I fear that at my age, my meagre brain would go into meltdown if I went off on one about it. Call me old-fashioned, but life as a gibbering wreck doesn’t hold much of an appeal.

For example, everyone knows that football has been destroyed by greed, that agents are vermin and that most players seemingly have little in the way of morals or basic intelligence. Furthermore, a significant number would almost certainly be working in MacDonald’s or languishing in prison if things had gone slightly differently for them.

On top of that, anyone with an ounce of intellect knows that the majority of football fans are so blinded by passion and loyalty that they allow their clubs to treat them in a way which would have you calling Watchdog if Tesco’s tried it. I could go on, but I am sure you get my drift.

And so as a consequence, these days I tend to dismiss everything which doesn’t happen on the field of play no matter how ridiculous or outlandish it might be as being well, sadly typical whilst anything which happens on the field is largely irrelevant because if it doesn’t involve my beloved Watford, I don’t really care anyway.

There may of course be odd occasions where I won’t be able to help myself. In fact, when I heard news that the odious John Terry had been reappointed as England captain and was busily giving it the large one to sections of the media about how harshly he’d been treated in the past, I not only almost vomited but started to reach for a keyboard.

But those occasions will be few and far between. Football has after all, become a parody of itself these days and there are only so many ways you can say that without it getting boring.

Besides, there are so many more fun things to blog about these days. Oh yes indeed.

 

Football…. enough said

I have recently received a number of emails asking me why I rarely seem to blog about football these days. It is after all the subject of most of my books and given that the bulk of the content is forged from my opinions, it is reasonable to expect that I will have comments to make on most things relating to the great game and that a blog is the perfect place to put them.

There is however, a significant difference between the two. Yes, I know I’ve written entire volumes which amount to little more than a series of rants about this or that but books take time to research and construct and even longer to make the leap from my laptop to the shelves in Waterstones. Blogs are more instantaneous and as such, the risk to both my blood pressure and my bank balance are immeasurably greater. After all, I am knocking on a bit and I’ve almost been sued twice for things I’ve put in books and they were viewed by lawyers before they went into print! I can have a blog online in seconds so who knows what trouble that could get me into!!!

As a consequence and in a rare fit of common sense, I realised long ago that if I’m going to rant about anything in my blog, it needs to be about things into which I can try to inject either some humour or some sarcasm. Possibly even both. That isn’t to say that whatever I write isn’t genuine or heartfelt because in the main, it will be but if I’m going to do it, it’ll only be because I enjoy it.

That’s the problem I have with blogging about football. For there is so much about the great game which just simply pisses me off that I fear that at my age, my meagre brain would go into meltdown if I went off on one about it. Call me old-fashioned, but life as a gibbering wreck doesn’t hold much of an appeal.

For example, everyone knows that football has been destroyed by greed, that agents are vermin and that most players seemingly have little in the way of morals or basic intelligence. Furthermore, a significant number would almost certainly be working in MacDonald’s or languishing in prison if things had gone slightly differently for them.

On top of that, anyone with an ounce of intellect knows that the majority of football fans are so blinded by passion and loyalty that they allow their clubs to treat them in a way which would have you calling Watchdog if Tesco’s tried it. I could go on, but I am sure you get my drift.

And so as a consequence, these days I tend to dismiss everything which doesn’t happen on the field of play no matter how ridiculous or outlandish it might be as being well, sadly typical whilst anything which happens on the field is largely irrelevant because if it doesn’t involve my beloved Watford, I don’t really care anyway.

There may of course be odd occasions where I won’t be able to help myself. In fact, when I heard news that the odious John Terry had been reappointed as England captain and was busily giving it the large one to sections of the media about how harshly he’d been treated in the past, I not only almost vomited but started to reach for a keyboard.

But those occasions will be few and far between. Football has after all, become a parody of itself these days and there are only so many ways you can say that without it getting boring.

Besides, there are so many more fun things to blog about these days. Oh yes indeed.