Quite often, when I read the latest story about Neo-Gers, I’m transported back to my days as a teacher. I can’t even begin to count the number of times I had to speak to a parent about their child’s behaviour, only to hear, “What aboot…?” Such a parent was obviously embarrassed about the poor job they were doing and could only justify themselves by pointing to what they perceived as the faults of others. Neo-Gers are getting worse and worse for this kind of thing and they’re just as pathetic as those parents were.
“Listen, Ah know ma boay’s nae angel, but…”
You’ve got to laugh at their moaning; if anyone’s being cheated, it’s certainly not them. The Compliance Officer is having to clear up behind referees that are, at best, incompetent and at worst, cheating bastards. Players that should have been sent off are being allowed to stay on for the whole match, while opposition teams are denied penalties etc. They’ve got one thing right, though; they are being treated differently from other teams.
I see Willie Collum is finally getting to referee a Neo-Gers game again; a meaningless (for Neo-Gers anyway) match against Kilmarnock at Rugby Park. The Peeppul, though, are going to keep a close eye on him, ready for any ‘misdemeanour’ on his part. You can read here the kind of thing going through their thick heads. Er…what was that their club was saying about the referee’s decisions being final?
El Guffalo’s dearest hopes have been dashed and he hasn’t been selected for the Colombian World Cup squad, even though the shortlist includes ten strikers. The Daily Record thinks it’s because of his discipline problems, but surely the Colombian coach, Carlos Quiroz, has been apprised of the fact that Morelos is only being picked on because of his colour and only gets red cards because he plays for Neo-Gers? Meanwhile, I’ve discovered the reason why El Guffalo hasn’t learned English yet. He believed all the shite about Chinese teams looking to sign him and has been learning Mandarin instead. The Peeppul are happy enough about this; mandarins are orange, aren’t they?
Am I the only one that found Neil Lennon’s rant quite disconcerting? Most folk’s take on it is that we should get off Lenny’s back and let him get on with the job. Fair enough, but I was disturbed by all the stuff about entitlement and looking back on the bad, old days of the 1990s. It was as if we were being told that we can’t expect to go on winning and not to be too shocked if we don’t. Why come out with this stuff at this time? Are we being warned that next season is going to be a struggle? Are the Huns right to believe that the Celtic board is worried? I don’t like it. As I said, it’s disconcerting.
“Aye, it was bad, so it was. Those were dark days. Just ask Paul McStay if you don’t believe me. Still, as I always say, you’ve got to look at the bright side, haven’t you?”
I don’t want to get into all the Hun shite about child abuse, but let me just point out one thing. Isn’t it strange how investigative journalism, which has been posted missing in Scotland for at least seven years now, has suddenly had a resurgence?
I see that celebrity (?) Patrick Kielty, whose main claim to fame seems to be that he’s married to Cat Deeley, has decided to join the long list of soup-takers demanding an end to Catholic schools. It seems to have escaped his notice that Northern Ireland has the exact same system as Scotland, in which RE is compulsory and, by law, has to be Christianity-based. And, just as in Scotland, there’s no such thing as a non-denominational school; they’re all ‘Protestant’. You never hear these cunts suggesting that all religion is taken out of schools, as in America. As such, all they’re doing is sucking up to Orange bigots.
Staying with Northern Ireland, I saw a video clip on Twitter of an ex-soldier, complaining about the treatment being meted out to his old comrades. He talks of ‘the conflict in NI’; presumably, he means a ‘conflict’ like the Falklands Conflict, i.e. a war. Now, if it was a war, then the British Government is guilty of maltreating POWs under International Law. If, on the other hand, the British Army was there, as we were told, as a peace-keeping force, then those soldiers that shot unarmed civilians are guilty of murder. They can’t have it both ways.
And, speaking of wars, have you seen all those sad bastards complaining about the current series of Game of Thrones? Apparently, they’re unhappy with how the characters have been developed, particularly that of Daenerys Targaryen, who they think has changed too much, too quickly. They’ve even got a petition up, demanding that Series 8 is remade with ‘competent’ writers. If they honestly think that people, especially those in power, can’t change practically overnight then they haven’t been paying attention to history. Maybe they should take a look at the life of Alexander the Great. He completely lost the nut after his close friend, and possible lover, Hephaestion, died, as well as his horse Bucephalus. He turned into a violent drunk, lashing out at everybody. Those petitioners can either read up on that or get a fucking life!
“Ur you tryin’ tae make oot thit Ah’m some kinna drunk ur sumhin’? Ah’ll Dracarys your arse, ya fuckin’ dobber!”
I’m obviously getting old and gradually turning into my Latin teacher. He used to get annoyed at people misusing words and using the wrong words. Unfortunately, I’m becoming the same. While his pet hate was folk saying ‘flaunting’ when they meant ‘flouting’, mine is the way ‘wrestled’ is constantly misused in the papers. The latest one is about someone having his bike stolen, only for his friend to spot it and ‘wrestle’ it from the thief. The word should be wrest, for fuck’s sake! Maybe I’m being pedantic, but surely if you call yourself a journalist you should own a dictionary and a thesaurus. Unless, of course, the bike thief was actually tackled by Big Daddy or Giant Haystacks. In which case, I apologise profusely.
“Geez that fuckin’ bike, fanny-baws!”
Finally, I’ve had a bit of bad news. I got the results of my blood test and it turns out that I’ve got Type 2 Diabetes. I’ve received the standard ‘Coping With Diabetes’ pack, with a short book entitled, “So, You’re a Fat Bastard…” As well as telling you about diet and how you should be taking exercise, there are other matters to take on board. For one thing, if you’ve been diagnosed with Type 2 it means that you’re officially Hun Size. It’s a frightening thought. I’m nowhere near as big as some of those cunts you see occupying two and three seats at Ibrox with their enormous arses, but, seemingly, I’ve passed some kind of threshold.
There are also psychological effects associated with the condition, which are tied-in with being Hun Size. Already I’m feeling strong urges to phone Clyde Superscoreboard and have been spending every spare minute searching online for a photo of Cyril Smith wearing a Celtic scarf. The Diabetes Pack reflects this side of the condition and includes a discount voucher for an Ibrox season ticket and a book of bigoted songs. There’s also a family-sized tube of KY Jelly and an instruction leaflet telling you how to smuggle things up your arse to throw at Celtic players. Apparently, it’s possible to get a whole keg of beer up there, though I don’t think I’ll be trying that anytime soon.
“Emdy fancy a beer?”
“Er…naw, yer awright!”
The only way to avoid going down this route is to lose weight to fight against the symptoms of Diabetes. That means I’ll have to give up my beloved biscuits and diet cola and subsist on bread (wholemeal, of course) and water. It also involves – Gasp! – exercise and, no doubt, I’ll have to give up smoking as well. Christ, will life even be worth living? I’m having cold sweats just thinking about it. If I start deleting my books from Amazon and start going all Billy ‘Burger’ King on here, you’ll know I’ve failed miserably.
“Awright, troops? What a fuckin’ big jessie, moanin’ aboot Diabetes! If ye’re really gonny bae wan-y The Peeppul, ye need tae hiv gout, phlebitis an’ a serious heart condition an’ aw. An’ ye don’t need tae bother wi’ diets; jist eat whatever ye waant. If thur’s any ill effects, then that’s what doacters get pyed fur, intit? An’ ye’ll get aw the exercise ye need waddlin’ behind the Walk every July.”
Details of all my books can be found…naw, fuck it! They aw jist say bad hings aboot Raynjurz. Now, excuse me, I’m away to send some abusive tweets to Angela Haggerty!