I’ve been busy down the swear-word mines, writing Part 6 of the Neo-Gers Saga. I’m nearly finished and then it’s just a case of editing and sorting the layout. I’m running out of punk bands for the title and chapter headings. There are plenty I could use but the song titles don’t always fit my chapters. I think I might have to use the Monochrome Set instead.
By God, there are some Huns definitely hurting like hell out there. Not only was it ‘not a penalty’ but it seems Scott Brown was ‘squaring up’ at the end. They’re even celebrating over on Follow Follow because the open-topped bus parade had to be cut short. I suppose these tiny, pathetic victories are all they have.
And the glass-half-empty brigade are out in force, bemoaning the fact that Neil Lennon’s been offered the manager’s job. Did they honestly think that Celtic could afford to splash out on some of the names that were being bandied about? Remember, Lenny left before because the board wouldn’t back him, so, if he takes the job, I’d imagine some firm promises would have to be forthcoming. And wouldn’t the money saved by Rodgers slithering off be better spent on players than on another manager trying to earn his way back to the EPL?
Speaking of which, as folk have already been saying on here, JJ has made an absolute arse of himself, and continues to do so. I rarely visit his site unless somebody on here mentions him, which a lot of you have been doing. I noticed that when he was telling us that Moyes was on his way that he announced he was a ‘journalist’. Well, he got that right since he shovels as much of the brown stuff as anybody in the Daily Record or Evening Times. And now he’s threatening to ‘resign’. Who does he think he is, Theresa May? It seems he does, since he’s putting it to the vote. It’s a restricted electorate, though, since you can only vote if you’ve stumped up for his forensic journalism. There are already folk pleading with him not to go. I think Hector’s right, though, and these characters are simply figments of JJ’s imagination.
JJ admires a portrait of himself with one of his friends.
Sticking with ‘journalism’ and surely the Evening Times should be renaming itself The Peeppul’s Friend. It was the only ‘newspaper’ to give the Orange Order a voice in its desperate quest to be allowed to march past Catholic churches and shout, “Fenian bastards!” at anyone that happens to be around. They’re coming out with the usual shite about no-go areas for Protestants. They’ve made a slight change to that, saying that there are now no-go areas for folk that are identifiably Protestant. I take it from that they mean fat gorillas dragging their knuckles along the street. Mind you, that doesn’t point to them being Protestants, merely members of The Peeppul.
Talking of cunts, I see Joseph Devine, ex-Bishop of Motherwell has died. I’ve always been of the opinion that if you’re a cunt when you’re alive, death doesn’t diminish your cuntishness one iota. And Joseph Devine was a cunt. He’s the one that kicked me out of Catholic schools. Nobody in Glasgow had a problem with me not being married. As one priest pointed out, it wasn’t as if I was sleeping with somebody different every weekend. Then I got a temporary post out Easterhouse way and discovered that the area came under Motherwell diocese. I was summoned to Mothewell to ‘discuss’ things with the Bishop’s representative.
I was told that not only could I not work in Catholic schools, but that I was banned from taking Communion as well. The priest’s face turned red when I mentioned that I’d been at Stirling University. He had good reason to be embarrassed. The Catholic chaplain at Stirling was one Father Des Lynagh. It wasn’t until the 1990s that the news broke that Lynagh was a kiddie-fiddler, who had been moved to Stirling by his bishop, Joseph Devine. I asked the Bishop’s rep why it was okay for this pervert to consecrate the Eucharist but I wasn’t allowed to take it. He had no answer to this, but merely said that the Bishop had made his decision. As I said, a cunt.
I can’t be the only one that found the recent Graham Dorrans saga a bit hard to swallow. Firstly, we were told that he’d been ‘bottled’ and then it turned out that it was somebody in his crowd that threw the bottle. Dorrans had simply received a punch or a push and, being a Neo-Gers player, went down like a sack of Jersey Royals and hit his head off the kerb. He needed stitches for his wound, which, of course, makes him a hero in the eyes of The Peeppul.
At first, when they thought he’d been bottled, they were out for blood; Fenian blood. Their automatic assumption was that it was a Celtic supporter that did it. They always assume that because they do that kind of thing, so does everybody else. Then they discovered that the guy that caused Dorrans’s downfall came from Dundee. It shows that play-off final in an entirely new light. Maybe United wanted to avoid hordes of angry Huns turning up at Tannadice.
The real story about Dorrans is still to come out, but it seems like it might well have been his own fault. Pictures and videos have been doing the rounds, showing Dorrans, Ryan Jack and their spouses having a drink by the pool. Both Dorrans and Jack got utterly guttered; something we’ve all done during the day when on holiday. They didn’t act like normal people, though, and fall asleep in the sun, then waken up burnt to fuck. Instead, they staggered off to some watering-hole to keep their tanks topped up. There, they got caught up in some big barney going on and the rest, as they say, is history. The Neo-Gers board, meanwhile, are demanding that the Compliance Officer look into the matter.
Dorrans and Jack soak up the sun.
What was all that about in the Daily Record the other day? If a film comes out, or there’s a new TV series on, set in the 1950s, say, then the papers will be full of things about life in the 50s. I haven’t heard anything about a film or TV programme set in the 1990s, yet the Record saw fit to regale us with the best TV of the 90s, favourite toys of the 90s, nightclubs of the 90s etc. etc. There appeared to be no rhyme nor reason for it. It was like the adverts for the Sun you used to get in the 70s and 80s. You know the sort of thing – “It’s Big Knockers week – in the Sun!” The only possible reason for it was to stir up nostalgic feelings about the 90s. Now, what section of the Scottish population pines for the days of the 1990s?
“Fucked if Ah know who ay’s oan aboot!”
I see that Steven MacLean, of Hearts, has accused Scott Brown and Mikael Lustig of being ‘classless’. What? As classless as giving a guard of honour while keeping your hands behind your back? Or maybe he wants them to show their ‘class’ by singing the Billy Boys.
If proof were needed that folk nowadays are a load of saps, it came in the news that people were sobbing because the sound was poor at a Spice Girls concert. It wasn’t like that in my day. I remember being at a Damned concert at the Glasgow Apollo. They played for about forty minutes and then buggered off offstage. There was no sobbing, just a loud voice from the gallery yelling, “Hey, ya bastards! Ah pyed £2.50 fur this fuckin’ ticket. Get yer arses back here!” A cheer went up and everybody started shouting at them to come back. They did.
Thanks to some of the folk on here offering items to get me though this diabetes shite. Ta for the offer of venison, Hector, but I tasted it once years ago and thought it was disgusting! And, Robert, thanks for the offer of the vegan cookbook, but Der Fuhrer’s already got dozens of cookbooks, most of which haven’t ever been opened. This diabetes lark is going to mean a few changes for her too. Due to my depression, I can’t face making anything, so Der Fuhrer does the cooking. The majority of her recipes, though, involve piercing the lid several times. That’ll have to change.
“If yer no’ happy, get yer ain fuckin’ dinner!”
Mind you, I’m beginning to wonder about her intentions. Only a few healthy-type foods have been purchased and she hasn’t cut back on buying the crisps and biscuits. I’ve actually been really good at avoiding temptation, but I think she’s trying to feed me into an early grave. Never mind The Peeppul’s filthy songs about the Lisbon Lions; it’s me that won’t see ten in a row!
“Awright, troops? Intit good tae see thit the Brexit Party huv done well in the elections? That’ll send a message tae Brussels thit wae waant nuhin’ mair tae dae wi’ theym an’ thur fuckin’ sprouts. It gets oan ma fuckin’ wick, though, the wye aw us UKIP an’ Brexit Party voters ur branded iz racists. Ah’m no’ a fuckin’ racist. Ah jist don’t like foreigners.”
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