So, the Morelos injury was nowhere near as bad as the agnivores were making out. According to them, he was stretchered off with his leg hanging by a thread. The physios had to be careful with it as one false move would have left El Guffalo’s leg behind on the pitch. And the prognosis wasn’t good. He was either going to end up like Ronald Reagan in Kings Row or, at best, like Long John Silver. As it turned out, all he needed was a wee kiss and a Paw Patrol elastoplast! The rest of the team are disappointed because they’d already chipped in to buy him a parrot.
“Parrots? At Ibrox? They should have bought him a canary! Just saying.”
The Huns, meanwhile, are going mental because the compliance committee couldn’t agree so El Guffalo’s ‘assailant’ has, as the Daily Record puts it, ‘escaped punishment’. The ex-referees could hardly find otherwise and probably just looked at the incident to keep The Peeppul happy. All the Huns are relying on is a picture that shows the United player with a straight leg. If you’ve actually seen the incident, you’ll know that the guy got the ball and then El Guffalo ran into him. Those blades they wear nowadays instead of studs did the rest. It was a complete accident. If the Huns think that was a red card, I wonder what they make of the Sam English/Johnny Thomson incident. By their standards, English murdered the Celtic goalie!
Which brings us on nicely to the article in the Herald on the new book about Rangers ‘legend’ Davie Meiklejohn. The book sounds a right load of pish. “I always thought of him as ‘the guy who killed John Thomson’,” says the arsehole of an author. He must be the only person in Scotland that thought that; everybody knows it was an accident. He can’t even get the details right, saying that “As he dived at the feet of Sam English the strikers steel toe-capped boot smashed into his head.” Steel toe-capped boot? What? Was he just coming off an early shift at Fairfields? The truth is that there were no boots, steel toe-capped or otherwise, involved. Thomson’s head actually crashed into English’s knee.
The book also claims that Celtic supporters followed English down to England simply to abuse him. What a crock of shite! As others have already pointed out, those Celtic supporters were hardly going to let their children starve just so they could travel to hurl abuse at someone. And as for English receiving abuse from rival fans, they simply couldn’t believe how quickly he returned to play; he looked like a callous bastard. As I point out in Hell of the Voidoids (available on Amazon – details below!), Bill Struth was the one to blame for that.
Away from football, it seems that there might be life on Venus. Some kind of stinking material is present in the atmosphere, which is, apparently, a sign of organic life. There must be billions of these creatures for their farts to hang about in the upper atmosphere like that. The big question is, though, why wasn’t this noticed before? Why have these Venusians decided to make their presence known at this time? The answer is obvious. They want to sign El Guffalo.
“Forty million Quatloos on the fat Hun!”
And I take it The Peeppul will be reaching for the Pepsi if they fancy a drink of cola. Coca-Cola will be totally off the menu. After all, Coca-Cola are, apparently, giving away free team shirts. Of course, it only applies to English Premiership teams, but if, God forbid, you were a Hun, would you take the chance?
On a similar theme, the ned’s ned, Barry Ferguson, is in the Daily Record talking about Umbro giving away kits for children’s teams. How many do you think Castore will be ordering? They’ve probably got the dyes in already.
Celtic, meanwhile, made heavy weather of it against St. Mirren and Edouard is going to have to stop showing off when he’s taking penalties. His smart-arse showboating can’t work forever. Still, a win is a win, although the agnivores can’t help getting their wee digs in talking of how Celtic managed to ‘edge past St Mirren’ and how it was a ‘narrow margin of victory’. Funnily enough, when Neo-Gers have a game like that, it’s called ‘grinding out a result’!
It seems the reports about the Neo-Gers players staying on a £120m super-yacht over in Gibraltar have been ever so slightly exaggerated. Just because it cost that amount doesn’t mean that it’s dear to stay on it; in fact, the players might not even be the only people aboard. It looks like it’s the modern-day equivalent of the SS Uganda!
SS Shitehoose, Gibraltar.
I was reading about that on Phil Mac Giolla Bhain’s blog, which I usually avoid but was interested to see what you were all talking about. His blog has been as boring as hell for quite a while now. I’m fed up reading about what a paradise the Irish Republic is. It’s a fucking country, much the same as any other, with both good and bad in it. I’ve met some Irish folk that were utter cunts. And, for Phil’s information, he’s not the only one whose antecedents were involved in chasing the British out of the 26 states. To hear him tell it, his family were the only ones responsible.
Something that amazes me is what is considered news these days. On the Microsoft Home Page the other day, there was a headline that said, “Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard’s daughters drink…” I have no idea who those people are, but I was intrigued about what the daughters drank. Buckfast? Bleach? After shave? Their own pish? I had to click on the link to find out. It turns out that they drink non-alcoholic beer. I mean, for fuck’s sake, who cares? How, in the name of Christ, is that news?
On the home front, Der Fuhrer was berating me the other day for not looking after myself. She went on about the smoking, the fizzy juice, the eating biscuits when I’ve got diabetes etc. etc. Apparently I’m going to be dead before too long. She said this while moaning that the humus she was wiring into was low-fat, which she’d bought by mistake. She was then moaning about not being allowed in to see the grandkids because our daughter is isolating. As I explained, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Her answer, with a shrug of the shoulders, was, “Och, if ye get Coronavirus, ye get it!” Wait a bloody minute here…
Thankfully, Der Jungfuhrer has had her Coronavirus test result back and it’s negative. Der Fuhrer’s reaction was, “Ah knew it. Ah kin tell!” I’ve told her to get in touch with the Scottish Government, or even the Westminster one; they could save an absolute fortune. Who the fuck needs tests when Der Fuhrer can just look at people and tell if they’ve got Coronavirus or not? Fame and fortune beckons.
“Ich kan schmell Der Covid!”
Also on the home front, Der Fuhrer has been watching Married At First Sight – Strilia, which means that I’m stuck with it on while I’m typing here. It’s bad enough that it’s a load of pish, but the way those Australians talk drives me up the fucking wall. Every sentence is said as if it’s got a question mark at the end of it. It seems to have been on forever so, hopefully, it finishes soon before I put my foot through the fucking screen!
And so to Monti. It seems that quite a few folk aren’t used to his idiosyncratic brand of humour. While he’s tidying his utility room, Monti likes to invent new ways to wind folk up. He’s already been blocked by umpteen people on Twitter, who are convinced that he’s a Hun in disguise. There’s no real harm in him, apart from being a stingy bastard. Buy a fucking book!
“Awright, troops? How the fuck kin emdy doubt thit that Dundee Hibs player should’ve been rid cairded an’ banned sign dye? The proof’s there in the photie, intit? Ays leg wiz straight, wintit? What mair dae they fuckin’ need? It’s open season oan Alfredo noo. Every cunt kin boot um up an’ doon the pitch an’ slash ays legs wi’ stanley blades ‘n ‘at. Ay’ll bae dyin’ tae get ooty this rancid, sectarian country. Ah blame that Sturgeon wan.”
And remember to consider Jerry’s book. It’s well worth it, I promise you. Available here.