Choc Ice and Chips (on the shoulder)

Not a choc-ice, per se, but a "Maxibon". The biscuit makes for a far more interesting culinary experience.

Pity the renowned international footballist and self-styled "best defender in the world", Mr. Rio Ferdinand. Following the acquital of the renowned international footballist and self-styled "boss gooser", Mr. John Terry, on charges of bestowing the less-than-flattering epithet "fucking black cunt" on Mr. Ferdinand's brother, the somewhat less renowned non-international footballist Mr. Anton Ferdinand, Mr. Ferdinand-the-elder-and- more-illustrious took to the popular cyber strand, "The Twitter", to make plain his feelings on the matter. A "follower" of his deposited a "tweet" stating that the renowned international footballist and self-styled "friend" of Mr. John Terry, Mr. Ashley Cole, was a "choc-ice" (sic.), which Mr. Ferdinand-the-elder-and-more-illustrious found hilarious, for unknown reasons.

Unfortunately, Mr. Ferdinand-the-elder-and-more-illustrious's quest for victim status at once remove ,as a result of this travesty of justice took something of a knock as he himself was accusing of condoning racial abuse; to whit the apparently perjorative term "choc-ice". Mr. Ferdinand-the-elder-and-more-illustrious (hereby known as Mr. FTEAML, because I am as tired as typing the full description as I am sure you are of reading it) hotly denied that the term was pejorative in a racially-insulting way; the term, it seems, was in common currency among the black community, and merely implied that Mr. Cole was a "fake".

(Eager to corroborate Mr. FTEAML's assertion, I searched cyberspace for the 1987 hit disc by the diaphoretic soul singer, Mr. Alexander O'Neal, in which he sang "you're a choc ice, baby/you can't conceal it/know how I know it/'cause I can feel it...". Sadly, my research yielded nothing. Perhaps Mr. O'Neal realised that the term did not "scan" to well in the song's lyrics,  and was in fact singing "you're a FLAKE, baby", referring to another popular chocolate confection. But I digress, wildly.)

Now, my concern is not to explore the etymology and motivation behind racially perjorative language, or to determine whether or not Mr. John Terry was guilty of the charges laid at his door (though I am of the opinion that he is an arrogant, odious lout who is overdue a good slap and will, if one believes in karma, be at the centre of a perfect shitstorm of his own making very soon indeed). What does interest me, however, is the seemingly irresistable urge for renowned international and non-international professional footballists to bare themselves to the full glare of public scrutiny via the gift of "The Twitter". When they are not accusing others of being a "choc-ice", a "Bounty bar", a "stick of rock", or some other confection, they are flaunting vulgar trinkets acquired using their ostenatious wealth, sharing the intimate details of their hair transplant or removal procedures, showing close-up images of their tumescent genitalia or, in perhaps the most bizarre and extreme example, believing himself to be the modern-day incarnation of M. René Descartes.

Perhaps the organization responsible for "The Twitter" should carry an additional question on their registration procedure, stating thus: "Are you a professional footballist (international or non-international) of some renown?" All answers in the affirmative should result in the submitter being placed on the opposite side of a firewall from "The Twitter", and guided toward a locale more suited to their psyche. As well as protecting them from themselves, this exclusion of renowned international/non-international footballists should also serve to spare the rest of us from the inane baiting of shit cunts moronic trolls eager to serve their own egos.

Do others imagine that renowned international/non-international footballists are aware of what twits they appear to be via the gift of "The Twatter"?

Carr crash television

 

The "Down's Roger Federer", entertaining the Invisible Man, recently.

It seems that the television comedian, Mr. Jimmy Carr, has found himself in a little difficulty, courtesy of The Times newspaper. The paper reported that Mr. Carr has been paying his earnings into a Jersey-based entity, which then paid him the money back in the form of loans, thus considerably reducing his liability to income tax. Once the "story" entered the public domain, the Prime Minister, First Lord of the Treasury and forgetful parent Mr. David Call-Me-Dave smelt a little populist opportunism and publicly poured opprobrium upon Mr. Carr's head.  

 

I have to say, I do feel a certain amount of sympathy for the omnipresent "funnyman". Whether or not you feel that he pays enough of his income to HM Treasury is a moot point; to be singled out for criticism over one's moral fibre by Mr. Call-Me-Dave makes him the victim of rank hypocrisy.

Oddly, when Mr. Call-Me-Dave was asked about similar schemes utilised by the likes of the recently-ennobled Mr. Gary Barlow (also reported by The Times), and whether the tax affairs of an individual should be a consideration in the bestowing of honours, Mr. Call-Me-Dave stated that he would "not comment on individuals in terms of what's happening in a newspaper report" (unless, of course, that individual was Mr. Jimmy Carr).

In my line of employment, as a freelance consultant specialising in matters of Information Technology, such schemes are commonplace among the denizens of the industry, although I do not employ them myself. I should not morally censure somebody for attempting to maximise their income and reduce their liability for taxation; but then again I am not employed by The Times, and I am not desperately attempting to prove to Lord Justice Leveson that my organization was capable of serious, "responsible" journalism.

Mr. Carr says that his involvement in this financial scheme was "a mistake", and states that he has withdrawn from it. Rather strange, given that Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs deem the arrangement to be legal. I cannot imagine that Mr. Barlow shall follow suit, but then again Mr. Barlow's might so do if his audience consisted of drunken, heckling boors rather than moist-gusseted menopausal mothers in the midst of a mid-life crisis who should use his shit for toothpaste, given the opportunity. I'm slightly disappointed that Mr. Carr did not take the opportunity to tell Mr. Call-Me-Dave to go and fuck himself, but I suppose that I can understand his reasoning.

However, in seeking to personalise such matters, Mr. Call-Me-Dave may he treading on rather precarious ground. Those in glass houses should not seek to cast stones, after all, for doing so shall inevitably result in a high-profile "witchhunt" by sections of the popular press eager to reinstate their battered reputations; with a large amount of people in his orbit also employing such apparent "chicanery", he could find himself being asked to comment on a frequent basis on the affairs of those nearest and dearest to him.

As for The  Times, who highlighted Mr.Carr's financial strategy for the purposes of stoking up public condemnation; I do hope that they find time and space to cover the manoeuvring of the multinational corporations whose avoidance of tax on their profits make the likes of Mr. Carr and Mr. Barlow seem like mere pissants by comparison; entities such as (ooh, let us pick one at random) News Corporation, who funnel their UK profits through subsidiary companies in the Channel Islands, the Cayman Islands, the Bahamas and the Virgin Islands, and pay just 7% tax on said profits as a result.

Do others wonder which members of Her Majesty's government would wish that this whole matter goes away quickly? 

 

 

 

A wandrin', wandrin', star...

The next saviour of The Everton Football Club Company Limited, if you will.

Yesterday, the manager of the first-team playing squad of The Tottenham Hotspur Football Club and the owner of the world's richest dog, Mr. Henry J. Redknapp, was relieved of his duties; a turn of events which, it seems, came as something of a surprise to him.

Almost immediately, the nation's turf accountants installed Mr. David Moyes, manager of the first-team playing squad of The Everton Football Club Company Limited, as the next incumbent in the role at White Hart Lane. A terse statement was made by the football club, to the effect that contrary to scurrilous internet rumour, no compensation for the transfer of the services of Mr. Moyes had been agreed between the two clubs, nor had The Tottenham Hotspur Football Club made any approach The Everton Football Club Company Limited apropos Mr. Moyes's potential availability. 

Those conversant with behind the scenes affairs at Goodison Park could smell the familiar, fetid aura of the fear of Mr. William Kenwright CBE hanging all around the place. Mr. Moyes has less than 12 months remaining on his current contract, and no extension has yet been agreed; Mr. Moyes is holding out for reassurances that funds to strengthen the playing squad will be forthcoming, and that he shall not have to say goodbye to any of his better players in order to make such funds transpire, reassurances that he refers to as "a chink of light", a phrase that would have unfortunate connotations had it been uttered by certain footballists resident at The Libpewl Football Cult. 

Sadly, it would appear that Mr. Kenwright is in no position to offer such assurances; and thus, rather than suffer the indignity of being outspent by the likes of Mr. Roberto Martinez, Mr. Moyes may be inexorably drawn to the bright lights and numerous splendid  Turkish kebab shops prevalent in the Edmonton area.

So, whither the next manager of The Everton Football Club Company Limited's cadre of footballists?

 

If we assume that Mr. David Moyes should find the allure of North London too tempting to resist, my first choice would be Mr. Jesus Christ. His work on feeding a crowd of 5,000 people with just five loaves of unleavened bread and three fishes shows just what he could potentially achieve on a limited budget. Plus, he should prove to be an ideal counterweight to the pervasive influence of Satan across the park at The Libpewl Football Cult, which may possibly even result in a much-coveted victory for The Everton Football Club Company Limited in the so-called "derby" strand.

However, having seen Mr. Iain Duncan Smith on the television this morning, and heard his views on the sharp increase in working families living in poverty (it's down to drugs, apparently), I feel that Mr. Christ may be co-opted into a role as "government tsar" on matters of welfare reform.

So, as a suitable alternative, I suggest Mr. Lee Marvin. Anybody who has seen the feature film, "The Dirty Dozen", cannot have failed to admire his abilities on bringing together a bunch of wayward, dangerous brigands and turning them into a potent and lethal fighting force. Why, he could possibly have even solved the conundrum around Mr. Royston Drenthe.

An added bonus is that Mr. Marvin achieved such success with just a dozen men, which is about the size of the playing squad which The Everton Football Club Company Limited shall have at the end of August forthcoming.

So, for me, Mr. Marvin makes the ideal replacement should Mr. Moyes decide that his future lies elsewhere. There is a slight issue that Mr. Marvin is, in fact, deceased, but that should only serve as an added attraction to Mr. William Kenwright CBE, as no remuneration need be paid, and not compensation would be due to another club once Mr. Marvin's services were secured.

Plus, even in an advanced state of decomposition, he still would surely look healthier than another touted replacement, Mr. Avram Grant (and would also perform better in the role).

What do others think? 
 
 
  
 

Common People

A badger, recently. This is what one looks like, Mr. Davies.

Recently, I engaged in a little sporting activity, to whit a 10 kilometre run on a course taking in two laps of South London's well-known Clapham Common. Whilst I was shambling my way through the brambles in, erm, "hot pursuit" of various well-formed female rear ends, which resembled jelly on springs, Mrs. Tampon repaired to one of the common's cafes for a cup of tea and a small repast.

As she nibbled her toast and marmite, two shaven-headed gentlemen of a somewhat effeminate demeanour entered the cafe, complaining loudly to all and sundry therein about "all these runners taking over the park", threatening to complain about the presence of said runners to Lambeth Council, and plaintively asking the question, "where are we meant to go?"

"The toilets, maybe?" said Mrs. Tampon, sotto voce. What she meant by this remark, I can only speculate. The gentlemen were possibly unduly irked by such a minor irritant to their day due to chronic constipation, or persistent incontinence. Or, perhaps, they were a little upset that the race route went "off piste", if you will,  leaving the paths to wend its way through the dense foilage, thus at a stroke rendering wholesome activities such as wildflower collecting and butterfly spotting impossible for their adherents.

When I related this encounter to some of my fellow athletes after the conclusion of the event, they expressed their views are to what caused these gentlemen such obvious heartbreak; these views impugned the reptuations of the park dwellers in such a way that I could not possibly repeat them here. 

In an effort to introduce reason and balance to the eloquent yet wild speculation, I pointed out that South London's fine parks and open spaces were a wonderful conduit for the relief of the stresses of everyday life; an ideal place, perhaps, for a high ranking politician to secure an unexpected invite to dine at somebody's home, or perhaps for an actor noted for the intensity of his performances to walk his dog at four in the morning. 

However, though these parks and open spaces are home to many exotic flora and fauna, it seems that badgers are not among them, and that if one wishes to have a close encounter with such a creature, one must travel a little further afield. Perhaps I should lobby Lambeth Council on behalf of our metropolitan badger fanciers, in order that they may pursue their chosen hobby a little closer to home.

Do others who are "married to their careers" seek relief from their myriad professional woes by soujourns in and around metropolitan public spaces?

Cease an sekkle

 

Althea and Donna, some time ago.

Yesterday my five year old daughter spent evening conversing with me, her mother and her baby sister in an eerily accurate Lancastrian accent. I prevailed upon her to desist, as I found this ability both unnerving and irritating, but she refused to so do. It seems that she has taken this vocal tic from a televisual strand entitled "Fifi and the Flowertots", in which the eponymous lead character speaks in such a manner.

Armed with this information, I threatened to take her to her South London primary school the next day and converse with her friends and teachers using the distinctive argot and vocal inflections of another televisual favourite of hers, to whit: "Rastamouse". This seems to have done the trick.

Have others been forced to adopt such measures in order to make their children "cease an sekkle"?

To continue on a Jamaican "tip", if you will; later in the evening, I was myself engaged in television viewing, to whit the British Broadcasting Corporation's "Sounds of the Seventies" strand, when I was suddenly presented with a vision of Caribbean loveliness in the form of a popular singing duo with the moniker of "Althea and Donna", performing a disc which they had cut which featured almost impenetrable lyrical content.

However, I was stirred in a very visceral manner, partly by the heavy, insistent skanking beat, but mainly by the delicious lady wearing glasses, whom I take to be "Donna". So moved was I by her beauty that I began to get jiggy wi' mi ding a ling, cum in mi pants an ting...

However, my beatific state was disturbed by Mrs. Tampon entering the room, getting duppy pon mi head and shouting for somebody called "Ross Clart".

Have others ever been rumbled during a spot of uptown top wanking?

 

 

 

Denis Stracqualursi: renaissance man**

A man of culture, recently.

Sometimes, there are phenomena that one encounters in life which have the ability to bewilder even hardened old cynics such as oneself. Take, as Exhibit A, one Mr. Denis Stracqualursi, a footballist currently plying his trade for The Everton Football Club Company Limited. 

Having arrived at the club an unsuccessful trial at The Leicester Fosse Football Club, the prognosis for Mr. Stracqualursi's career at Goodison Park was not good, and the initial impressions one garnered from his appearances as substitute did little to disavow the notion that he was, erm, not very well endowed with the precious gifts required for top-flight association football. Obviously, he appeared to have ample strength, as one would expect from one of such collossal size... and yes, he demonstrated considerable brio and enthusiasm... but his overall contribution was best summed up by the memorable description of his efforts as being akin to "a dog chasing a crisp packet around a windy supermarket car park". If one could sum up his playing style in one word, that word would surely be "agricultural".

And then, on a chilly Friday night, with the wind whipping in from the Irish Sea, The Everton Football Club Company Limited "entertained" The Fulham Football Club at Goodison Park in the fourth round of The Football Association Challenge Cup competition. The omens were not good; the previous league game had witnessed an absolutely shocking performance against a dire Blackburn Rovers side, in which The Everton Football Club Company Limited only managed to avoid defeat via the gift of a dubious goal from Mr. Timothy Cahill, with an assist from the right arm of Mr. Marouane Fellani. In that game, Mr. Stracqualursi's contribution was to huff and puff around for five minutes to no effect, save for having a close range effort snuffed out by Mr. Paul Robinson.

And so it was no surprise to any of Goodison's hardy, disgruntled denizens when a Danny Murphy penalty put the Londoners one to the good, which would surely see them through to round five against a side expected by most to curl up in the corner and shake like a scolded pet for the remainder of the evening. However, a tactical masterstroke was at work; Mr. Stracqualursi had been selected from the off, and was "putting in a shift", as Mr. Steve "leave my wife and kids locked in a hotel room in Tenby whilst I do some television work in London" Claridge might opine.

And, on twenty seven minutes, the epiphany occured; Mr. Landon Donovan made a little space for himself on the right hand side of the field, crossed the ball into the box, and up lept Mr. Stracqualursi to glance a "deft" header past the rooted Mr. David Stockdale and into the net.

The moment of revelation was as poignant as it was unexpected; our man cast aside the oppressive shackles of agricultural grockness, and bared his cultured, sensitive soul to the Park End and the Lower Bullens as he ran into the corner, somehow sprouted a second pair of arms from some vestigal elytra within his back, and paid unashamed, unhibited Latin homage to his hero and inspiration in life, the renaissance genius, Snr. Leonardo da Vinci. To confound the doubters, I present to you photographic evidence of the moment The Everton Football Club Company Limited's four-armed frontman celebrated his goal in the manner of da Vinci's "Vitruvian Man", on display at the Accademia Gallery in Venice. See below.

The touching, sensitive vulnerability of the bulky Argentine forward was plain to see, as he sank to his knees and burst into tears. Those tears may well have been Lachryma Christi. Many of the tartan blanketed mummies in the Lowers Bullens also found tears streaming down their cheeks, though this may have been down to the chill in the January air making them rheumy.  

The whole side was galvanised into giving their best performance for many weeks, and inevitably The Fulham Football Club Company Limited's players crumbled, swept away by the existential, free-thinking total football practised by The Toffees. Oh, and a header from Mr. Marouane Fellaini.

Having bared his tortured soul for all to witness on that glorious night, the reward for Mr. Stracqualursi was another start in the subsequent English Premier League fixture, against the league leaders, The Manchester City Football Club. Our man grabbed the opportunity with both hands, and whilst on this occasion he did not find the back of the net, he imposed his free will upon Lescott and Kompany in a manner of which Kierkegaard would surely have been proud. 

No doubt Mr. Stracqualursi retired to the dressing room after his 88th minute substitution by poring over Heroditus's "The Histories", in the original Greek, whilst having a rub-down. Or, maybe, doing some nice colouring in, sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth whilst striving to keep the crayon marks within the lines.

Denis Stracqualursi: Evertonian and renaissance man. We salute you.

Do others "just love it" when a hitherto unregarded footballist turns the established order of the universe upon its head?

** this strand is dedicated to Mr. Francis Hargreaves of the excellent "Who's Arsed?" blog, who engaged with me via the gift of electronic mail last night on an unrelated matter; his premise that we are, indeed, both "lazy fuckers" when it comes to our respective blogs shook me from my mid-winter torpor to produce the above self-indulgent doggrel. So, thank you Mr. Hargreaves, I am sure that our constituency will offer its gratitude in due course :-)

Buttfuckery: not all it is cracked up to be, apparently

Aww. Bless. I wonder if he still has Preparation H round his rim?

The recent online campaign by Ms. Sinead O'Connor to reignite her moribund public image find herself a loving partner willing to indulge her in her preference for anal penetraton reached its logical conclusion recently, with her betrothal for the fourth time to a Mr. Barry Herridge, who was often described using the prefix "therapist".

Sadly, it seems, for Ms. O'Connor, this referred to his profession, and not to his proclivities; had he, indeed, been "the rapist" he may well have had his evil, wicked way, slapped her about a bit,  popped her into the boot of his car and dumped her into a lake, tied up in a roll of carpet.

I am aware that this premise may seem unnecessarily harsh to the more sensitive readers of this strand; but at least it would have spared all and sundry the fuss surrounding the inevitable conclusion to their relationship, a split after just seven days, and lots and lots of media attention garnered just in time for pre-release publicity for her forthcoming album. Which, I am sure, will be great. Or will grate. One of the two.

Do others wish she would just fuck off, leave us all alone, and go and play with her Lambretta-powered vibrator?