Man U were also upset about losing the Champions League final to Barcelona. Ryan Giggs briefly tried to sue the concept of victory. Big matches like that can be very scary, as domestic violence soars. But at least the wives get a two-hour break while the players are on the pitch. So what if Barcelona’s Eric Abidal had part of his liver removed? George Best had somebody else’s liver removed! Lionel Messi was left unmarked for much of the match. He’s quite small, so fooled the Man U players, who thought he was really far away. Following their defeat the Man U team had a restrained evening of introspection, apparently unable to even muster the enthusiasm to high-five each other during a spit roast.
Alex Ferguson says he has no intention of leaving Man U for the next few years. Well, he probably never had the intention to look like a mouldy blancmange in a suit and spend his life shouting at sex-cases to run towards a ball – but these things happen. I imagine that every time Alex Ferguson tries to get his players to gather round in a circle for a team talk they automatically pull their shorts down and start masturbating over the ball.
Man U striker Nani has a life-size statue of himself in his house. No doubt just vanity on his part, but a lot of other Premiership players use them. They leave them by the window so they’ve got an alibi when a teenage hairdresser goes missing.
Mohamed Al-Fayed has told any Fulham fans who don’t like his statue of Michael Jackson to ‘go to hell’. Er, if they don’t like the statue they certainly don’t want to meet him in person. It seems strange to have a statue outside the ground of someone who wasn’t a player – although Michael did try to get into the youth team several times. If Al-Fayed creates a statue of everyone who visits the ground only once there will soon be a model of the guy from the Passport Office who delivered the letter telling him to fuck off. It would be in better taste to erect a statue of the Green Cross Code man at the entrance to that Parisian underpass.
Ashley Cole shot a young student in the stomach. He got the gun out and fired off a few shots to help former Liverpool striker Torres feel at home. It must have been an accident – I can’t believe anyone would pull out a gun at the Chelsea training ground and not aim for John Terry. Of course, the real tragedy is that he lived with Cheryl all that time. There was a weapon in the house, and nothing happened.
Last time he scored for England, John Terry dedicated it to a strong little fighter he had met on the plane. There was an uncomfortable silence among the press, relieved by Terry bringing out a photo of an ill child, rather than the terrified air hostess they were expecting. Footballers have a simple outlook on the world – ‘I see sick child I am good man, I see pretty lady I am bad man.’ Just once I’d like to introduce a Premiership footballer to a terminally ill prostitute and watch their synapses slowly melt with confusion.
England footballing wunderkind Jack Wilshere was questioned over threatening a cabbie. In his defence, he’s 18, on £50,000 a week and should be dead by now, three hookers having been rescued from a five-star hotel, trapped beneath his drink-and-drug addled corpse, his face having been lifted off and replaced with a glimmering emerald mask. He just needs a mentor. Maybe Gazza should put on a sheet with two eyeholes and turn up as the ghost of football yet to come. Or, if we just wait a month or two, he probably won’t even have to bother with the sheet.
Gazza was charged with drink-driving again last year. The police suspected he’d been drinking heavily when they noticed he was Gazza. They asked him how fast he was going – he didn’t know, but in fairness, he hadn’t even realised he was in a car. Gazza will now face another trial for drink-driving – that’ll be very worrying for him. I wonder if there’s anything he can do to calm his nerves? Gazza has to keep driving because otherwise people see all the cans and bottles in the back and start chucking their newspapers in, thinking it’s a recycling bin.
I hate to think of what might happen if he bent over in the showers! He’d lose his balance, slump to the floor and curl into a sobbing ball. It’s tragic; he’s now not only addicted to alcohol and Class A drugs, he’s addicted to rehab, too. It’s only £600 a week. The Priory costs two grand, so that’s pretty much budget rehab. I’m guessing it’s just a room in a Travelodge with a picture of Alex Higgins sellotaped to the mini-bar door. He’s pissed away £14 million and he’s been living off a lump sum he received in 2008 when he took his empties back.
To make matters worse, he’s been evicted from his cottage. That must just involve the landlord spinning him round a few times so he can’t find his way back. Apparently, Gazza’s now arrested so often he’s got his own push-button option when you phone Tyneside police. ‘For incidents involving Gazza, press one, for all other crimes …’ Actually, I hope he doesn’t die. His cremation would be like Piper Alpha going up.
It looked briefly as if Gazza would be the new manager of non-league Garforth Town. The first time a football team would be sponsored by the Samaritans. To be fair, Gazza’s great at making substitutions. If he can’t afford vodka, he just uses Mr Sheen window cleaner. Gazza has stressed that his booze problems don’t make him a bad person. I agree. It’s knocking women about that does that. He’s worried he’ll die from liver failure. I suspect there’s more chance it’ll just wait till he passes out, then crawl up his throat and escape.
Ricky Hatton snorted seven lines of cocaine in a hotel room. He worked out it was cheaper than eating the peanuts from the mini-bar. I thought the only boxer who was in need of being so heavily medicated was Frank Bruno. Hatton disgraced the sport. Most of the people involved in boxing don’t take drugs – they’re too busy selling them. Apparently, the cocaine made Ricky ‘very paranoid’. Obviously not paranoid enough to notice a video camera six inches away. Hatton beat himself up over this – well, he beat himself up a bit, then hugged himself and lolled on the ropes until the bell went. Hatton has an advantage over most cocaine users – there’s nothing much left of his nose to destroy. Who’d have thought you’d find it easier to go ten rounds with Ricky Hatton in a boxing ring than down the pub? Ricky now faces the biggest fight of his life – it’s against Charlie Sheen, for a gram.
Emma Bowe, who exposed Ricky, said she contacted the News of the World for Ricky’s own good. Well, drugs helplines don’t tend to pay as much as the papers, do they? What a ridiculous nickname, ‘Hitman’. It’s hardly like he kills people for money. He just gives them brain damage. Tragic to see a boxer destroyed by drink and drugs. Rather than the traditional route, where their brain rattles about their skull like a pea in a whistle till they’re only fit to do slurred meet-and-greets at Cinderella’s nightspot in Ilford.
Tiger Woods held a press conference to apologise for his behaviour. It was either incredibly sincere and heartfelt, or incredibly insincere and cynical, depending on whether you’re American or British. Loredana Jolie says Tiger Woods was a nice bloke because he wore a condom. Funny how women think that means you’re gallant when it usually means you’ve taken one look at them and thought, ‘What a dirty old skank.’ Tiger has been successfully cured of his sex addiction. All it took was the love of his family and a gloryhole cut into a wasps’ nest. Of course, I could never do what he did. I fucking hate golf!
At some fucking tournament, Rory McIlroy played the worst game of golf since … well, let’s face it, they’re all shit. It was horrifying, but at least it was interesting – which I find is par for the course when hanging out with a Northern Irishman. Apparently, he was playing with the wrong clubs all the way round – every time he asked for a nine iron they just thought he was telling them where he came from. On the bright side, if a 22-year-old from Northern Ireland can say the day his little ball bounced off a tree is the worst day of his life, that peace process must be working spectacularly well. There are no losers in golf, Rory, because there are no winners in golf. There are just lots of men walking around on some grass.
He made amends by winning the US Open. Mind you, the way things are going in Belfast, Rory, I wouldn’t go cutting about in that green jacket. Petrol-bombin
g rioters in Belfast seem as committed as ever. In fact, at £1.34 a litre, I’d say even more so.
There was a betting scandal in cricket. Suspicions first arose when Pakistan sent John Higgins on to bowl. Mazhar Majeed has been accused of rigging the game for a gambling syndicate. He protested his innocence, adding, ‘Two grand says I get off.’ I say never trust an outdoor sport where you don’t have to take your jumper off. Apart from Scottish dogging, of course. You can’t risk getting your nipples frozen to the windscreen. Mohammad Amir kept getting wide balls. To be fair, it’s not easy bowling when you’re filling in a betting slip. Fans threw tomatoes at the Pakistan cricket bus. They all missed, and a man in Karachi picked up 50 grand from Ladbrokes. The owner of Croydon FC was alleged to be involved? The people of Croydon are heartbroken. Nobody has poured that much money into Croydon since the locals clubbed together have the town planner assassinated.
The Sun did a special piece focusing on all the moments when Pakistan played badly for no reason. Can you imagine sports journalists trying to do a piece about all the times English sportsmen have totally failed for no reason? Oh yes, that’s just called ‘sports reporting’.
After a sexist debacle, Richard Keys resigned, blaming ‘dark forces’. Or, as Andy Gray calls them, ‘women’. There’s an irony in the fact that football’s gained a female employee and lost a pair of tits. I hear Andy did pop down to try and apologise during half-time. And he was definitely sincere, because he decided against taking his ironing along. As a Celtic fan, I’m appalled that an official’s ability has been questioned because of their sex, rather than their religion. I’m surprised at Andy Gray. I’m sure he’s no stranger to women watching 90 minutes of physical exertion. Then enduring a couple of minutes more when he’s managed to get his trousers off. The media is a strange world. Andy Gray said women don’t know the offside rule and he never works at Wembley again, whereas when Michael McIntyre says it he fills the bloody stadium. Andy is the type of man who believes that there is no place in football for women. Which is just plain wrong. Who are they supposed to roast? The goalkeepers?
I’m sure Andy will enjoy the irony of his sexism over the coming months when he spends his time watching daytime TV, cleaning and getting the dinner ready. Keys and Gray made the mistake of thinking that people were tuning in to see them. Men would tune in to watch the football if it were presented by a sea serpent. Footballers from around the country were desperate to condemn the comments, which included, ‘I wouldn’t,’ when looking at a female official. You can see why Premiership footballers have come out against him. You know that no matter what she looks like, they would. Where will Andy and Richard work next? Do Al Jazeera even broadcast football? Andy Gray tried to work out how his career was destroyed, by drawing circles and arrows on a copy of Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch.
I hear it wasn’t easy for Sky to sack Gray:
‘Andy, we’re giving you the sack.’
‘If it’s my sack you’re interested in, sweetheart …’
‘No, Andy, listen, we’re downsizing.’
‘Downsizing? I’ll be doing the opposite if you keep bending over darling …’
‘Here’s your P45.’
‘P45!? P69 more like …’
Some claim that Gray’s position at Sky became vulnerable because he launched legal action against the News of the World. The Sun, where I write a column, is of course owned by the same company, but I can promise you that I have never been censored by the corporation. In fact, I have some very interesting gossip you might like to hear. Apparently, when having sex, Rupert Murdoch likes to have a kalsdjffnlk … Sorry I just dozed off there, onto my keyboard. What was I talking about? And why is there a dart in my neck? Two darts in my ne … dsfhiNKLcjkfbazzzzzzzz.
Wimbledon. Two weeks of sitting on the sofa drifting in and out of fantasies where the Williams sisters, beads of sweat trickling down their cleavages, help me shift that new wardrobe upstairs.
There are always arguments, but how can you expect the players to behave respectfully when the umpire is basically sitting in a high chair. You wouldn’t catch me getting pushed about by a giant baby. I didn’t say it doesn’t happen, I just said you wouldn’t catch me.
Andy Murray won his first-round match in the rain, becoming the only Scotsman in London with a roof over his head. With projected career earnings of £250 million, he looked grimly preoccupied all the way to the bank. I wanted him to win, just to see if he’d even fucking smile. My money’s on a tiny grimace of triumph, like a rapist’s cum face.
Andy Murray’s success has persuaded a lot of people in Scotland to get out on the tennis courts. They aren’t playing, but at least they’ll be getting some fresh air while they take their crack. He bowed to the Queen. If I were the Queen, I’d drop that particular tradition. At her age, there’s always the chance that if they bow their heads they’ll notice a bit of wee on her shoes. No one’s blaming her; maybe one of her footmen didn’t get the chance to run the royal Tena Lady through the mangle that morning. Though, as I’ve said, she only costs us individually 62p each. So when I meet her I know my first line. ‘Your Majesty, if you’ve got a quid I’ve got 38p change.’ I wanted to see Andy Murray win Wimbledon – it would’ve been interesting to see someone from Dumfries work out how to handle a cup live on TV.
A balloonist keeps trying to float across the English Channel attached to nothing more than a collection of party balloons. All he’s going to do is die in a way that’ll put his children off going to parties for the rest of their lives.
A 75-year-old man had to be airlifted after attempting a 40-foot tombstoning stunt in Dorset. It’s a drain on the rescue services to do things like this – I don’t mind him having another go, but why not make his next jump directly into a grave? You’d have thought with the length and width of a 75-year-old’s scrotum, he would’ve sailed gently down like a parachuting bushbaby.
A 13-year-old boy has become the youngest person to climb Mount Everest. A child shouldn’t be allowed to do something as dangerous as that. He should be at home, using social networking sites to talk to people pretending to be his own age.
A Frenchman called Philippe Croizon swam the Channel, despite having no arms or legs. Philippe first had the idea to attempt his epic swim when he noticed there were steps to get on the Eurostar. Philippe volunteered to do the swim – well, someone at his swimming club said, ‘Hands up who doesn’t want to do it.’ For crossing the Channel, swimmers are usually given a badge but, as he’s got no sleeves to sew it on, they gave him a hat instead. He may have no legs but on the plus side at least there’s no chance of him getting a verruca. He wasn’t even able to practise at his local swimming pool – mainly because, without arms or legs, it’s impossible for him to get into the water without bombing. A government minister phoned Philippe and said, ‘Nothing is impossible.’ He should watch Philippe try to scratch his own arse. Philippe’s a terrific example to others. Hopefully, more people will look at him and follow in his footsteps – well, drag marks. I’m sad he missed the opportunity to pull himself out of the water at the end and shout ‘Shark!’
Ah, sport. In the classical world I could have perhaps enjoyed watching it, as it was training for battle. I would have sat engrossed as lithe men leapt at each other with weapons, happy for them to be celebrated by my society because they would soon be dead. I would have watched their tricks and flips in a different light, knowing that they would soon be slashed to pieces to defend a trade route, their muscular bodies impaled on a stake as a grim warning, their hand-to-eye co-ordination counting for naught now that their hands and eyes had been taken as trophies, while I tried to get into their widows’ togas by writing poems in their memory.
‘I think about whether I care and decide that, on balance, I don’t’
Paul Marsh drives my daughter and me out to Mugdock Park. There’s always something slightly sinister about a warm day in Scotland – like somebody’s left something on. It’s a bank holiday, eve
n though it’s a fucking Tuesday, and a bunch of schoolies who recognise me surround me in the playpark. None of them say anything. They just look at us silently, like the end of The Birds.
On the way home, my daughter remembers a game where we guess if people we see in the distance are going to look happy or unhappy up close. I guess unhappy every time and I’m right every time. We all start laughing a bit hysterically at how scunnered everyone is.
An old woman at a bus stop actually looks like she is having a laugh on a mobile phone, so I say happy, but she is mental and arguing with herself.
I say, ‘People are always unhappy on their own, they’re happier in groups.’
‘You can’t walk around smiling,’ says Paul, distractedly. ‘You’d look crazy.’
The most Scottish thing I’ve ever heard. When we get to the West End, there are some twos and threes laughing.
I go visit this girl I see sometimes. We order pizza and watch some Hallmark Channel movie about Ted Bundy. She chain-smokes in bed and, because she clearly has something to say, I pre-empt her.
‘I don’t mind sincerity so long as I can laugh about it,’ I smile.
She tells me she’s thinking of marrying her boyfriend. I mention J. G. Ballard’s idea that marriage is something men came up with to restrain themselves from fucking everyone and killing each other over it, and that they pay a terrible price.
Work! Consume! Die! Page 24