Not the Adam Devlin blog 14

BLOG No.14 … SHIT WILL EAT ITSELF.

Question: What would you think of you if you ever bumped into you? Would the two of you get on? Would you even recognise that it’s you? Answer: Dunno. Another Question: Why the f**k is Devlin asking me stupid questions? Answer: Still dunno, it’s just that I had this weird dream the other night that I was sat in my car talking to me. Luckily for me I found the other me absolutely fascinating, but then I put the ‘i’ in narcissistic, only one of them mind, the other two can go f**k themselves. Still confused? Me too, but I’m hoping that by the time I finish this blog I will have unwittingly stumbled upon the point of it.

Anyone who’s seen the movie ‘Moon’ will know that a similar experience befell Sam Rockwell’s character. ‘Moon’ is a brilliant sci-fi film like they used to make ’em, low on budget, high on concept, grubby, clunky and a bit eerie. If you haven’t seen it you’re a fool and I’m going to spoil it for you. Sam plays a guy called Sam (confusing already) who’s been harvesting something or other on the moon for three years in absolute solitude apart from the obligatory speaking computer. Shortly before he’s due back on earth he has an accident, loses consciousness, wakes up only to discover there’s another Sam. It’s a sort of existential mystery (sorry for using the word ‘existential’ but that’s what it is) Anyway, the Sams freak out for a bit, then brawl for a bit before eventually joining forces in an attempt to discover who the real Sam is. Conclusion: it’s neither of them, I’m simplifying, just go watch it you lazy bastards. The film incidentally was made by a man that knows what it’s like to be two people, Duncan Jones used to be Zowie Bowie until he was old enough to begin resenting his father forever for bestowing on him such a preposterously wanky moniker.

Back on planet Earth (I’m not talking about films now) the BBC is in crisis, the strangest aspect of which is that when the BBC becomes the news, the BBC still has to cover it, resulting in BBC bigwigs (what’s left of them) being grilled by BBC littlewigs. No wonder they’re confused, their flagship news show has developed an unfortunate flair for screening stories it shouldn’t whilst not screening stories it should, leaving Nicky Campbell stewing in his own frothing rage every morning as the BBC man continues to lambast BBC men. At least the Sams worked together to solve their problem, the BBCs don’t appear to get on at all, or have any semblance of an idea as to who the real BBC is.

Further residents of Baffledsville are the Glib-Dems (AKA ‘Liberals’ and ‘the opposition’). Since Lloyd George was defeated some 90 years ago, the role of the Glib-Dem has essentially been to oppose the status quo (insert your own Quo gag here, i haven’t got time), disagree with everything the government says and sleep soundly in the knowledge of never actually having to be in government. A foolproof mandate until our recent hopelessly hung parliament somehow ushered them into power, well sort of power, ok very little power but nonetheless a position of having to oppose the opposition … which is them. Their silver lining is that it’ll be another lifetime before they’ll have the inconvenience of power to worry about. “Opposition ad infinitum” as Lloyd George probably didn’t but should have once said.

In footie news, shit has truly eaten itself. In FA cup round 2, Wimbledon have been drawn to play Wimbledon. If you’re not aware of the history of the Wimbledons, I’ll briefly explain. Wimbledon had a football club a few years ago until Milton Keynes bundled it into the back of a van, drove it up the M1 and forced it to exist there hoping that nobody would notice. Over time they cunningly adjusted the name and club colours until eventually Wimbledon’s supporters rose up and said “f**k this, lets stop coming here, lets start a new club in say Wimbledon, we could call it, er … Wimbledon!”. Being leagues apart they would never have to face the existential quandary (sorry, won’t say it again) of actually playing each other. Until now. Fate has played her devilish hand and it is so. Unlike the affable Adams, the sensible Sams or the baffled Beebs, the Wimbledons are a true tail of entrenched enmity. This is war, albeit a massively irrelevant one.

So where does all this take us? … God knows, or should I say the Gods know, there’s definitely more than one of him (or her) hence all the wars we keep having. To be honest my brain is starting to hurt now, I’m way out of my depth here. Jesus, 20 minutes ago I was googling ‘existentialism’. I guess if you cover enough ground and hang around long enough you may very well bump into you too, even if only in your dreams. If you do, remember, do unto you (the other you) as you would hope the other you would do unto you, if you know what I mean. I wish I did.

 

The Adam Devlins.

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The Sam Rockwells.

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The BBCs.

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The Glib Dems past and present, Nick Clegg flanked by the late LLoyd George (my father knew him by the way).

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The Wimbledons.

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Finally competition time: Q. Does this image exist? Answers on a postcard please.

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Not the Adam Devlin blog 13

BLOG No.13

Le dîner de cons.

Fans of footyball will doubtless be aware that our beautiful game has recently been plunged into meltdown following accusations that referee Mark Battenburg racially abused two  members of the Chelsea football team. As Chelsea Football Club is world famous for its zero-tolerance policy on racism and has absolutely no history of lying about referees the claim is being taken very seriously. The FA will now swing into action and release its findings sometime in 2017.
What many people don’t know is that a private dinner took place the following evening at London’s Dorchester Hotel hastily arranged by PFA chairman Clarke Carlisle. The guests were some of the more prominent and colorful figures (not in a racist way) from the world of football, the aim was to address some of the growing problems in the sport by establishing a strictly ‘off the record’ dialogue where grievances could be aired and discussed.

THE GUEST LIST:

Mediator: Clarke Carlisle (Countdown)
John Terry & Ashly Cole (Chelsea FC)
Rio Ferdinand & Howard Webb (Manchester Utd FC)
Louis Saurez (Liverpool FC)
Joey Barton (France FC)

What follows is a short extract of what was said. The recording was obtained secretly by myself from underneath a nearby table …

CARLISLE: “Right chaps we all know why we’re here, as the chairman of the PFA I have to say I’m pretty disgusted with the things I’m seeing and hearing at our football grounds. The abuse, the cheating, the spitting, the diving, the racism” …
TERRY: “I’m not a racist”
CARLISLE: “Relax John, this is not about you and we’re not here to point fingers, we’re here to sort this mess out, football is on the precipice right now” …. (blank faces) … “It means edge, football’s on the edge. what I need is men like yourselves on my side, working for the good of the game … where’s Ashley by the way”?
TERRY: “He’s running late”.
FERDINAND: “Where’s Frank more like? … not like ‘im to miss a dinner naaaaahhhhh”
TERRY: “Yeah whatever Rio, fucking twat” ….
WEBB: (blows whistle hard) PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
FERDINAND: “Fuck’s sake bro, d’you take that thing everywhere?”
CARLISLE: “Look guys, this is what I’m talking about … can we not just be civil with each other? lets … ”
TERRY (interrupting): “Wait up I got Ashley on my cell” … (answers phone) “Alright Ash, what’s ‘appening man? we’re all waiting ….. ‘ang on I’ll ask ’em … can Ashly bring his gun?”
CARLISLE: “No he can’t bring his bloody gun! Why would …”
BARTON: “I’ve got mine”
FERDINAND: “Me too man, can’t be too careful innit”
CARLISLE: “Jesus fucking Christ! Is everyone here tooled up? What on Earth is wrong with you people?”
FERDINAND: “Woah woah woah … what d’ya mean ‘you people'”?
CARLISLE: “Rio, are you really accusing me of racism? you have noticed I’m black too right”?
BARTON: “I despise racism in all its forms, I think it was Nietzsche that once said …. Love, see no colour”
CARLISLE: “Joey … that was a song by The Farm”
WEBB (gives whistle two sharp blasts) PEEP PEEP … “bullshit Barton, I booked you last season for calling Ashley Cole a monkey”
BARTON: “But i was clearly being postmodern, how’s that a yellow? what next, a straight fuckin’ red for heavy irony? … anyway, don’t remember anyone complaining”
CARLISLE: “Actually there were a lot of complaints, mostly from monkeys but we’re getting sidetracked here guys … (turning to Suarez) … Louis you’ve said nothing all night …”
SAUREZ: “I am, how you say, not so good, er … speaking English no”?
FERDINAND: “You’re better than JT mate … naaaaahhhhhhh, merced you man, you’ve been merced innit!”
TERRY: “Go fuck yourself Rio ya fuckin’ knob end”
FERDINAND: “Everyone knows you use JT ‘cos you can’t spell John Terry, naaaaaahhhhhhhh!”
BARTON: “He can’t spell JT either …”
TERRY: “Fuck off Barton, fuckin’ poof!”
WEBB (Blasts whistle again) PEEEEEP.
BARTON: “Jesus, would you fuckin’ stop that? i’m going deaf here … this is bullshit, in the words of Chekhov, I’m going out for a fag”
FERDINAND: “You are a fucking fag, fucking Chekhov?!”
TERRY: “… he’s the lad at Dortmund right?”
BARTON: “Yeah John, that’s right mate, fucking spanner!”
WEBB: “I once sent a Czech off”
CARLISLE: “Oh for the love of God … look guys, the level of abuse here is really not helping … it’s like dealing with teenagers, I’m starting to wonder why I bothered” (turning to Webb) … Howard, do you want to say a few words here? help me out, please … ”
WEBB: “Not sure i want to speak to footballers anymore, too risky y’know” …
SAUREZ (interrupting): Eh, can I go pee-pee?
CARLISLE: “Yeah but get on with it, we’re going nowhere here … ”
BARTON: “Dostoevsky once wrote that life is nothing more …”
FERDINAND: “Oh turn it in will ya, no one knows what the fuck you’re bangin’ on about bro” …

At this moment Saurez got up to go to the gents, at the same time Ashley Cole arrived and flung open the restaurant doors ….

COLE: “Aaaay geezers … where’s all the white women at?”

The swinging doors caused a slight draft to drift across the room, which sent Suarez hurtling to the ground clutching his face, he crashed into the table I was using for cover ripping the table cloth away to reveal me and my recording equipment. My cover was blown.
Having quickly surveyed my options I concluded that I’d never outrun a bunch of elite footballers … but I could outwit them. So I reeled off a brief card trick, said “hey look over there” before beating a hasty exit. What happened after I fled i can scarcely say but Barton ordered the fish.

Mark Clattenburg

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Clarke Carlisle

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John Terry

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Ashley Cole

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Rio Ferdinand

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Howard Webb

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Louis Saurez

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Joey Barton

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