Fuck Bloody All.

Blog 27 – F**k Bloody All.

England are out of another World Cup then, we should be used to this by now but I’ve detected a strange feeling across the nation this time that’s somehow different, for some reason this particular pit of despair smells even more revolting than our usual pits of despair. I apologise for immediately presuming you give a toss about football, maybe you don’t, you might hate football, in which case ironically you’d love our national team because they hate football too. For a couple of days last week I also hated football. That’s what those bastards have done to me, to us, to those of us stupid enough to care.

I suppose now the default setting for our regular disappointments is locked at watching England spectacularly crash and burn in the knockout bit, that’s traditional, right?, usually after a ‘backs to the wall’ and/or ‘down to 10 men’ type performance, complete with goalkeeping howler and/or penalty shoot-out heartbreak as its familiar crushing footnote. Maybe that’s why it feels different this time, we usually exit these tournaments in a blaze glory, just sadly never our glory. No such fireworks this time though, this time it feels like we barely took part at all, our boys weren’t even on the pitch when their elimination was sealed. No David Seaman cradling his teardrops in a ludicrous ponytail here.

But this latest failure appears to have pricked a nerve hitherto un-pricked, and in a way it’s unfathomable because we didn’t expect much from our team and that’s precisely what they’ve delivered. It should also be said that England really weren’t that awful, they just managed to lose both their opening matches, they were far worse in the last World Cup, they absolutely stank the place out in South Africa, some spectators were actually physically overcome by the fumes, others present claim they are still picking the remnants of shit out of their eyeballs to this day. We were truly terrible but yet we somehow managed to stick around long enough to unpack our bags. Not this time. We were gone inside a week this time. Last Friday I had to sit through Ecuador playing Honduras in a meaningful group game at a World Cup that England had already been eliminated from. Hello perspective.

I really sense now that English football fans are watching this tournament with very heavy hearts, far heavier than is the norm for us. After we were bitch-slapped out of Africa by the Germans four years ago it felt like a blessed relief, thank Christ for that we thought, now we can watch some proper football we thought, we don’t even have that this time, there’s been no journey or narrative of any interest to merit even the feeling of relief in the midst of despair, there’s been nothing. Fuck bloody all. On my street I saw one St. Georges flag go up and come down on the same day. No-one does a tragic comedy like the English.

I’ve tried to avoid talking too much about the actual football because I’m aware that some of you lucky bastards don’t like football, that’s why I’ve concentrated on core themes that we Brits can all relate to, such as: loss, misery, despair, denial, regret, anger, recrimination and that sort of thing, anyway what’s the bloody point?, what can I say that Chris Waddle didn’t in his recently witnessed nervous breakdown live on BBC radio? poor fucker.
In layman’s terms, you need sufficient good fortune to compensate for your flaws in order to win a World Cup, ergo: the teams with the fewest flaws tend to do better. England are hampered by many flaws, the pivotal one being that most of the other teams possess vastly superior footballers, forgive me if I’m getting too technical. Our specific flaw in this World Cup is one known as the ‘Kim Kardashian flaw’ – it looks half decent up top, but it’s carrying way too much baggage at the back.
And so it would come to pass that England’s suspect defence would ultimately cost them when the lethal Gerrard / Suarez partnership would combine once more for Uraguay’s late winner with trademark telepathy. Wallop. God bless.

Still at least now we get the biennial ‘Root & Branch Review Of English Football’ which is always fun. Not just the branch you understand, they can see the branch is shit, they’re going to look at the root too to identify WHY the branch is shit. Whatever it is, you can rest assured that Danny Mills and Gareth Southgate will be crunching the numbers and collating the intel so that Greg Dyke can workshop that data with some FA focus groups and then bounce some ideas off Sir Trevor Brooking. Then in two years from now when England celebrates its 50th year of hurt©, we can all hold our breath while Phil Neville attempts to reach the end of a sentence explaining why the whole thing has once more amounted to nothing and how maybe we should be looking at the Dutch model for conducting root and branch enquiries, and of course, how sad he is to hear that poor Chrissy Waddle was found hanged in his home cinema following England’ early exit from Euro ’16 at the hands of the fucking Latvians.


Drowning Lily Allen in a washing machine


Apologies for the wilfully misleading title, this is actually just a blog about why I’ve stopped writing blogs, even though in actual fact I haven’t stopped writing blogs at all, I’ve just stopped publishing them for reasons that are hopefully about to become clear. Nevertheless a number of you have complained that it has been an unacceptably long period since my last post, and when I say “a number” I specifically mean the number ‘twelve’ (12). Yep, twelve people have missed my blogs enough to contact me with their concerns, I might even name them in the closing credits …

Anyway I’ve written plenty of blogs thanks, they just haven’t made it to print. I wrote an excellent blog entitled “Missing: Flight MH370: THE FACTS!” – it was completely blank but took up enough space for four thousand words, I thought it was a solid piece of satire but a friend of mine read it and described it as “a profane and nauseating mélange that sought to trivialise a lugubrious catastrophe” … serves me right for being friends with Jordan I suppose but she is a smart cookie and I trust her judgement so I didn’t publish it.

I also wrote a blog about ‘Shackets’, you know Shackets?, they sell them in TopMan, it’s too thick to be a shirt but it’s too thin to be a jacket, so it’s a Shacket. It’s a word fusion which boasts a dual function but ultimately falls down on both its claims, I wrote a solid seven and a half thousand words on the subject of ‘Shackets’ but a friend of mine read the final draft and remarked “if you actually put your name to this and upload it for the world to see, so help me god I will pack my bags, I will take our son and we will leave you forever, you need to get a fucking life!” … everyone’s a critic eh? I didn’t publish.

I don’t want to say too much about the Lily Allen blog I wrote but never posted because various lawyers have become involved and it’s all got a bit weird right now, I’m not really a ‘law’ guy as is obvious. Anyway, I thought I’d written a brilliant critique of young Lily Allen’s contribution to the world of contemporary popular music but a friend of mine proof read it … this is a sensitive area actually, I don’t want to name him because he’s had a few problems of his own recently so let’s just say he’s someone that knows a thing or two about the law and his name is Max Clifford. Anyway, Max Clifford (Max Clifford) wrote me this whole boring e-mail about how he really digs Allen’s Sheezus album and how he’s so pleased she’s stopped working with all those “anodyne pop reggae producers” yada yada yada … “oh and by the way”, he adds, “if you publish that blog, I guarantee you there will be interested parties on behalf of Miss Allen who are willing to pursue you for damages” etc etc … apparently I could have been charged with “6 counts of Libel”, “23 counts of defamation of character”, “stalking”, “conspiracy to abduct”, “conspiracy to drown in a washing machine”, “fly-tipping” and “conspiracy to discredit the dead”. In layman’s terms it’s about seventeen years inside, half of them with Max. I didn’t publish.

I also wrote a blog about whether it’s better to stand motionless on an escalator or to walk with the flow of the machine. I concluded you should just stand, why walk?, ultimately you’re going to die, why get there any quicker? chillax for fucks sake, it’s a labour saving device, let it do its job. I also wrote blogs about espadrilles, Sir Anthony Worrall Thompson, infomercials, wedding hats, then I did the sequel to the Sir Anthony Worrall Thompson one, I did one on windmills, I did one on Tulisa, then I wrote a blog about Tulisa, and I also did some amusing drawings of the prophet Mohamed, but according to my so called ‘friends’, and my so called ‘lawyers’, they were all either inadequate and/or illegal, and/or both.

In conclusion then I’d like to draw a comparison between myself and the briefly seminal boy band of the early noughties, Busted. After the initial success of their brilliant eponymous LP in 2002, the boys then released a string of piss-poor 45s for a further three years largely due to outside interference and inappropriate songwriters / producers etc. That’s me, I’m late Busted, I’ve been listening to too many outsiders, I’ve allowed them to sidetrack me and sap my confidence, I’m not listening to my ‘friends’ anymore, especially that Bobby Davro prick, I’ve also sacked my team of lawyers, from now on if I think it, it’s going in, I will never again have an unexpressed thought and will be publishing everything from this point henceforth that inexplicably drifts across my cranium. You’ve been warned. I just farted by the way, my blog on that is coming right up …

No low quality pop stars were drowned during the writing of this blog.