I am delighted to report that I survived the storm they called St Jude. All weekend, television reports told how wind and rain on a Bibliotic scale, would destroy the UK. I was getting ready to build an arc and collect two of every animal, apart from spiders and wasps (they can all drown). After getting more and more nervous, Monday morning arrived. The storm didn’t. Had the apocalypse not been predicted, I wouldn’t really have thought much of the weather which met me ahead of my walk to work. OK, it was a little windy and it rained, but it’s often like that. A large part of a tree did block my path to work, but I think that was cut down on purpose by a Weatherman’s Union, embarrassed by their awful, inaccurate and totally over-the-top forecast.
I have been watching a documentary series on Channel 4 where a vet travels the world, hoping to prove the existence of Bigfoot or The Yeti. Last week, he travelled to a mountain range, where he met local nut-jobs, convinced that they had encountered a hairy, giant, man-like creature. DNA was taken from hair samples and tests were run. The tests showed that the sightings were, in fact, a bear. This week, the James Herriot wannabe visited America, where you’re always guaranteed to meet weirdos. We weren’t disappointed. Again, there was lots of people who claimed to have encountered Bigfoot, but no real evidence. One man claimed to have shot the creature dead, but lost the body (yes, seriously). Another tried to convince us all that by bashing on a tree, the mythological creature would respond by hitting another tree, miles away. Like the week before, hair samples were taken. Also like the week before, tests were run. Guess what they concluded. Bears. Next week the programme goes to Russia. Want to bet the outcome of episode?
You may remember back in the summer, the city of Bath became under siege from swarms of giant ants and a plague of noisy, defecating seagulls. Well now Bath has another menace on the streets. One that arrives every September. I am talking, of course, about students.
Now don’t get me wrong, most students are decent and respectable members of society. I was a student once. I went to Bath College and didn’t cause my fellow humans not partaking in further education any harm. When I wasn’t studying or in a lesson, which was most of the time (come on, I was a student), I could be found in McDonalds, KFC and Pink Planet Games Exchange.
Like I said, most students are OK. There are, however, some twattish students. For example, the ones on Newbridge Road last year. The group who have all night parties, dragging the speakers into the back garden, so they can feel the full force of the bass from The Sugarbabes, as they pass out from drinking an entire 8-pack of Brothers Raspberry Cider.
There was one of the annoying students in Nandos last week. There I was, enjoying a nice meal of peri peri chicken, when some arrived. What looked like an entire class of them. A full herd of students. A gaggle. They sat down and began to consume their chicken and free tap water (as is tradition). Then one of the students started talking. I say talking, it was more of a noise you would hear on a wildlife documentary presented by David Attenborough – a high-pitched, loud cackle. I believe the language being spoken to be English, as I could make out some of the broken-dialect above the drone. Most of the words from her mouth; nay, all of the words, were about herself, how great she was and how everyone should love her. I didn’t love her. I hoped she would choke on a chicken bone, but being a student, she could probably only afford spicy rice and a small side salad.
Today’s blog is about Leeds United. “In a mess again? Trouble at t’mill?” you ask? Do bears shit in the woods? Of course there’s problems at Elland Road. There’s always problems.
I can take losing to Derby County at the weekend. That’s a given. We’ve lost the last 10 matches against them -10 fucking matches – and whenever we play them again this season, I will bet you my complete collection of Pogs that it’ll be 11 consecutive defeats.
No, Derby can have their annual 6 points. It’s losing to the likes of Millwall, Reading and “Burnleh” which pisses me off. Do I blame the players? Not really. We have a few stand out stars, but the rest are pretty much deadwood. You wouldn’t ask Steven Hawking to climb Everest, so I can hardly demand Michael Brown plays like a professional footballer.
“It must be the manager then” you all shout. Yes, the manager. The poor twat who gets the blame every time something goes wrong at a football club. Every Saturday evening, after the afternoon’s football, turn on any post-match radio phone in, whether it be local or national and you’ll hear the same shite – “I didn’t go to the game today, Stan, I listened in on the radio; but I have to say enough is enough, the manager has to go. We were shocking today” Yes, kick the manager out and all the club’s problems will be solved. Not only that, but scientists will discover a cure for AIDS, Simon Cowell will get arrested for fiddling with guinea pigs and Channel 4 will recommission Brookside. Sadly, this dream scenario does not apply in the case of Leeds United. You see, Leeds United have Brian McDermott, who, despite looking like an egg with glasses, is the best manager in the division – even greater than Nigel “smug” Atkins and definitely better than ‘arry Twitch-a-me-bollocks.
Who is at fault then? That’s easy, Ken Bates. We can always blame Uncle Ken. Captain Birds Eye. Master Bates himself. Except we can’t – because he’s gone. The fact is, the party I hold responsible are the same group of people who I believe have done so much for Leeds United this past year – Gulf Financial House, or as they’re better known, GFH.
GFH have done wonders for Leeds United off the pitch. The problem is that the wonders of GFH have been just that. Stuff OFF the pitch. On the pitch it’s been shite. The only way it could get any worse is if they sacked McDermott and got on the phone to Neil Warnock at his Cornish home, asking him to drive back to Elland Road on his tractor and pick up his old mate, big fat bumbling Kevin Blackwell on route.
GFH have been all over Twitter. All over it like flies around shit. Like Sam Allardyce around a pie shop. Like Rio Ferdinand around coke… a cola.
They have promised investment. They even hinted about the return of the man-crush of almost every single Leeds fan on the planet. The gorgeous, the radiant, Luciano Becchio. The investment hasn’t come and neither has Luciano.
So this blog is a message to GFH. You do realise what you’re doing to us with your teasing tweets and press-conferences, where you mention money and the beautiful Becchio, yet fail to deliver? It’s like going up to an excitable dog and shouting “walkies”, before going to the cupboard, but instead of bringing out a lead and taking the pup on a trip to the park, to sniff other canine’s bottoms and poo in the children’s play area, you get out a baseball bat and smash the dog in the ribs. It’s like going to deepest, hottest Ethiopia and finding the most starving, malnourished child, promising him a pizza, and then phoning Dominos. Stop playing games with us, GFH. Show us the money and if there isn’t any, keep quiet.
It has been almost two weeks since my last blog and I am delighted to report that the house is still standing. The last fortnight has been very hard work. The new sofa was delivered with hard cushions, which we were informed would have to be sat on for many hours in order to be made comfortable. After many laboursome days, evenings and nights, consisting of backbreaking work, we have finally made it nice. The poor dining table has been left neglected as a result, with us eating all meals in front of the television. Storage Wars, Swamp People, Vinnie Jones Presents Russia’s Toughest Jobs… Sky, you are spoiling me with your quality broadcasting.
We have a very nosey neighbour. Every morning that I leave for work, he stands by his window, nose practically on the glass, his arms rested on the side. As I walk down the street, in the direction of my work, his head and neck turn to follow by path, the rest of his body remaining motionless. It is a little scary, and I would admit to being freaked out by it, if it weren’t for the fact he does it to everybody else who walks down the road. How do I know he does this? I spy on him. The spy has become the spyed. Mwa ha ha ha.
On this website, you’ll find me blogging (almost) daily about everyday life, living in Bath, working with computers, and the occasional bit of football stuff thrown in.
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