Makems promoted...

Obviously a big well done to perennial yo-yo club S**der**nd and lest we forget about the premierships official worst ever club here's a little reminder of what happened last time they tried to play with the big boys...

We are the angry mob...

In recent weeks I've read stories in the papers about various miscreants.

There've been tales of rampaging youths on rooftops vandalising property and causing criminal damage whilst being fed McDonalds by police officers too scared to act in case human rights are infringed.

I've seen articles about ordinary citizens being arrested for standing up to yobs and being advised not to confront them for their own safety.

I've read about the BNP starting off their own patrols in Wiltshire as a response to local people's concerns at the lack of police presence

All of this is depressingly familiar to most of you I'm sure and a damning indictment of the way this country has gone downhill in the last ten years. However, the opinion piece I've just read in a national newspaper has rankled with me enough to post this response (because of course all of the main politicians and newspaper editors read my blog! Ha).

The article states that 'a police officer is attacked every 20 minutes in Britain' and quotes the home office as saying that 'Assaults on those serving the public will not be tolerated'.

Now having read that, please imagine the following scenarios :-

Q. you're one of a pair of coppers (they go nowhere on their own) walking through a housing estate at night and a group of youths start rampaging down the street you're in, smashing car wing mirrors off, screaming and shouting and threatening violence to all and sundry.

What do you do?

A. You radio for back up obviously and have a tense couple of minutes standing off the said youths with your array of weaponry (Baton, CS Gas, Tazer etc.) your mates arrive promptly and you're a hero.

Now let's have that scenario again but this time you're not a pair of coppers, you're a couple of mates coming back from the pub. This time you're attacked as you remonstrate with the scrotes but manage to hold them off with some hastily acquired fence posts.

So do you think there'll be separate outcomes to those two scenes or will the bad guys get their comeuppance no matter what? Errm...I think we all know the answer to that one.

If the police aren't busy on an outreach course for young offenders or nicking people for blatantly putting their bins out on the wrong day then they may turn up, if they do you'll be arrested for assault on the poor kiddies and criminal damage to the fence. Once you go to court you'll end up paying compensation to the lads who were just about to use your head as a football and get some kind of community punishment (the only upside to this being that if you don't turn up no one will care anyway and nothing will happen).

If the police want public support then surely it works both ways, they have to start protecting the public again as they used to without just paying lip service to it and trying to hit targets. Otherwise I'm afraid that we'll all turn into passers by whenever an officer is being assaulted not wanting to get involved for fear of arrest ourselves.

One final thought - wouldn't it be nice if the original home office quote had been 'Assaults on the public will not be tolerated' ...after all we pay their wages.

Neighbourhood Watch

Here's a story I wrote for a bit of a laugh - see what you think.

Oh... and a big shout out to Skinny Paul from Hull, my first ever stalker!

Neighbourhood Watch

Karl Robson scratched the beer belly protruding from over his tracksuit bottoms, burped loudly and flicked what was left of his cigarette over the balcony of his tower block onto the vandalised children’s playground below. Only then did he contemplate the two, nervous looking, middle-aged women standing before him.

“What?” he grunted.

Ida Gray considered the yob in front of her, he’d moved in next-door a few months ago and they hadn’t really seen eye to eye since. He was just like the ones you read about in the paper, ill educated, ignorant and totally selfish.

“The residents committee have received a number of complaints about the noise Mr. Robson and as representatives of the residents of the estate we were wondering if you could turn the music down a little. You don’t have to turn it off, I mean we both enjoy a bit of rock n roll ourselves but if you could just show some consideration we’d appreciate it.”

Karl eyed them up and down; they must be about fifty he reckoned. Not past it yet, he was thirty five himself, but Jesus they were old before their time these two. Look at them; button up cardigans and sensible shoes, two old maids, probably never done anything out of the ordinary in their lives.

“I’ll tell you what girls,” he said, “I’ll do what I want in my flat and you do what you want in yours. If my four kids can sleep then you shouldn’t have no bother should ya?”

As he was talking his two Staffordshire bull terriers appeared and growled at them, Ada Gray jumped back scared and Ida winced as one of the dogs pushed forward. Karl enjoyed that; it let them know their place and what might happen if they got too nosey.

He dragged the dogs back to make sure that they didn’t actually attack the old busybodies, they’d certainly run to the law and he didn’t want that, not with Winston due with the gear. They were about to launch themselves as the new drug barons on the estate and had a few trial customers putting the word out for them. There’d been no comeback from whoever was running things at present so now they planned on going all out and as such he didn’t want any police attention.

“Asbo, Twoc, good boys. Back inside now and lie down. LIE DOWN.”

With that he looked back up at the pensioners frightened faces, smiled and slammed the door.

Sighing loudly and shaking their heads in apparent exasperation the sisters went back to their own home next door. Putting the kettle on Ida could hear the booming of an electronic bass vibrating through the wall as the strains of the Ibiza selection echoed through their house and she sighed loudly, the country was certainly going downhill when that rubbish was considered popular music.

Ada had arranged the lacy coasters on the table and Ida made sure the cups were square on them before she started pouring from the pot, then she looked at her twin sister and smiled.

“How long shall we give him before we start?” she asked

Ada smiled back, her dentures slipping slightly.

“We’ll do it now, it’ll give our tea time to cool. Have you got everything prepared?”

Ida just nodded and Ada got to her feet gingerly, that hip was still giving her trouble. Ida was already halfway up the stairs and heading towards the spare bedroom when the music from next door suddenly stopped and they looked at one another; the dismayed expression on Ida’s face a mirror image of her sisters.

“Bother it,” exclaimed Ada; “I’m out of my chair now as well.”

Then her disgruntled look changed to a plastic toothed smile as what was obviously a new disk of the same old dance rubbish was inserted and played at even greater volume.

“Shall we?” she nodded towards the room again.

“Oh yes” replied Ida chuckling.

The clinking of chains as they entered the room couldn’t be heard over the thump thump from next door as the man at the end of the room struggled to his feet to greet their arrival.

“Now then Winston,” said Ida, brandishing a tazer gun, “I think you need to learn just who’s running this estate.”

“Indeed,” agreed her sister as she entered the room having finally conquered the stairs, “no one muscles in on our patch and gets away with it.”

As Winston hit the floor, his screams drowned out by ‘Ibiza 99-the midlife crisis mix’ and twenty thousand volts running through his body, Ada stepped forward and finished the job with the cut throat razor she’d inherited from her father. Then turning to her sister she pointed at the window.

“Ida, do you think this room needs redecorating? I’d be mortified if the residents association saw these curtains.”

True Faith...

I sent my thoughts on the Charles N'Zogbia scandal (See below) to True Faith, Newcastle's premier fanzine and received a very nice email from their main man, Michael Martin.

Andy,

my thoughts and those of a few others exactly - superbly put in my opinion as well.

The quality of some of the letters we are getting from supporters for the tf site is astonishing and the grasp of the situation absolutely startling.

Something tells me the game is up for the mob running the show at SJP. Just a matter of time, mate.

Keep On, Keepin' On ...


Michael Martin, true faith

In my opinion the TF site is a must for every mag, they're already in my link list but just in case you can't find it here it is again :-

http://www.true-faith.co.uk/html/main.htm

Yesterdays Match.

Not a bad result yesterday but I was surprised by Chelsea's approach to the game, you'd imagine that the chance to close the gap on Man U would have resulted in them having the odd attacking move now and then wouldn't you? Maybe it was the thought of vainly dashing themselves against the wall that is our legendary defensive unit that deterred them from even trying - who knows?

From a Newcastle point of view the odd goal now and then wouldn't go amiss either because, as Wor Kevin Keegan pointed out in an interview last week, if you don't concede you can't lose BUT if you don't score, you can't win - and we do need to win occasionally.

It's worth thinking about Mister Roeder.

Conspiracy Theory No. 657,890

Here are some facts to digest...

• Charles N'Zogbia, a left winger, was one of the few bright spots in an awful season for Newcastle United last year, starting twenty seven league games and being, quite rightly, voted the North East young player of the season.
• Arsene Wenger, no mean judge of young french talent, then started sniffing round.
• In the summer Glenn Roeder spent a third of his transfer budget on Damien Duff, a left winger, and both he and the chairman, Mr. Shepherd, exclaimed loudly about this being the bargain of the transfer window.
• Mr Roeder then went on record as saying that this didn't mean Charles was being frozen out and he would be getting plenty of games this season.
• Charles has played ten league games thus far this season, mainly in central positions.
• On 30th March Newcastle declared a loss of approximately seven million pounds up to 31st December of this season and have played for most of it with no recognised left back, seemingly unable to acquire one through two transfer windows.
• No dividend was paid to shareholders as a result of this loss
• Mr. Shepherd is one of the main shareholders at Newcastle United
• A local journalist, Mr. Alan Oliver, has recently singled out Charles N'Zogbia for scathing criticism despite the whole team, many of them experienced internationals, playing poorly all season.
• Damien Duff in particular has been awful but has somehow kept Charles out of the first team.
• Mr. Oliver has gone on to suggest that Charles may be asking for a transfer after a recent bust up with the manager.
• Mr. Oliver has a column in the matchday programme at Newcastle United
• Arsenal are reportedly ready with a bid of £3 million.
  
  The above are all facts, the rest is my opinion...
  
  If I was to suggest that when Charles goes to Arsenal, wins things, gets picked for the french national team and skins us every time he plays us in future then I probably wouldn't be far wrong. If I was also to suggest that the local press, and Mr Oliver in particular, will be full of stories about how the player wants to go and it's nothing to do with the management, he's a mercenary etc. then I don't think that would make me Mystic Meg either!
  
  Stop the spin - Shepherd Out

Maxwell's Silver Hammer...

Here's an extract from my, as yet unpublished, debut novel, Maxwell's Silver Hammer. If all you publishers and agents could just form an orderly queue and stop jostling then we can begin the auction. Okay, that's better, I believe the bidding was starting at a quarter of a million...Yes Random House, your bid please...

Billy

Bit of a result that was, sorted everything out with the boys and got them on their way early doors. Quick time check, they should be round about Doncaster by now, Zeebrugge after dinner and home for last orders. I’ll meet them at the lock up in the morning. Job done. As a reward for my early start I’m treating myself to breakfast at the Cavern Café. It’s one of those lovely windy, sunny mornings we get in Newcastle at this time of year, the type of weather that takes your skin colour from blue back to white – smashing.

Strolling down Shields Road it’s sad to see how the place has declined. When I was a teenager, back in the eighties, there was ten bars on this road and it was lively as fuck on a Friday and Saturday night. The road was always heaving with people, the pretty boys and the muscle men; the young girls and the owld slappers; smells of perfume, kebabs and that horrible fucking poseur gear Kouros mingling as one all down the road, it was a quality night out. Me and the lads all done up in our best gear, Pepe or Le Breve jeans; Pod loafers; acid house shirts and some gel in your hair, I had some then like. I remember Donny turning up in a suit once, we fucking laughed him out of the bar, he had to get a taxi home and get changed before we’d let him come out with us.

Aye, Friday night seven o clock prompt, start at the top of the road and work your way down to Baxter’s and The Ford, the two disco bars with a late licence. Usually kicked off at some point, mind you, Big George ran the doors in them days and no cunt messed with him. I remember wor Carlos once in Baxter’s, this lass was trying to get into him and he was a bit cocky about it, he was putting it about in them days as well. Anyway, he asked where she worked and she said the Cat and Dog Shelter up the west end. He just casually turned back to the bar replying, “I wasn’t asking where you lived pet.” Me and Donny creased up and she just stood there livid. I didn’t feel bad at all about laughing at her cos she’d knocked me back the week before. Mind you it was funnier still when her mate swilled him, I’m giggling to meself now thinking about it.

Aye, the road’s changed an awful lot in the last twenty years and not for the better either. It used to be full of good shops, butchers, fishmongers and greengrocers. There was even a department store, a real one that dealt in good quality gear the old fashioned way, like Grace Brothers and that. It’s been turned into student accommodation now and the whole place is just full of second hand and bargain shops, fucking heartbreaking really. Those students get right on my tits as well. There was a squad of them in The Raby last Christmas Eve, all dressed up trying to be wackier than the next cunt. They look down on you cos you’re from a council estate and have to graft for a fucking living. Someone put the Beach Boys on the jukey and next thing you know one of the pricks is lying on the floor and his mate’s only standing on his back pretending to surf and they were all cracking up like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“God Tarquin, you and Richard, you’re so zany.”

“Yah Imelda, In Sociology they call us the Mad Dogs because we’re so wacky.”

Crazy John in the lounge showed them what mad really was when he started nutting the pinball machine and breaking glasses over his head, strangely enough they left quite soon after that.

Wankers.

Newcastle United Talk In...

As my blog is going so well and I'm attracting vast advertising revenues (jesus, you'd think one of you might click on the ads occasionally!) I've employed a part time roving reporter in the shape of Nick the Nashman aka Nick the Turk aka the Wallsend Ultra. He recently attended a Talk in hosted by Mick Lowes (local radio Presenter), John Anderson (Ex toon player from the 80's and proper hardcase) and Shay Given. Scott Parker was due to attend but pulled out due to the birth of his third child recently (Insert your own joke about pulling out and conception here).

Here are his thoughts...

Alreet mate? Just to let you know what was said at the talk in the other night, Scott Parker withdrew due to the birth of his 3rd child (nowt to do with the stick he got on the previous Saturday!!)

Shay was asked who was the best manager he'd played for and he answered Kenny Dalglish as Kenny had given him his debut. Mick, the host then said it wouldn't be fair to ask him for a worst manager as he was still playing and there was plenty of time for another one. He also asked him who was the best player for his country and Shay replied .........Roy Keane - this was said after asking him about his comments about pats on the back for playing for Eire. Shay's only reply to that was - you cannot win with Roy, he'd also criticise you for not playing you cannot win with him!!! (Rivs note - that's because he's a gobby makem twat!) Shay's reply to the question, who's the best player you played alongside at Newcastle was predictably Big AL.

John Anderson was then asked his views on the same questions and obviously put an 80's slant on his answers. Best Manager - Arthur Cox , Worst was Ossie Ardiles. For best player played
with at Newcastle - Gazza just edged out Chris Waddle and for country - Paul McGrath. He also mentioned that Ruud Gullit was a shocking Newcastle manager and someone in the crowd shouted he was a Pr*ck, Shay smiled and said on the mic that just in case anyone had missed that the man said Ruud was a PR*CK!!!

All in all a good night with a couple players, current and ex, showing they were in fact human. There was one other notable point however, bizarrely Shay said his 1st choice back four would be Carr Moore Taylor Babayaro?????? (Maybe he'd been on the Guinness! Rivs)

Nick the Nashman - predictably taking a fortnight off like all at the DSS!!!!

** FREE E-BOOK **

Afternoon all, as promised I can now furnish you all with a free extract from my play 'I no longer hear the music' in e-book form.

This link will take you to Lulu.com where you can download the extract in all it's glory.

Feel free to let me know what you think.

http://www.lulu.com/content/791872

Clone Island...

Having spent the last twenty seven years watching the lads at grounds up and down this sceptred isle the one thing that I have noticed is; no matter which part of the country you are in, there are certain types of people who are exactly the same. The accents may sound different and the faces may look dissimilar, but the characteristics remain identical. From Fratton Park all the way up to gods chosen land you can go into any ground, look around any stand and rest assured that the following selection of supporter types will be present.

The Billy Nee Pals

Billy is easily given away by his propensity to engage everyone from the stewards to the hooligans in inane conversation. The subject matter is not important. What is important to Billy Nee Pals is that he is seen to be on speaking terms with most of the fans, by the rest of the fans. Normally a man, Billy Nee Pals has craved to belong since school. This is where he would always be excluded from joining in with the lads, unless a goalkeeper was needed to make up the numbers for a game of five a side. Billy knows everything about football in general and his team in particular, he will be wearing a big coat covered in badges and patches that denote various times in his teams history. When he’s not badgering you to death with his travel tales he’ll be boring the tits off you with stories about his new car or teenage girlfriend. After the match Billy then walks home to his mams house and goes straight to his room to read Razzle.

The School Captain

Again, usually a man, the school captain is in his mid-thirties and always turns up in at least one item of football training kit. This lets everyone in the ground know his status as a good footballer, one who could have turned professional if he didn’t injure his *knee/back/little finger. Recently divorced from his wife, who he married at nineteen with the reception, disco and buffet at his football clubhouse, he now realises he isn’t a pretty boy any more but can’t be bothered to get back into shape to reclaim his past glories so he just wears the gear and slicks his hair back to show off his new diamond earring. The school captain normally stands stock still by his seat and casually reads his fanzine using it as a cover to check out the lasses scattered around him. He will only venture out to the pie shop at half time if he sees The Hooligans Bird or Match Lass heading that way and he thinks he can impress her.

* Delete as applicable


The Hooligans Bird / Match Lass

The Hooligans Bird and Match Lass are a very different species of female, one (HB) comes to the match wearing full make up, strong perfume and low cut tops. The other (ML) turns up in replica top and trainers, sometimes wearing a humorous wig. As they are different in species the relationship between the two would normally be quite amicable but can become strained and very competitive when HB likes the look of School Captain and ML also thinks she’s got a chance. The main difference between the two is their availability. The Hooligans Bird is unattainable mainly due to the surveillance duties of the two big lumps in front of her, whereas the match lass is normally accessible and advertises the fact using her two big lumps in front of her.


The Plastic Hooligan

The plastic hooligan has all the Stone Island gear and considers himself to be a double hard bastard. He is frequently seen hanging round train stations and pubs on match days, usually with a couple of hangers on with the same delusions as him. He has only ever been heard to utter two sentences in public and only ever when he is mob handed “Get the stragglers” and “Have you got the time mate?” He holds all replica shirt wearers in the same contempt with which the proper hooligans hold him, especially the lads he knew at school who could chin him easily. Once his match day experience of keeping well out of the way of any possible harm while simultaneously shouting the loudest is over he may engage a potential girlfriend in some flirtatious banter. This is then subtly followed up with a dinner invitation; 1930hours at Fabio’s kebab shop once he finishes ‘running’ the opposition.

The Comedian

This bloke (and believe me it’s always a bloke) is very similar to Billy nee pals, except he’ll normally have a couple of grinning, inane, easily impressed, spanners with him. He will spend the match shouting remarks at opposing players and officials that he and his friends think are hysterical. The supporters around him will tend to ignore him as he goes through his routine and tells the poor unfortunates near him how ‘I’m mad me’. Recent examples of this blokes humour include the hysterical “Ref man get a life ha ha” and the rib popping “Mario, you’re not super ha ha”. Try not to split your sides laughing if you are ever seated near a comedian.

The Elitist

This person is male and hates everyone in the ground who ‘wasn’t there when we were shit’, especially the new breed sky generation from Wallsend. He gets particularly annoyed at people who get in his way by coming into the match after kick off and then leaving ten minutes early. He resents being unable to get a pie and a pint at half time because “the queue’s ower big and full of part timers and success supporters man” and he will tell you the same tales of travelling away to games time and again. The elitist has been supporting his team up and down this sceptred isle for the last twenty-seven years.

Here we go again...

Everybody back to work then? It's great getting out bed after a bank holiday weekend isn't it? Luckily my boss is off all week so I can get back into it gradually and work on my own stuff unmolested.

What did you all get up to? As well as doing a lot of diy type stuff I went to see a Guns n Roses tribute band and was pleasantly surprised although wearing a white polo shirt amidst a sea of long haired 'zany' rockers makes me look gay apparently - oh well!

I was right about Calzaghe and Newcastle as well wasn't I - wish I'd had a bet on them!

For the diary...

Saturday 7th - Joe Calzaghe -v- Peter Manfredo - ITV1 - 21:45
I shouldn't think this'll last long so don't miss the start.

Monday 9th Newcastle Utd - V - Arsenal - Prem Plus - 15:00
On current form we've no chance - therefore the law of the mags states that we'll get a point and Roeder will keep his job.

Right then, I'm finishing work soon and then that's me signing off until Tuesday. I hope you all have a good Easter weekend and remember, If you can't be good...be quick!

Blagger Extract.

I've been planning and working on a couple of new books recently, one is a crime fiction novel provisionally entitled 'Missing' and the other is a semi autobiographical novella called 'I'm Rivelino' - Class eh? Anyway, as a result of this a number of other things have gone on the back burner and could probably do with an airing. So with that in mind here's an extract from Blagger, an early, and still ongoing, project. Let me know what you think.

Blagger

They think they know me in this boozer. Think they know all about me. Wankers. Look at him selling Lynx from a carrier bag. One fifty a tin, that’s proper big time that is son. The cunt’s made about fifteen quid and he’s swaggering about like some fucking celebrity gangster. It’s not like he’s even a snotty nosed kid either, the fucker’s about thirty and scratches a living by nicking tat out of them cheap shops, you know the kind where the workers are on minimum wage and care more about their health than they do the company’s profits. Here’s another one, his sidekick, this boozer’s full of wannabe’s tonight. He’s pulling out his snide watches and giving it all the ‘I know a man who knows a man bollocks’, the twat’s walking over to me now, smug grin on his blotchy, junk food face.

“Come on Davey, live a bit dangerously, tenner apiece and I’ll even get Dodge to hoy in a free can of deodorant.”

I just smile back at him and shake my head, looking all model citizen and respectable as I turn back to my pint, hearing him mutter under his breath as his sweaty, charva frame moves away from me. Another one who thinks I’m a law abiding, salt of the earth, couple of pints at the weekend type. They know fuck all.

After last orders I normally go back to my council house on my own, I don’t go for a drink at anyone else’s and they don’t get invited to mine. Normally I’m about a tenner down on cards to some of the older lads, I don’t mind they’re good blokes. Sometimes I get a chinkys on the way home, sometimes I plead poverty and just get a bag of chips. Proper grey man me, none of this touting gear round pubs for twenty bar here and there, sticking your chest out and playing it hard. No visible tattoos, nice sensible short back and sides, no bling and no designer gear. What I do have though is an offshore bank account with seven hundred grand in it and about forty grand in cash under the bed. I work in a steel factory and everyone on this estate knows it. I live within my supposed means and record wise I’m as clean as a fucking whistle. What this means is that I’ll only ever get caught if I’m actually pulled in the act and that’ll never happen.

Taking a large gulp from my second pint of the weekend I revise the days events. The van pulled up and the guard was straight out and into the bank, first mistake mate. Company procedure is to wait in the van for five minutes and assess the area. As the company in question give them far too much to do and then bollock them when they don’t do it then it’s no surprise they all cut corners. He came back out, no helmet on, enjoying the sunshine, breaking all the rules. My hand slowly let out the clutch and the bike moved forward, he couldn’t even hear it, too busy thinking about the baguette he’d bought half an hour ago from Greggs. Smiling to myself as the lager hits my throat again I recall how he half turned and started to bend down at the hatch as I got closer, full throttle now. The engine whined as I pushed it hard into third. He noticed a noise and started to turn but by then I was on him. He tried to push the case in the slot but it was too late. I booted him over as the bike slewed to a halt, engine still running. Grabbed the case, rammed my hand round the throttle and I was off. Piece of piss.

The bizzies found the bike two miles away, they might find a nicked Peugeot ten miles north of Newcastle in a couple of days, I bet you no-one noticed the crappy Escort Van parked down the road from it though. The one I’ve just sold on Ebay for five hundred quid. Thirty grand in the case, minus the five hundred quid loss I took on the van for a quick sale plus sundries like petrol, equals a profit of roughly twenty nine and a bit thousand. Stuff it into the hiding place, show my face in here and then get to bed; I’ve an early shift tomorrow.

That’s the beauty of my chosen profession, I work alone; no one can grass me up; no one can get pissed and mouthy about me; no one can suddenly start spending money that they didn’t have yesterday. The only risks I take are when I’m doing the job and I’m very careful, preparation is everything with me. At the end of the day I’m a professional blagger and a fucking good one at that. That’s why I even make an effort to drink in here regular, blend in, be part of the scenery, I fucking hate them plastic gangsters that get in though. That Lynx selling muppet’s been a bit familiar lately as well, I can’t work out why, I think he might suspect I’m not what I seem but he can’t prove it so he just digs away. Well you keep digging son, I say fuck all me.

Then, suddenly, he’s in my face, a bit of an audience behind him.
“Davey, how come you never buy any gear off me? Everyone else in this bar takes a bit of hoisty of me, they all appreciate the bargains but you never do.”

He’s obviously had a few pints more than he’s capable of and he’s getting brave, maybe the coke’s kicked in and he just feels the need to talk, whatever it is the cunt’s voice is getting louder and he’s drawing attention to me. Not what I want. This needs stopping.

“I mean anyone would think you were some kind of undercover bizzy or one of those professional witnesses or something. You know the kind who can’t break the law or it fucks the case up.”

Shite. Too late to nip in the bud now, there’s a buzz round the bar and a couple of his gobshite mates have left the pool table and walked over, still holding their cues. I can’t have this. Instant death on this estate if I don’t deal with what he’s just said.

“I can see your point,” I say, “It must look suspicious to a charlie’d up, paranoid wanker like you. The reason I don’t buy your gear is because it’s shit and you’re a tu’penny ha’penny thief who thinks he’s a gangster. You want to remember your name’s Gray not Kray.”

The cunt is nonplussed no-one’s ever spoken to him like that before, even his tattoos look confused, he’s not gonna like the next bit then.

“As for being a bizzy and not doing owt illegal, how does this grab you?”

I welt my pint glass against the bar and ram it in his fat charva face, the blood sprays his two useless mates and they’re on their toes. Next thing I know the bar’s full of people applauding and I’m getting free pints all night, turns out they hate the cunt an all. Despite my desire to be low key I have to say I enjoy it but I know that was just the start. He was put into an ambulance telling everyone exactly what him and that Dodge prick would do to me. I’d best ring work tomorrow and ask for a few days holiday; tell them I’ve got a bereavement and I need to plan the funeral.

What's the story? F**k off Porky...

Newcastle United have performed appallingly this season, the millionaire players have, in the main, not bothered their arses. Our Manager promised to sort out the team and bring in players during the January transfer window (never mind that he could've done this before the season started) with the result being one player on loan - the not very good Gooch. We have played virtually all season without a left back and have destroyed the confidence of the series of young reserve centre halves that we have played out of position on that flank. There is a groundswell of contempt building up against the chairman of the club, Mr Shepherd, some of which rose to the surface during and after Saturdays defeat at home to Manchester City. Further to this a number of supporters believe that the local evening newspaper in Newcastle is little more than Mr Shepherd's PR arm, obviously their reporters maintain that this is not the case. Yesterdays first edition of the week covered the match and briefly mentioned the frustrations of the fans with the current regime, however, they chose to lead with a front page story from Mr Shepherd about a £300 million pound extension to St. James Park and how this would benefit the region as a whole and a main back page interview with the chairman detailing how he would be spending money in the summer to improve the team.

I wonder when the season ticket renewal forms will be dropping through the letterbox?

Cynical? Moi?

Monday, Monday

How was your weekend then? I spent mine digging up tree roots, swearing at my garden and sweating like Steve Mclaren before he goes into work. I woke up this morning aching in places I didn't know I had! I'll be giving the writing a miss today I think, mainly because I can't lift my arms. Got to give blood tonight as well, I'm not sure I've got any left - I think I left most of it on my pick axe handle!

Definitely got the Monday blues today - Mood Rating = 3.


Get some tunes...lose the Monday feeling