Poofs and sport

By our celebrity guest writer, Jeremy Clackston.

With the exception of figure skating and modern Premiership football, being a tip-toe-boy is still frowned upon in the macho world of sport.
This is largely down to communal showers and drinking habits. You don't want some fruit checking you out after the match and then ordering a pina colada in the bar later, when you only asked for a pint of ale when it was his round.
Do you, Gareth Thomas? No you don't.
Oops lads! Here comes Gareth. Bums to the wall! Ha ha ha!  I'm totally secure in my sexual identity, so wedging my head between other men's sweaty arses, voluntarily, every Saturday afternoon, doesn't bother me at all.

Burma Star Lunch

Awkward.
We didn't really know where to sit.
I felt uncomfortable in my suit.
I looked at Granda.
A small old man in his medals and scuffed shoes.
"Ahhhhh!", he smiled, and sat down.
It was all right.
We met an old friend of his, called Jimmy.
It was all right.
I'm glad I went.

Here goes!

Okay. Let's start with the jacket. I have seen more aesthetically pleasing things coming out of the arse of a dog with diarrhea.
And now. To the main course of his hair.
It's like...
It's like...
It's like a fight between an American wrestler and the sex fantasy of Jeremy Clarkson and Gary Glitter's love child. It is obscene beyond words.
The next guy just looks like a poof who defected from Phil Collins, and the last guy, well the last guy looks like a load of guys who girls wanted to go out with when you were sixteen, and just made you think, "If that's how much of a wanker you have to look like to get a girlfriend, I will happily embrace celibacy."

Yes. Haircuts.

We all tried to grow our hair long in those days. But we were hindered by parents and school rules. What was Def Leppard's excuse?
They had the worst poodle mullets the world has ever seen. Angus Young sometimes had his hair quite short, sometimes outrageously long for a middle-aged man. But it always looked good, and he never, NEVER, wore a white leather jacket and a pair of his sister's leggings.
He might have looked a bit odd in a school uniform, but it worked. Not like this...

I mean, where to even start here!

Let's start with the text and get that out of the way. This font was designed by a fourteen year old dungeons and dragons fanatic who had just been bought his first set square. There is not a single thing about it that doesn't scream, " Sh*t heavy metal band from Sheffield."

Okay now, from left to right.

The first guy is not too bad, when compared to the others. At least he isn't trying to look "sultry". The clenched fist and the fact that he is on the periphery of the photo suggest that he probably is secretly longing to leave the band and get a proper job.

The next guy just looks like a jerk. He is trying to disguise this by affecting the wearing of a hat. But it's not working. His face is all, look at how metal I am. Yeah, like aluminium, maybe.

Next. This may take a while. In fact I think I have to go and have a little lie down before even undertaking this task.

And why are there so many bloody musicals on TV?

Is Christmas not meant to be over?

Open your eyes. Time to wake up. Enough is enough is enough is enough.

Now.
There was a time, and we can be forgiven for it now, because it was in the eighties, and we didn't know any better.
But there was a time when we didn't realise that Def Leppard were Sh*t.
But we all do realise that now, don't we?
If not, let me remind you of the sh*tness that they are.
They did a song called "Armageddon It", which contains the lines, " Armageddon It? Yes I'm getting it."
This is only the tip of the iceberg of their adolecent Peurility or Peurilness or whatever you want to call it.
I will come to the trousers later, because I have so much to get through. In fact, when I come to think of it, I could have written my University dissertation on how sh*t Def Leppard were, without using any more reference material other than my own knowledge of how sh*t they actually were.
The sh*tness of the music pretty much speaks for itself, so let's move along to the haircuts.

Hi Iris! Cheerio, you Cretin.

Iris Robinson, who described herself as an abomination in the face of God (hang on, is that right? Well have you looked at her? It must be right.) has stood down as an MP. The pressure of getting everything for free while doing nothing but making the people of Northern Ireland look like a bunch of pitch-fork waving, witch-hunting hicks from the dark ages has obviously become too much for her.
So goodbye, Iris. Feck off to whatever hole in the ground you crawled out of, and tell that illiterate Dalek of a husband of yours to feck off too. And get a haircut.

Where did the gold go?

Thinking of the Nativity again, this question is troubling me. Presumably the gift of gold, offered to a king, would have consisted of a substantial amount. It would have been the equivalent of winning the lottery today. So where did it go? Joseph seems to have continued to work as normal as a carpenter, and there is no indication of Jesus' family being particularly wealthy. There is no mention of what they did with it.
It would make a good story, I think. Especially if told from the point of view of Joseph, because he is stangely unrepresented in the Bible. Not much more than a walk on part, really.
Strange.

I just remembered

That guy was called Alan Shearer, I think
Imagine being called Alan Shearer and being no good at football.

Poetry? Poetry is it, sonny Jim. Jimmy me lad? You're sixteen. It's about time you started to knuckle down and think about what you're going to do with the rest of your life!

A poem.
( in the free-form style. It doesn't rhyme or anything.)

He's probably dead by now.

I knew this boy at school when we were about nine.
He was really, really fat.
He was no good at football.
But I was friends with him anyway.
Because we were both good at art.
He's probably dead by now.

Wouldn't it be Great if Ireland Won the World Cup?

Wouldn't it be Great if Ireland Won the World Cup?
I mean, it is unlikely. But think how happy everyone would be if they did. Everyone loves Ireland. Think if they won the World Cup. Think about how happy everyone would be. Especially if they beat England in the final. Think how happy everyone would be.
Think if they won the World Cup.
Beat Brazil in the semi-final with a goal scored by some guy who plays for Crusaders, and then went on to destroy England with a hat-trick of goals from a guy who used to play for Distillery.
Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal!.........Irelandio!
Clement Atlee, Winston Churchill, Maggie Thatcher. Are you watching? Because your boys took a hell of a beating tonight!
Not likely to happen though.
The problem is this. And I don't want to blind you with football jargon here, but even when we had Geordie Best, what we lacked was "strength in depth".
There was not enough "pin-point-passing" in the middle third of the "park". Not enough movement "off the ball". Nay, not enough "incisive attacking into the penalty area". Not nearly enough kicking someone in the balls and then saying,"Come on ref, I never f***ing touched him!"

Nativity Play

The scene opens on a sparsely populated church.
Enter Mary and Joseph. Mary is heavily pregnant, which considering that she is only eight years old, pretty much confirms that girls are reaching puberty earlier and earlier.
Joseph's age is more difficult to discern, as he has wig tied around his face with a piece of string, forming a realistic approximation of a long beard. He has a tea-towel on his head, as was the fashion in Galilee in those days.
Mary: Oh, Joseph, I am so tired. Is it much further to Bethlehem?
Joseph: No. Here we are now.
Joseph walks up to a door and knocks on it.
The door opens.
Enter Inn-keeper.
Joseph: Hello. Have you got a room for the night?
Inn-keeper: No. I'm afraid we're fully booked, what with Christmas and everything.
Pause for audience laughter.
Joseph: My wife is with child. Is there nowhere we can stay?
Inn-keeper: You could try the Hilton.
Joseph: A bit out of our league, price-wise.
Inn-keeper: Well, I'll tell you what. There's a stable out the back. You could stay there. I won't charge you for it, and there's all the hay you can eat. I'll send the porter round to get your bags.
Joseph: Okay.

Meanwhile, in the hills above Bethlehem, shepherds were watching their flocks by night. They were attired in the usual tea-towel on head, stripey dress that their Mum used to wear in the Seventies (cross-dressing was more acceptable back in those days) and a crudely constructed crook whose chief component seems to be copious amounts of hastily painted masking tape wrapped around a stick.

Then the Angel of the Lord appears.
Enter Angel of the Lord, wearing a big white shirt of her Dad's that comes down to her knees, and a halo made out of a coat hanger with a bit of tinsel wrapped around it. The Angel of the Lord looks not unlike Anthony Gormley's Angel of the North, having her arms stretched out.
The shepherds give Oscar-winning performances of covering their eyes and looking "sore afraid".
Now, I have never understood that bit of the Bible. Maybe it is a mis-translation. How could they be sore afraid? Were they so afraid that it actually caused them physical pain?
Anyway.
The Angel of the Lord: Fear...not...for I bring you...glad tidings...of great joy...   ... ..."
The Angel of the Lord looks about uncertainly. Then another voice rings out, in a stage whisper.
Prompter: For today is born...
The Angel of the Lord: For today is born to you a Saviour... who is Christ the Lord... you will find him...in a stable...lying in a manger."
The shepherds said to each other, "Shall we go and see this great thing that has happened?" And they all agreed that they should. And they would take with them a toy lamb with a zip on it that you could keep your pyjamas inside, to honour the new King.

Also at this time, there were wise men from the East (Newtownards Road or somewhere). They were decked out in their Ma's best curtains, and crowns fashioned from the finest board of card sprayed with the gold paint of Halfords.
And they brought gifts of gold, Frankenstein, and a mirror.
They were guided by a dream not to go back to Herod, so they went home by another way. They took the Larne Stranraer ferry, and yea verily, I say unto thee, they did declare that Larne was the best place they had ever seen. So they stayed there and did raiseth up their families in that town.
And from that day hence, all the world acklowledges that the wisest men in all Christendom are born in Larne.

This is the word of the Lord.

Prize quiz

Here.
Here now. Here.
Here is something I've just noticed, here, now.
If anyone at all is even reading this drivel, have you noticed the alliteration in that last post? Like when Seamus Heaney or someone said, "and spit the pips" in one of his poems.
My English teacher, who was a pretty good guy, and considered himself radical, in that he rarely washed, or changed his clothes, or shaved, or wrote poetry that didn't contain the c word, seemed to like alliteration.
We liked him because he was a poet, and he could swear for poetical effect. He didn't just use the F word because he had hit himself on the thumb with a hammer. When he used it, it was art.
As in, "So you can see there boys, how the poet is trying to convey the anguish of his loss by...Lucas! stop f***ing about at the back of the class there, and pay attention!"
"Sorry, sir."
But, anyway. The "spit the pips" thing. It is great alliteration, those spitty p sounds. As our teacher pointed out to us. As he put it, "I mean, listen to it, boys. The pips are practically coming out of his mouth like guided f***ing missiles!"
It is a great alliteration.
But.
Apparently, alliteration, technically, only refers to vowel sounds. I'm not sure if I am totally right about this, but I think there is a seperate word for consonants which have the same effect. For example, "an apple all appealling", would be an alliteration, whereas, "like a devil's sick of sin", there is a different term for that. I can't remember what the term is. Maybe I am mistaken, but if not, please remind me, because English was about the only useful subject I learned at school and I would like to know what that word is, for an alliteration of consonants.
A pickled pepper picked by Peter Piper goes to the winner.

A good feeling

Warning! The link in this post will take you to sickeningly dated Eighties music, which may have the effect, if you work in an open plan office, to cause everyone to jump up and, despite not having rehearsed it at all, dance in a perfectly choreographed routine involving people doing the splits in mid-air, and perhaps someone in roller boots and leg warmers.

I woke up this morning at seven o'clock as usual. It was a miserable day. It wasn't even a day. It still looked like the middle of the night. I couldn't see it of course, as the curtains were closed. But I could hear it. The wind was battering rain against the window with alarming ferocity. It was cold too. Even the cat didn't seem to want to get up. She just raised her head when she saw me stir, and looked at me and then put her head back down again, as if to say, "Yeah. Just go back to sleep. I never did understand why you humans find the need for all this running about first thing in the morning. Just go back to sleep. You can feed me later."
I thought, "Maybe I could just lie here for a while. Listen to the radio alarm clock. Absorb some of the fat cat's warmth.." Then I woke up and it was eight o'clock. Oh no. Late for work. I jumped up in a panic, fed the cat, put the kettle on, then decided I had no time for tea, and headed for the shower. I was half-way down the hall when it came to me. "Hold on. Today is Tuesday. I don't work on a Tuesday."
What a good feeling. I don't think I've ever had that before!
I did once go to work on New Year's Eve, only to find nobody there and the building all locked up. I waited around for half an hour or so until it became apparent that no-one was coming. Although I felt a bit stupid, it was good.
But not as good as this.
I didn't even have to change out of my Jimmy Jammy Jim Jams. I put on my slippers and dressing gown and prepared copious quantities of tea and toast while observing through the window, with a certain amount of Schadenfreude, the miserable malcontents struggling through the weather on their way to work.
The cat meaowed a thoughtful meaow that seemed to say, "Let's have another round of breakfast, and then go back to bed for a while."
"Good idea, Lucy. What would you like? Tea and toast, or cat food?"
"Tea and toast."
"Really?"
"No. Only joking. Cat food please."

Decorations

I never put my Christmas decorations up this early. But when I got home from work today, someone had had another idea.

This little chap had somehow got into the house, and was happily perched on the curtain rail, observing the lazy cat (who took no interest).
I thought maybe he could stay. A kind of living Christmas decoration. But then he flew against the window a few times, obviously anxious and perplexed that he couldn't escape.
My windows only have a small opening part at the top. So when I opened them he couldn't work it out, and just kept banging against the glass. Thinking he might hurt himself, I devised a plan.
I sprinkled some bread crumbs on the frame by the open part of the window. Sure enough, he went to investigate, and after a quick snack, realised how to get out.
Mind you, with the weather being as it is tonight, I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted back in again.

Art galleries and their owners

Have you noticed how art gallery owners often bear an uncanny resemblance to their art gallery?
No. Of course you haven't. This was a stupid subject to try to write about. How could an art gallery owner possibly look like an art gallery? It makes no sense at all. What was I thinking?
Sorry. Just forget it.
I'll speak to you tomorrow.