So, anyway, I’ve written a few pieces for the Daily Mirror’s website lately (mainly TV reviews), and hopefully there’s a lot more to follow. Why not go and have a look? You’ve literally got nothing to lose.
“The ball’s gone over the top, the defence have stepped up but there’s no flag. After that it’s a one-on-one biscuit race between Owen and the keeper.”
“When you’re taking a free kick, the wall’s a bit like a porn film. You’re better off ignoring it or else you’ll just get distracted.”
“You’ve got to blame the defence there. The left-back came home early for his tea and got jam in his eye.”
“You can’t legislate for skill like that. He’s done a right Pan’s People on John O’Shea there.”
“Seven hours Palace fans have waited for a goal, and when they get one they’ll probably spell it wrong.”
“He’s gone up and given the centre-half a short back and sides there. Look at the replay, there’s dead hair all over the six yard box.”
“Blanc’s been caught by the quick ball over the top there. He was expecting The Troggs and they’ve gone and hit him with a right Frank Zappa.”
“Villa’s midfield’s like a handful of premium bonds. They’re there but you’re not quite sure why.”
“Zola’s split the defence with a birthday ball there. Candles, the bumps, and a sloppy kiss off his Auntie Rita. The lot.”
It pops up on Twitter from time to time, but now it has a permanent home here. We give you… a pair of cunts with their juice.
I’m thinking about getting a bunch of them done. I’m pretty sure they’ll catch on…
(as suggested by @Harry_Flowers)
My first visit to London was in the middle of the summer of 1995. I travelled down from the North East by train, opting for a seat in the cheaper ‘non-blinking’ carriage. Making a four-hour journey while doing nothing but staring into the middle distance was a tall order, but seeing my fellow, weaker passengers being roughly removed from their seats and hurled out of the window of the still-moving train was enough of an incentive for me to resist the urge to move my eyelids.
I was ready for the inevitable culture shock upon my arrival in the capital, having prepared by watching Sunderland Council’s informative set of fifteen ‘Are You REALLY Sure You Want To Visit That London?’ videos.
Thankfully, everything was as I expected when I alighted at Kings Cross and as was traditional, I was met and gret by a newsreader. On that occasion it was Nicholas Witchell – I can still feel the tenderness of his kiss to this day.
Smiling and reeking slightly of vinegar, Witchell issued me with a pamphlet containing a guide to London’s curtain laws, the opening hours of the city’s domino houses and for some reason that I have never been able to fathom, a charcoal drawing of a singing penis (circumcised.)
In truth, Witchell’s information pack wasn’t needed – this was a day trip and I was in London for a specific purpose, namely to have a new voice-box inserted into my horse.
Stupidly, I had overdosed the beast on the tranquilisers that I hoped would keep him sedated during the journey and rather than ride him proudly through the city’s streets, I was forced to drag him along behind me. A kind policeman slapped a ‘not actually dead’ sticker on to Chopper’s rump, which helped me sidestep some awkward questions as I slowly meandered my way to Harley Street.
The voice-box transplant was completed successfully as I napped in the waiting room and Chopper went on to regain his place in the choir less than a year later. Since then, I have visited London over 400 times, almost always while wearing some kind of disguise.
Every single sojourn to our fair capital has been a joy, whether it be to work as a steward at the European Reggae Conference at Earl’s Court or just to hang around outside Buckingham Palace in the vain hope that the Queen might throw some of her eggs out of the window.
So if you’re ever passing the Palace and you see a man standing facing the building, his head pointed to the sky and his mouth wide open, please say hello won’t you?
“Basically, I couldn’t get any”, complains the leather-faced guitar legend. “I was an apprentice at Brentford, the Bees, and we’d train during the day, clean a few boots then I’d head on down to Chiswick at night to catch some blues. I was a great defender. Liked to get stuck in. Caught a ref round the head with a skull ring when I was thirteen”.
Richards says the lack of good quality hash made him throw in the towel. “In the Sixties, apprentices were on three bob a week. I’d save it up to buy some decent puff. But no-one at the club was selling the good Moroccan slabs. Bert the groundsman used to slip me a few leapers and I know for a fact the Chairman was dealing horse, but could I get some decent marijuana? It was very disappointing”.
Though building a decent reputation for its access to heroin, it was Brentford’s neighbours Queens Park Rangers that offered the best cannabis in London. “The weed at that gaff was the very, very best”, cackles Richards.