The Red Card

A true story:

Saturday afternoon. That means, or used to mean, playing football in the winter months. We're engaged in what'd be described as bit of a tussle. Two physical teams. Them, because they only ever do physical. Us because or spine is ageing. Two centre halves in our forties. Central midfield and striker also late thirties /early forties. Too old for this.

Out runs the referee. All too brand new. Creases in the sleeves of his black shirt. In his socks too, probably, until they stretched over his chubby little legs ('aint I a bitch?). Gary Glitter bouffant hair-do. Posh voice. Sorry mate, you're going to struggle around here. The bloke I'm marking and me think the same thing at the same time:

“Better shout for everything, early and loud, because this clown's never kicked a ball in his life...”

Anyway, he's not all that bad, just easily led, and I'm not too bad at leading the easily led. He wasn't biased, just useless.

In the second half, I sliced the ball out for a throw in and gave myself bit of a foul-mouthed going-over for being so rubbish. He ran straight over, Mr Glitter, and brandished a red card.

“I”, he asserted, “am not a ****er”.

“No, mate”, I said, “you're a stupid, deaf, ****er. Thanks.”

Sunday morning. MM runs out of the changing rooms with the under whatevers I was running at the time. Followed by...

...Gary Glitter in his second pristine ref's outfit of the weekend. Their first attack and MM brings down their centre forward (who was playing for us the next season) and the ref points to the penalty spot, and the headlines are flashing through my head:

Father and Son Sent off by Same Referee in one Weekend.

Luckily, from somewhere, he was hit by a bolt of common sense and just gave the penalty and MM a ticking off. He didn't recognise me on the touchline, either, making him a deaf, stupid, blind ****er.

I like Morrissey...

...and I like him having a go at the Canadians and their barbaric seal cull.

The Independent, belying its name, has called Morrissey's views a “rant” and a “tirade” and says:

“You can expect more or Morrissey's theatrical and miserly views on the planet when he releases his forthcoming album, World Peace is None of Your Business, in July.”

Since when did the Independent become the Mail? The paper quotes the Canadian fisheries minister as if she's the fount of all knowledge, unquestioningly and endorses her opinion that Morrissey has been 'brainwashed' by 'fringe animal rights groups' and 'radical environmentalists'.

Gail Shea, her name is.

This isn't an endearing or popular standpoint, but it's the only one I have:

Baseball bat.

Baby seal.

Gail's bawling, puking, smelly baby.

Pick one.

Look away...Gail.