People that Disrespect DVDs
DVDs are a great invention, without a shadow of a doubt. I have loads, as do most of my friends, I bet even you have some too. I love DVDs and I’m very proud of my collection, because I have an excellent taste in TV Shows, Stand-Up Comedy and Films. I have such a good taste that my friends, eager to be like me ask to borrow them from time to time, I gladly lend them to share this brilliant material. But this is where trouble can arise, because if my DVDs return with damage inflicted on them, I begin to get irate.
To damage someone’s DVD is much like spitting in their grandma’s face. You just don’t do it. It’s wrong, plain and simple. I have a friend back home that I used [along with other friends] used to lend DVDs too, yet this was a massive mistake. Upon going around to his house I would discover my DVDs scattered all over his room so even being used as drink coasters! DRINK COASTERS … people? What the fuck was he thinking? These were exceptional Films and Stand Up, it’s not like I lent him Twilight. This friend’s house later became known as ‘The DVD Graveyard; Where DVDs Go To Die’, although that didn’t really make sense looking back on it, people don’t go to graveyards to die. People go to graveyards when they’re already dead. It should have been; ‘The DVD Euthanasia Centre; Where DVDs Go To Die’.
I did the correct thing in this situation and demanded my DVDs back. Although at this point my temper had reached such a point that mere dialogue was no longer able to flow from my mouth and I could only express my needs [for my DVDs to be returned] by taking a baseball bat to his TV and shitting on his sofa.
But it’s not just people disrespecting my DVDs, if I see an individual remove their own DVD from the DVD Player and not put it in the correct case I look at them as if they’ve just put a cat in the microwave and started cackling at the sight of the cat’s bones deforming and it’s eyes oozing out of it’s skull.
Proper DVD etiquette is vital in this day and age. If we go around not putting DVDs in their correct cases or leaving them by the DVD player in no case at all, then the terrorists have won! Is that what you want? If you leave a DVD out of the case you are basically inviting Osama Bin Laden in to your house. Think about that the next time you watch a DVD.
Ashtrays for Ash
This one is simple, real simple. An ashtray, a simple ashtray has one primary use; it is for ash and cigarettes nubs [or butts, as some people call them]. That’s it, nothing more, nothing less.
An ashtray is not for the plastic film that is wrapped around a new packet of cigarettes. So don’t open a new packet and drop the plastic film into the ashtray because when I go to flick my ash into the ashtray [the primary use of an ASHtray] I don’t want that plastic film melting onto my cigarette. My lungs are already taking a beating from the tar; I don’t want to inhale burning plastic film too.
Upon finishing a packet of cigarettes do not scrunch up the packet and throw it into the ashtray. An ashtray is not a mini bin. I repeat; an ashtray IS NOT a mini bin. A scrunched up cigarette packet takes up most of the space in an ashtray leaving it difficult for the ashtray to act out its primary use. Also, don’t put unused Rizla papers in an ashtray either; they just burn when they come into contact with the cherry of a cigarette. I smoke to inhale burning tobacco, not burning paper.
Other things that shouldn’t be put in an ashtray; used lighters, chewing gum, bits of beer mats, tissue, used condoms, dead pets, baby teeth, jumbo jets … basically nothing other than ash (from a cigarette or joint – don’t try tipping your cremated uncle in an ashtray, I will act violently), cigarette nubs and maybe a used match, but that’s it. Got it? Good!
People that Drink MY BEER
Belittle my culture. Chastise my political views. Denounce my beliefs. Criticize my work. Demean my dress sense. Rubbish my taste in music. Degrade my entire way of life. Condemn my religion. Shag my girlfriend. Slap my mum. Kick my dog. Key my car. Rob my house. Take my life.
But under no circumstances drink my beer.
That’s all I have to say on that topic, no rant needed.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Monday, 26 July 2010
Advert #1 - JML
Although I’m a strict Socialist, I have bills to pay and drugs to buy, so as a means of making some extra income I’ve decided to start adding advertisements to my Blog. I’ve opted to not add the Google Adverts option to my Blog and instead cut out the middle man (in this case Google) and decided to sell Blog space to businesses in a way to make more money. As I don’t want the adverts to ruin my Blog, they have to follow themes that appear in my Blog.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Dealing with Dealers
This world would be a massively different place if there were no drug dealers on it. Many would speculate that it would be much better, others would speculate it would be much worse, as for me I’m currently undecided on the matter. Drugs are bad, but at the same time I do like them, so … I’m kind of sat on the fence whilst smoking a spliff.
The thing is dealing with dealers is a double edged sword. In no way am I saying that any of the dealers I’ve come in contact with have ever been threatening, no I’d take a threatening dealer over the over-friendly dealer. Look at it like this, a drug dealer is providing a service; money exchanges hands and then I get my drugs. That is of course were it should end. But just lately I have started to pick up my ‘medication’ from someone else, whom seems to think that when I call him asking; “You got any weed?” I actually mean; “I want to buy some weed from you and smoke it with you.” This is certainly not the case. MY MONEY, MY DRUGS!
I recently went to pick up and then got invited into the dealer’s house. I had to accept, it’s a good idea to stay on the good side of a person that supplies you with what you want. I thought I’d be simple enough, chill out for 5-10 minutes then I’ll get on my way. We entered his bedroom, it was littered with sweet packets, crisp packets, empty Pot Noodles; it looked as if a fat child had run a mock in a sweet shop. I took a seat and spotted a kettle next to the bed. I got the feeling that this guy hadn’t left this room in a while. The dealer went on to offer me a joint, I accepted, like I said; it’s important to stay on their good side. The dealer than asked me to chip in some weed for the joint, which is quite peculiar, I mean, he is a dealer after all. He was the one offering a spliff to me, not vice versa. Bartenders don’t pour you a pint and then drink half of it. Employees at supermarkets don’t help themselves to the items you’ve just purchased. Therefore a drug dealer shouldn’t be asking his customers for marijuana, it’s a complete role reversal of the relationship of dealer and customer.
Of course I had to give him some, as it’s a vital to stay on the good side of people that sell you your drugs. So he rolled it up, lit it and hit it and hit it and hit it and hit it … this went on for sometime until it finally reached my grasp. As every stoner knows there are unwritten rules to smoking a joint and the number of tokes per person varies from group to group, but from my extensive experience the average number is about three, maybe a couple more if you’re lighting it so you can get it burning correctly. This dealer was hitting the joint so much I thought it’d had fucked his girlfriend. Anyway, I had the joint and had my tokes and passed it back. I was tempted to have some extra to balance out the average but I’m stooped in stoner tradition and like to come across as not being a filthy, greedy bastard. So I passed it back, the dealer reverted back to smoking loads. Sometime passed and I noticed that the joint had been in the ashtray for a while without him picking it up again, by now he was transfixed by his laptop. This was kind of infuriating, as I didn’t want to be there, yet I’d stayed to be friendly and stay on his good side and I was being ignored. He didn’t need me there; all that was happening was what would have been happening if I wasn’t there. I was literally wasting my time. This guy had taken my money, asked for my weed and was now consuming my time. What else was he expecting me to give? My ass virginity? One of my kidneys? My first born child?
I glanced over to the now unlit joint in the ashtray, after being left on it’s own for too long it’d gone out due to neglect. I wondered if I should leave it for him to finish and get on my way, but I was starting to get annoyed at the prospect that I’d been cheated in this situation and I at least deserved a few more tokes, so I took the spliff, re-lit it and hit it. I passed it back to him, as he remained glued to his laptop and put it into the ashtray for it to go out again. Silence descended. I was about to inform him of my departure, when he asked; “Hey, how about you skin one up and we’ll have two going at the same time?” I was shocked. I just thought; ‘Two at the same time? You’re not even smoking the first one?’ I respectfully declined the offer of sharing more of my weed with the person I bought if from. This was it, I had to leave.
Not to sound rude for leaving I said I had to be off for some bullshit reason; got to meet someone at 6.00pm. It was 5.50pm, so I knew this was a good plan. But not good enough for the dealer; “Let me just show you this…” he turned his laptop to me and began to show me some unfamiliar music making program, which I didn’t care for. I love music, but making music seems like a long and drawn out process that I don’t want to be part of never mind watching another individual embarking on it. I watched while mindlessly complementing in a hope that it would get me out the door sooner. No such luck. I kept glancing at my watch. It was 5.58pm. I’d already said I was meeting someone at 6.00pm that was my definite cut off point. I mentioned it again and begin to stand up. Then I had to pull off some of the most fast-paced lying I had ever achieved, some of the quick-fire response lies that men usually only have to disperse in an argument with a lover or in a police interrogation room.
Me: “Look man, I’ve really gotta be off. It’s almost six.”
Dealer: “Who you meeting?”
I wasn’t meeting anyone, but I had to lie, couldn’t say a mate or he’d want to come, so I went for …
Me: “The girlfriend.”
Me: “But I came on my bike.”
There’s no way my bike could fit in his car.
Me: “But I have work in the morning. I need to bike it to work, so I just better be off.”
And I left, relieved, like a man that’d just served a murder sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. The weed was good, it was on weight and a decent enough strain, but the strain put on me to secure the marijuana and to preserve the vital bond between dealer and customer was too much.
The thing is dealing with dealers is a double edged sword. In no way am I saying that any of the dealers I’ve come in contact with have ever been threatening, no I’d take a threatening dealer over the over-friendly dealer. Look at it like this, a drug dealer is providing a service; money exchanges hands and then I get my drugs. That is of course were it should end. But just lately I have started to pick up my ‘medication’ from someone else, whom seems to think that when I call him asking; “You got any weed?” I actually mean; “I want to buy some weed from you and smoke it with you.” This is certainly not the case. MY MONEY, MY DRUGS!
I recently went to pick up and then got invited into the dealer’s house. I had to accept, it’s a good idea to stay on the good side of a person that supplies you with what you want. I thought I’d be simple enough, chill out for 5-10 minutes then I’ll get on my way. We entered his bedroom, it was littered with sweet packets, crisp packets, empty Pot Noodles; it looked as if a fat child had run a mock in a sweet shop. I took a seat and spotted a kettle next to the bed. I got the feeling that this guy hadn’t left this room in a while. The dealer went on to offer me a joint, I accepted, like I said; it’s important to stay on their good side. The dealer than asked me to chip in some weed for the joint, which is quite peculiar, I mean, he is a dealer after all. He was the one offering a spliff to me, not vice versa. Bartenders don’t pour you a pint and then drink half of it. Employees at supermarkets don’t help themselves to the items you’ve just purchased. Therefore a drug dealer shouldn’t be asking his customers for marijuana, it’s a complete role reversal of the relationship of dealer and customer.
Of course I had to give him some, as it’s a vital to stay on the good side of people that sell you your drugs. So he rolled it up, lit it and hit it and hit it and hit it and hit it … this went on for sometime until it finally reached my grasp. As every stoner knows there are unwritten rules to smoking a joint and the number of tokes per person varies from group to group, but from my extensive experience the average number is about three, maybe a couple more if you’re lighting it so you can get it burning correctly. This dealer was hitting the joint so much I thought it’d had fucked his girlfriend. Anyway, I had the joint and had my tokes and passed it back. I was tempted to have some extra to balance out the average but I’m stooped in stoner tradition and like to come across as not being a filthy, greedy bastard. So I passed it back, the dealer reverted back to smoking loads. Sometime passed and I noticed that the joint had been in the ashtray for a while without him picking it up again, by now he was transfixed by his laptop. This was kind of infuriating, as I didn’t want to be there, yet I’d stayed to be friendly and stay on his good side and I was being ignored. He didn’t need me there; all that was happening was what would have been happening if I wasn’t there. I was literally wasting my time. This guy had taken my money, asked for my weed and was now consuming my time. What else was he expecting me to give? My ass virginity? One of my kidneys? My first born child?
I glanced over to the now unlit joint in the ashtray, after being left on it’s own for too long it’d gone out due to neglect. I wondered if I should leave it for him to finish and get on my way, but I was starting to get annoyed at the prospect that I’d been cheated in this situation and I at least deserved a few more tokes, so I took the spliff, re-lit it and hit it. I passed it back to him, as he remained glued to his laptop and put it into the ashtray for it to go out again. Silence descended. I was about to inform him of my departure, when he asked; “Hey, how about you skin one up and we’ll have two going at the same time?” I was shocked. I just thought; ‘Two at the same time? You’re not even smoking the first one?’ I respectfully declined the offer of sharing more of my weed with the person I bought if from. This was it, I had to leave.
Not to sound rude for leaving I said I had to be off for some bullshit reason; got to meet someone at 6.00pm. It was 5.50pm, so I knew this was a good plan. But not good enough for the dealer; “Let me just show you this…” he turned his laptop to me and began to show me some unfamiliar music making program, which I didn’t care for. I love music, but making music seems like a long and drawn out process that I don’t want to be part of never mind watching another individual embarking on it. I watched while mindlessly complementing in a hope that it would get me out the door sooner. No such luck. I kept glancing at my watch. It was 5.58pm. I’d already said I was meeting someone at 6.00pm that was my definite cut off point. I mentioned it again and begin to stand up. Then I had to pull off some of the most fast-paced lying I had ever achieved, some of the quick-fire response lies that men usually only have to disperse in an argument with a lover or in a police interrogation room.
Me: “Look man, I’ve really gotta be off. It’s almost six.”
Dealer: “Who you meeting?”
I wasn’t meeting anyone, but I had to lie, couldn’t say a mate or he’d want to come, so I went for …
Me: “The girlfriend.”
Dealer: “Where?”
Me: “From work, she finishes in a minute, I’m gunna be late and she’ll be pissed.”Dealer: “Let me finish off this joint and I’ll give you a ride.”
I had to get out of this. Me: “But I came on my bike.”
There’s no way my bike could fit in his car.
Dealer: “You can come back for it tomorrow.”
The thought of coming back sent a shiver down my spine.Me: “But I have work in the morning. I need to bike it to work, so I just better be off.”
Dealer: “Alright then mate. See you soon.”
And I left, relieved, like a man that’d just served a murder sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. The weed was good, it was on weight and a decent enough strain, but the strain put on me to secure the marijuana and to preserve the vital bond between dealer and customer was too much.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
A Relationship with God...?
The other day, I took a little break from sitting around festering in my own filth to think about God. Now, I’ve never been a massive fan of the Christian deity, I think this is all down to the fact that all this religious stuff used to get hammered into me while I was at school, obviously when your younger it’s hard to listen to someone going on and on and on and on, about some guy that lives in the sky and watches over us. Yeah, it was kind of interesting the first time, but like with any story or anecdote it gets tiring listening to it over and over again. Through my scattered memories; jumbled up because of severe alcohol and drug abuse, I remember one school assembly in which a teacher was describing someone, going on about how great this person was. The main thing I remember being said was; “this person even knows how many hairs you have on your head” at that point my mind began to envision some type of brilliant magician, that knew everything, I was half expecting this magician to suddenly appear at the front of the hall from a cloud of smoke. My imagination was racing at the possibilities of what this brilliant magician would do to impress the awe-struck audience of little kids. But, much to my minds dismay, it wasn’t some brilliant magician, it was [as the teacher put it]; “… that person is God.” My heart sank, I just thought ‘Oh, him again!’
I’m against drilling little infants … with the ‘message of the lord’, it’s a bias towards which ever religion a certain school represents. As it’s all subject to change, if I was born somewhere else in the world it would be a different deity that I’d have been forced to learn about, such as Allah, Buddha, Vishnu or whatever the Jews call their God. So religion is basically based on region, maybe that’s why the words are so similar. I also remember when learning about God at school, there was a boy that used to get sent out of class, because his parents didn’t want him to learn about the Christian God. At the time I didn’t understand why, now I do, but back then I used to hate that motherfucker, because as the rest of us got bored to death, he was somewhere else painting or drawing or playing with Play-Do, the lucky son of a bitch. This may have subconsciously added to my distain for God in the future.
I did used to pray to God and Jesus at one point of my life. Never thanking him [God] for anything, instead I usually just asking him for things. After years of hearing about all the miracles he did, I assumed because I’d led a good life [up to that point] he’d help me with my requests. I wasn’t asking for much, it’s not as if I was a materialist child, I made simple requests; ‘Please stop mummy from drinking, Jesus’, ‘Please have daddy come home, God. He’s been out for that bottle of milk for three years’. Of course these things never came to fruition as I was going about my relationship with God all wrong. Although I’d had story after story drilled into me by teachers (whom I now expect a large majority didn’t believe what they were preaching, after all these are educated people), I never really realised that I was supposed to be obedient to the lord and thank him continuously for the life he has given me and I should rarely ask for anything as that would be selfish.
Then the other day I came to a conclusion on having a relationship with God. That conclusion is as follows; a relationship with God is like a relationship with an uptight and horrible girlfriend.
Think about it for a minute, before you dismiss such a claim. There are plenty of similarities between the two. For example, you should love your girlfriend undoubtedly, much like God. You should always have faith in both, despite your own opinions. If your girlfriend wants to dress like a dirty slag, you must show your faith, if Christians want to denounce homosexuality; you must have faith in that too, no matter if you think homosexuality is perfectly fine and natural or you think your girlfriend looks like a dirty slag. You must continue to give to both, with nothing back in return, it may be your soul or it may be a brand new pair of shoes, either way nothing is guaranteed in return. Both God and girlfriends need to be worshipped continuously, without question. They always want your money; the girlfriend wants a new dress or more new shoes because she’s scuffed the last pair, God wants your money to fix the roof of a Church so people can stay dry when they pray. You must defend both, if someone attacks your God or your girlfriend, you must come to their rescue. They both begin with the letter ‘G’; God, Girlfriend [yeah, even I’ll admit I’m clutching a straws at this point].
But the similarities are there.
Eventually, after running yourself into the ground you give up, after all the years of neglect from both, you do the right thing and end it with both of them. Because after all that shit, you realise that you’re worth more. You’re better than your girlfriend and you’re better than God. So you cut off ties with them both. You carry on with your life and act as if that horrible girlfriend never existed and as for God … he never really existed in the first place, so he’s easy to forget.
I’m against drilling little infants … with the ‘message of the lord’, it’s a bias towards which ever religion a certain school represents. As it’s all subject to change, if I was born somewhere else in the world it would be a different deity that I’d have been forced to learn about, such as Allah, Buddha, Vishnu or whatever the Jews call their God. So religion is basically based on region, maybe that’s why the words are so similar. I also remember when learning about God at school, there was a boy that used to get sent out of class, because his parents didn’t want him to learn about the Christian God. At the time I didn’t understand why, now I do, but back then I used to hate that motherfucker, because as the rest of us got bored to death, he was somewhere else painting or drawing or playing with Play-Do, the lucky son of a bitch. This may have subconsciously added to my distain for God in the future.
I did used to pray to God and Jesus at one point of my life. Never thanking him [God] for anything, instead I usually just asking him for things. After years of hearing about all the miracles he did, I assumed because I’d led a good life [up to that point] he’d help me with my requests. I wasn’t asking for much, it’s not as if I was a materialist child, I made simple requests; ‘Please stop mummy from drinking, Jesus’, ‘Please have daddy come home, God. He’s been out for that bottle of milk for three years’. Of course these things never came to fruition as I was going about my relationship with God all wrong. Although I’d had story after story drilled into me by teachers (whom I now expect a large majority didn’t believe what they were preaching, after all these are educated people), I never really realised that I was supposed to be obedient to the lord and thank him continuously for the life he has given me and I should rarely ask for anything as that would be selfish.
Then the other day I came to a conclusion on having a relationship with God. That conclusion is as follows; a relationship with God is like a relationship with an uptight and horrible girlfriend.
Think about it for a minute, before you dismiss such a claim. There are plenty of similarities between the two. For example, you should love your girlfriend undoubtedly, much like God. You should always have faith in both, despite your own opinions. If your girlfriend wants to dress like a dirty slag, you must show your faith, if Christians want to denounce homosexuality; you must have faith in that too, no matter if you think homosexuality is perfectly fine and natural or you think your girlfriend looks like a dirty slag. You must continue to give to both, with nothing back in return, it may be your soul or it may be a brand new pair of shoes, either way nothing is guaranteed in return. Both God and girlfriends need to be worshipped continuously, without question. They always want your money; the girlfriend wants a new dress or more new shoes because she’s scuffed the last pair, God wants your money to fix the roof of a Church so people can stay dry when they pray. You must defend both, if someone attacks your God or your girlfriend, you must come to their rescue. They both begin with the letter ‘G’; God, Girlfriend [yeah, even I’ll admit I’m clutching a straws at this point].
But the similarities are there.
Eventually, after running yourself into the ground you give up, after all the years of neglect from both, you do the right thing and end it with both of them. Because after all that shit, you realise that you’re worth more. You’re better than your girlfriend and you’re better than God. So you cut off ties with them both. You carry on with your life and act as if that horrible girlfriend never existed and as for God … he never really existed in the first place, so he’s easy to forget.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Nineteen Sixty-What?
Well it’s over for another four years. The time has come to remove those awful flags from your car windows, now you can wind down those windows and allow fresh air to circulate in that sauna with wheels that you call a car. Simultaneously, take down those St. George flags and Union Flags and pack them away, as if a BNP rally has ended. England are out of the World Cup. [I just had a really bad déjà vu!]
I’m not the type of person to sit around and slag off a bunch of overpaid sporty types that are unable to succeed in a game [that’s made them rich] as most of these men can’t succeed in a long term relationship with their wives, so what else could we as a nation expect from these simple human beings?
People tell me that the Premiership is the best football league in the world, yet this country is unable to put together a team that can reach the finals of a World Cup. I think I know now why; there are not enough foreigners in the England squad! If we sneak a couple in next time maybe we’ll do better. That’s just my suggestion; I’m simply putting it out their … like pubic lice. Plus with foreign players the foreign manager could speak foreign to them and they could play some good old fashioned foreign football.
Anyway, this Blog isn’t about England’s endless amount of failures, it’s about England’s endless obsession with its one victory. In case you’ve recently took an heavy blow to the head and happened to forget this little fact, I’ll remind you; in 1966 England won the World Cup. Hooray! Only 44 years ago, we had the best football team in the entire World. Yes, FOURTY-FOUR YEARS AGO! For fuck sake England (I’m addressing the whole nation here – like The Queen on Christmas Day), can we please get over this one minor victory? Isn’t it time we let this go? It only happened once, why do we keep dragging it up again and again and again and them some more. We can move on from this insignificant blimp that plagues our record of misery, I know we can. It’s akin to an old decrepit woman with her wrinkly skin drooping off of her frail frame, her face sporting a whisker moustache, her arthritis riddled hand precariously holding a old battered photograph of herself in her 20s looking young and beautiful, saying; “Look how good I used to look.” Yeah, but fucking look at you know, you fucking bag of bones, you’re revolting, even Rooney wouldn’t have a crack.
Let’s face it, most of us weren’t around at this time and those that are old enough to remember it have probably forgotten due to old age or going senile (example; The Queen) or they have been a victim to Harold Shipman. It’s borderline pathetic to be honest with you. When I was five, I found 20p on the floor; I don’t still go on about it every single chance I get [This time doesn’t count; I’m simply using it to show you how miniscule 1966 really is for comical effect]. Imagine being around someone that constantly told the story of the time they found 20p, every time they saw a 20p coin. You’d eventually lose it [your temper, not 20p] and fill a sock with 20p pieces and proceed to beat them to death in their sleep, not caring about the consequences of your actions, they deserved to die after all. I’m not saying that people that constantly talk about 1966 should be killed with a sock filled with the ashes of most of England’s 1966 squad. That’d be wrong and slightly disgusting, plus I highly doubt the majority of ash would stay in the sock for the duration of the beating. Simple torture would deal with these people. Not deadly horrible torture, something similar to A Clockwork Orange, in which a fan is strapped to a chair and forced to watch back to back footage of England losing game after game until the fan has cried himself into such a dehydrated state he simply ceases to live for the rest of his life.
What we need to grasp now is; football is a different game. The 1966 squad has no connection with the current team. They just play for the same country, 44 years down the line. Plenty has happened in those 44 years; the internet, mobile phones, I was born, you were probably born too, but most importantly other countries got really good at football. So we should simply embrace our never ending display of despair and keep the feeling of disappointment in our hearts.
I’m not the type of person to sit around and slag off a bunch of overpaid sporty types that are unable to succeed in a game [that’s made them rich] as most of these men can’t succeed in a long term relationship with their wives, so what else could we as a nation expect from these simple human beings?
People tell me that the Premiership is the best football league in the world, yet this country is unable to put together a team that can reach the finals of a World Cup. I think I know now why; there are not enough foreigners in the England squad! If we sneak a couple in next time maybe we’ll do better. That’s just my suggestion; I’m simply putting it out their … like pubic lice. Plus with foreign players the foreign manager could speak foreign to them and they could play some good old fashioned foreign football.
Anyway, this Blog isn’t about England’s endless amount of failures, it’s about England’s endless obsession with its one victory. In case you’ve recently took an heavy blow to the head and happened to forget this little fact, I’ll remind you; in 1966 England won the World Cup. Hooray! Only 44 years ago, we had the best football team in the entire World. Yes, FOURTY-FOUR YEARS AGO! For fuck sake England (I’m addressing the whole nation here – like The Queen on Christmas Day), can we please get over this one minor victory? Isn’t it time we let this go? It only happened once, why do we keep dragging it up again and again and again and them some more. We can move on from this insignificant blimp that plagues our record of misery, I know we can. It’s akin to an old decrepit woman with her wrinkly skin drooping off of her frail frame, her face sporting a whisker moustache, her arthritis riddled hand precariously holding a old battered photograph of herself in her 20s looking young and beautiful, saying; “Look how good I used to look.” Yeah, but fucking look at you know, you fucking bag of bones, you’re revolting, even Rooney wouldn’t have a crack.
Let’s face it, most of us weren’t around at this time and those that are old enough to remember it have probably forgotten due to old age or going senile (example; The Queen) or they have been a victim to Harold Shipman. It’s borderline pathetic to be honest with you. When I was five, I found 20p on the floor; I don’t still go on about it every single chance I get [This time doesn’t count; I’m simply using it to show you how miniscule 1966 really is for comical effect]. Imagine being around someone that constantly told the story of the time they found 20p, every time they saw a 20p coin. You’d eventually lose it [your temper, not 20p] and fill a sock with 20p pieces and proceed to beat them to death in their sleep, not caring about the consequences of your actions, they deserved to die after all. I’m not saying that people that constantly talk about 1966 should be killed with a sock filled with the ashes of most of England’s 1966 squad. That’d be wrong and slightly disgusting, plus I highly doubt the majority of ash would stay in the sock for the duration of the beating. Simple torture would deal with these people. Not deadly horrible torture, something similar to A Clockwork Orange, in which a fan is strapped to a chair and forced to watch back to back footage of England losing game after game until the fan has cried himself into such a dehydrated state he simply ceases to live for the rest of his life.
What we need to grasp now is; football is a different game. The 1966 squad has no connection with the current team. They just play for the same country, 44 years down the line. Plenty has happened in those 44 years; the internet, mobile phones, I was born, you were probably born too, but most importantly other countries got really good at football. So we should simply embrace our never ending display of despair and keep the feeling of disappointment in our hearts.
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