Saturday, 14 June 2014

14.6.14 World Cup - What Have We Learned So Far?




After just three days, I have been able to draw a number of conclusions regarding the World Cup, and the coverage in the UK.

Brazil

First, we have learned that the Brazil team is a long way short of excellent, and will have to rely on refereeing bias to try and make good on the deficit.  So far (well, after just one match) that seems to be a good policy, and to Croatia's annoyance and dismay, Brazil managed to steal three points from the opening game.  Meanwhile, the Japanese referee is probably in hiding, fearing retribution from Croatians.  David Luiz is not happy either, as Neymar seems to have stolen his status as thug-of-the-month.  Fred simply proved on Thursday night that he will fall over if he receives a tap on the shoulder.  Let's hope at the next family wedding, when he's on the dance floor with a woman, that a tap on the shoulder by an uncle who wants to take over the dance does not turn into a claim for a fucking penalty, while he writhes on the floor in agony.  Let's instead hope that there's someone in authority to decide it's more of a case of Oops Upside Your Head.

Mexico

Despite superior play for most of the game, Mexico managed to win just 1-0 against Cameroon.  Luckily for all concerned, the efforts of the officials to thwart the Mexicans were unsuccessful and after disallowing two legitimate goals, no one could deny that the third goal had to stand.  Conspiracy theorists might have argued that this bias against Mexico was in fact aimed at giving an advantage to Brazil.  Mexico deserved to win, against the 11 Macaroons and the three Officials.  If the inept, and "physical" opponents [for this, read "dirty"] had won, I would have envisaged mayhem.

Cameroon

Generally without much of a clue and not very interesting to watch.  Not averse to tripping, kicking, barging or showing studs.

Spain

What a disastrous start.  I blame the obsession with pointless passes, a feature of the Spanish game that sends statisticians loopy.  Yes, the pass success may well typically reach 98%, but 60% of passes in any game are usually unnecessary.  This level of overkill produced no goals.  The one goal that was scored came from a dubious penalty.  No one can say for sure whether the back leg received any contact, but there is no doubt at all that the Spanish ** player played for it.  After that, the chance missed by David Silva was the last time Spain had a real chance to make something of the game. After that, the Dutch marched forward and simply outplayed the Spanish.

** Diego Costa is now Spanish, but two years ago he was Brazilian.  How fickle, and this must be behind the various jeering that accompanied his efforts during the game.  It might, though, have been the airing of general discontent for his having escaped punishment for a head butt.  Either way, an unpopular bloke in Brazil.  I was going to make more of Costa's dubious nationality, but this morning's Daily Mail highlights that 208,000 immigrants were last year given British passports, so I think that one footballer is perhaps rather less worrying than the city-full portions of acceptance happening each year in the UK.

Netherlands

The "The" seems to have been dropped in most areas of reporting and coverage, these days - slightly less of a change than the complete renaming of "Holland", the team that used to be present in World Cups in years gone by. Robben and Van Persie are on fire, and so with the added support of Manchester United fans, the Dutch are on a high, and so very orange at the moment.

Chile



A certain flair proves that Chile has come a long way since the Battle of Santiago in 1962. [If you've never seen it, put it into YouTube and marvel at the outrageousness]  In those days, the players somehow felt entitled to kick shit out of each other.  Fortunately this trait was not carried forward to the modern game, except by Roy Keane, who is of course an exception in all respects - Southgate will tell you.

These days, Chile is able to field a team of players rather than entrants to a Kung-Fu tournament, and the team has been described as the 'dark horse' of the World Cup.  Australia certainly came off worse.

Australia

Unfortunately there's little hope for the Australians, and despite great efforts, the team will most surely be ejected very shortly.

ITV

Despite attempts by protesters to silence Adrian Chiles, he manages to drone on still.  The thick glass that shielded him from the stones and rocks thrown by Brazilian protesters did its job, which is a result for the insurers and for ITV, but a travesty for football coverage and the ears of millions.  This is all made worse by the fact that ITV seems to need a full hour before kick-offs to bore us into submission.  I have looked ahead to coverage this coming week, and it seems that on some occasions, programmes start less than an hour beforehand, mercifully.  Aside from Chiles, there is the completely fucking useless theme song that's played - the one that appears to have just one word - "Brazil". What shite.

Talking of shite - or not, as it turns out - we've at least been spared the views of Roy Keane for this World Cup, after he ducked out at the last second - unlike his hapless victims when Roy was kicking his way round a football pitch.



His choice to keep away from Brazil was a welcome one, and I for one am very pleased that someone with a rather brutal record is not given licence to pontificate on the efforts of professional footballers.

BBC

Despite the BBC sending nearly 300 people to Brazil [as though it were Sparta] I must be grateful that there is no Adrian Chiles equivalent.  Further, the preamble to any match is limited to 30 minutes, and thus more than enough. For this reason, plus the lack of Chiles, lack of advert breaks and lack of "Brazil" being mentioned to accompanying guitar music every few minutes, I'll be pleased to watch BBC1 while retaining annoyance that ITV gets 50% of the rights.

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Friday, 13 June 2014

13.6.14 Spain v Netherlands




The first thing of note, and confusion, was why both teams appeared in non-standard colours - Spain in white and Netherlands in Blue.  I was expecting that about 250 passes in the game would be pointless, and this was so clearly going to be the case that I couldn't find anyone to take the bet, including Ray Winstone.

De Jong ["He likes to hit people in the chest, doesn't he" - Mark Lawrenson] managed to commit the first unnecessary foul worthy of a yellow card but not to get one.

1-0 to Spain at half time, through a penalty scored by Alonso.  DeVrij managed to get a yellow card in the first half.  The bonus at the interval was not having to listen to Adrian Chiles, seeing as this match was on BBC1.  Then in the 44th minute, a weird turn of events saw RVP get his head on the end of a long high pass, and score!  Against the run of play, but truly a great goal.

Robben scored to put the Dutch into the lead, and this preceded to Diego Costa half-hearted head butt that would have resulted in a dismissal - if the referee had seen it.  As ever, the footballers are a pathetic group and conning the referee and continual cheating, feigning injury and moaning are integral parts of a contaminated game.

The third Dutch goal was hardly a classic, but it was the catalyst for some argie-bargie.  Silva's goal was ruled offside and then Holland took control - scoring again to make it 4-1 with twenty minutes to go.  Who would have believed a fifth was on the way?  Robben again managed to carve the defence apart.

At last an entertaining game that was not littered with refereeing mistakes.

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13.6.14 Mexico v Cameroon




What an awful game of football.  Cameroon managed to show ineptitude and a lack of any real quality - other than that of being able to leave the odd foot dangling and threatening injury to an opponent.  Yet again we were given a chance to moan at awful decisions by officials who ruled out two first half goals, leaving the half-time score at 0-0 when really Mexico were two up.

The Macaroons were deservedly beaten when Mexico got the only goal after an hour of mind-numbing mediocrity in the pouring rain.  The only real point of concern was whether I'd opt for the 'Cameroon' spelling, or the French approach of 'Cameroun'.

What a waste of my early evening.

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Thursday, 12 June 2014

12.6.14 World Cup - Brazil v Croatia




What have we learned tonight, apart from the fact that the Brazil side is a long, long way short of being impressive?

NEYMAR

Dirty Thug



His foul on Modric half way through the first half earned him a yellow card, when the referee should instead have shown him a red card.  As the ball approached, Neymar clearly looked towards Modric, and judged perfectly how to advance with a leading elbow, catching him in the fucking neck.  How the cunting fuck is that not a red card?

First Goal

Five minutes later he scored with the weakest shot of the century, but it managed to squeeze into the corner of the net.  All rather annoying seeing as Neymar should not have been on the field!

Penalty

Talk about fucking lucky!  How NOT to take a penalty.  Jammy fucker.

SCOLARI

Whinging, moaning, arm-waving sulky twat.  His least attractive moment was not the continued arguing regarding the decisions not going his way, but when he was seen demanding that the referee showed a card to a Croatian player.

REFEREE

An absolute howler of a fucked up decision, giving a penalty.  Fred simply cheated by throwing himself to the floor and the referee bought it.  Pathetic, really.


Verdict

A poor first game, and a travesty because I reckon a draw would have better reflected the overall input by both teams.  David Luiz is a liability, and his late challenge was more of a penalty than the one Brazil were awarded.  The third Brazilian goal by Oscar in injury time highlighted the limited ability of the Croatian keeper, who managed to make Joe Hart look good - no mean feat. This was a poor advert for football, and all I learned was that in desperation at trying to teach millionaire footballers how to count to cunting ten, the referees no have a canister of white temporary paint, so they can draw a line and tell players to stand behind it.  How fucking sad is that!  In my day, players had to fuck off ten yards, or be shown a yellow card!

Finally, the opening ceremony was simply awful, and Adrian Chiles does my cunting head in with his utterly useless ramblings and completely unprofessional manner.  Yet, the nob is paid as much as a top fucking footballer!

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Wednesday, 11 June 2014

11.6.14 The Cunt In 4D




Blundercunt

Sadly the change by Ryanair to move to "allocated seats" resulted in a disaster.  It left me wishing I could have once again scrambled in a mad crowd to find a space of my choosing.  As it was, I was put in row three, with Mrs MWSC and Junior, for the flight to Spain.  I therefore found myself in seat 3D, which very sadly was just one seat in front of the loudest cunt I've encountered for some considerable time.

This was not the only trait for the cunt.  Loudness is not necessarily a problem, if the frequency with which 125 decibels are imparted is low.  Unfortunately the cunt in 4D was a talkative loud cunt.  This was, is, and always will be, a disastrous combination for anyone in the vicinity - especially those 35,000 feet above the Bay of Fucking Biscay, en route to Spain, and most particularly those in seats 3D, 3E and 3F.

Leaning forward, with hands over my ears, did nothing at all to defend me from the onslaught.  The very best I could achieve was to insert two fingers so far into my ears that they almost met, but find I was still, whilst seemingly underwater, being stalked and shouted at by a cunt of a monk fish with a megaphone.  I could feel pains in my chest, and I wondered if a heart attack might be a preferable diversion.  After half a second of consideration, I willed my heat to give up.  I surfaced, and found she had followed me out of the water, without taking breath - she was still talking.

This northern cunt was married to Bob; poor Bob.  Absent Bob?  Lucky Bob! Her friends (how desperate they were for friendship is obvious) were on the other side of the aisle.  The cunt in 4D considered this a long way away, and so adopted the 'blunderbuss' approach to speaking.  Blundercunt was addicted to shouting over at the other three, in between talking at the couple next to her.

Whenever the usually nauseating tannoy announcements filled the air, I was grateful to Ryanair for the interruptions, as they drowned out 60% of Blundercunt's noise.

I decided to eat a sandwich, to try and divert my thoughts away from homicide. The cheese and ham was good, but still I heard the cunt rambling on.  I wondered should I sacrifice a sandwich and offer her one, to stem the flow of shit.  I dismissed this on the grounds that she was sure to be someone who likes to talk with her mouth full.

I willed Ryanair to offer me Scratchcards, more overpriced snacks and drinks, gift items and smokeless cigarettes - anything to encourage substitute noise.  I decided I needed to occupy myself with a book, but this proved an impossibility; while trying to concentrate on the very first page, I realised the futility of my efforts in trying to prevent shards of voice penetrating my brain through my ears.  Without any writing paper, I decided that my green ink would have to be happy with the pages at the front of my book.  Thus I began to record my pain in my hardback book.




When the cunt's foot arrived, it was vile.  I have just seen a few seconds ago her left foot, as it extended in the aisle, affording her some exercise of something other than her fucking voice box.  She rolled the ankle and I was tempted to reach down with my left hand and break the cunting joint.  I could see the headlines:

On Flight FR2446 to Malaga, TMWSC caused the pilot to land prematurely, so that a nauseatingly loud cunt of a woman could receive treatment for a broken ankle, and have a tan-coloured un-stylish wide-fitting shoe removed from just behind her fucking larynx.

This cunt continued; the accent simply enhanced the awfulness of the relentless shit that filled the cabin.  The pitch of her voice stabbed and killed my brain cells at will, and my ability to hear any screeching birds at a wildfowl sanctuary is now non-existent.  This cunt has eradicated my ability to hear certain frequencies.

For a short period, 4DC stood in the aisle, leaning towards her three friends.  In effect, she replaced loud talking with causing an obstruction.  People going too and from the loo were forced to negotiate her rump for any chance of making progress.  It was not long, though, before she sat down again and the auto-talk at 125db started up.

Let me make one thing very clear - she did not utter a single thing in hours that was of the slightest interest, use or value.  I concluded that she needed to be on the end of a rope.  Cunt-On-A-Rope would be rather more fantastic than the Soap-On-A-Rope that prevailed in the 1970s.  I started to get very desperate, and studied the Ryanair information to see if I could exit the aircraft.




It did not take long for me to establish the nearest exit, and how to open the fucking door.  Despite the lack of a parachute, I was tempted to proceed with my emergency exit, as a conclusion to my dreams of ending the nightmare. 4DC called the attendant and asked for yet more Heineken - I suddenly wondered whether he would be compliant if I asked him to spike it.  I am sure I spoke out loud, but he obviously didn't hear, so my plea for Rohypnol to be administered was lost in the skies above Madrid.  Half and hour to go.

Impossible Request of the Day

"Sit back, relax, and enjoy the rest of the flight."  [Ryanair announcement]


In the final few minutes of the flight, I was able to allow myself a glimmer of hope, and recognition of a chance that I'd be 4D-Cuntless in about half-an-hour. This would not of course mean I could easily forget the tremendous amount of shit that had been injected into my brain over the last three hours, but at least there was a light ahead.  I new rather too much about her life, all 43 years of it, and I have decided not to include such bollocks in this account of my dire straits.  During the last minutes, 4DC exchanged pointless words with her friend who occupied the middle of the three seats on the other side of the aisle. I learned from the friend that she'd swallowed three tablets, to try and counter her travel sickness and fear of flying.  4DC wanted to know what they were like. The friend said that they slow your heart down.  4DC asked "can I try one?" and I nearly turned round and demanded that she be given three bottles of them!




By the way, my book was excellent - I'd recommend it.

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Monday, 9 June 2014

9.6.14 Carry On Teacher


Carry On Teacher



11-year-old Elise Smith had her mouth sellotaped for 15 minutes by a teacher who'd asked everyone to stop talking.  The outraged father is pictured with his offspring in the Mail Online, and is not happy.  As far as I am concerned, his chatterbox of a daughter will have learned a lesson - and will perhaps decide to stop talking when everyone manages to do so.  The father has of course taken offence and expected the teacher to be suspended, because that's what parents do by default these days, and he has stated that "teachers cannot lay a finger on children these days".  No comment, then, on why his daughter could not handle a simple instruction, or show any respect for the teacher? Hmmm.  As for keeping her off school, well that didn't last, as the girl missed her friends.  It's gratifying to learn that the teacher has been reprimanded but not suspended over the matter.  I believe the girl has decided to shut up.  What a storm in a teacup.  Carry on, teacher.

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Saturday, 7 June 2014

7.6.14 Britain's Got No Talent




I have been on holiday for a few weeks, and whilst I saw a couple of the heats on ITV when BGT started, I quickly got bored and sidestepped the shite.  After then missing the week of semi-finals, I have this evening been able to watch BGT with fresh eyes and ears.  Sadly, both senses have been affronted - acunted, even!

I can say with some objectivity [enhanced massively by seeing no television for over 3 weeks] that this year's BGT is the most dire so far.  I found myself in a state of dismay, trying to reconcile the pathetic adulation given by the judges to acts that I found uninteresting, boring, and hum-drum.

The Addict Initiative

This dance act was simply mediocre, and I found myself watching synchronised fidgeting on stage, while the rabble tried to relay something to do with Hansel and Gretel.  Alesha Dixon was inspired enough to utter: "A brilliant way to open the show."  I yawned and grimaced.  The Yawn was worth  1.5/5.

Jon Clegg

The 'wild card' was reasonably good with his impressions, and so gets 3.5/5, simply because it was a change from the usual type of act.

Lettice Rowbotham

A completely nutty performer managed to play the violin while singing.  She can undoubtedly play the violin very well indeed.  No really setting the world alight but I suppose she is talented. 4/5 because she can play, but 2.5/5 for any interest on my part.

YM, A & M

I cannot even bother to try and properly note the name of the act, which is the names of three blokes with shaved legs, 'dancing' in a pathetic way to old tunes from Beyonce, whose thighs are bigger than those of the three blokes.  I was bemoaning [to Mrs MWSC] my lot in life, having to watch such complete tosh when Simon Cowell pressed his buzzer.  Great minds thought alike. 1.5/5 at the very most, and I am in generous mode.

Bars & Melody

A 13-year-old and a 15-year-old rapping with a pitch that sent my ears into 'annoyed' mode.  Yes, they are sweet enough, but this is Britain's Got Talent NOT Sweetness.  Of course the patronising comments from the judges meant they were pleased as punch with their performance, but I can only be generous enough for a 2.5/5.

James Smith

What a wailing load of fucking bollocks.  The 'retro' approach did not work, and whilst the young chap is undoubtedly talented, he wasted the opportunity by delivering absolute crap.  This racket was an awful version of an OLD song, and was worthy of 2/5.

Jack Pack

Four blokes sang an old fashioned song in an old fashioned style and it was okay if you like this sort of stuff - I don't.  So, a fucking generous 3/5 from me.

Darcy Oake

Sorry but this nice chap was doing yet another 'dangerous' stunt involving none other than a straight jacket.  Yawn.  2/5.

Paddy & Nico

The first time I saw them, I was surprised and thought the act was odd as fuck. However, after seeing them now, I am struggling to understand how this might qualify as 'talent'.  2/5

Collabro

Musical theatre was the basis for this noise that was hardly of any interest to me at all, but I do begrudgingly acknowledge that they do have some ability - even if misplaced.  3/5.

Lucy Kaye

Clearly so talented, but I do wish she'd chosen to sing something that has not been sung to fucking death.  I saw her in one of the first shows, and in her audition I am sure she sang something unusual, which was excellent.  Why then choose a cliche for the final?  I was bored, even though she can of course sing and has talent. 4/5


I can honestly say that I'd be happy enough never seeing or hearing any of them again!  The only 'possible' exception is Lucy, if she were to sing something of any interest at all.

I am so very pleased that I have not invested much of my life in this year's competition, which must surely rank as the worst so far.  Time for a fucking revamp, Simon.  I have no interest in the excessive use of the words 'amazing' or 'incredible'.  I give not a chumping fuck about 'support from families' or any 'journey' that some or other cunt has been on.  This is lame television.

HILARITY - Little Mix came on to fill the gap while votes were cast, and Mrs MWSC and Maria walked into the room, not realising that the performers were not in fact in the competition.  They both decided that the competition was so bad that "they might win".  Ha! Little Mix would win BGT; well of course!

Cheryl Cole/Tweedy

This was one of the weakest acts of the night, and if she had appeared in the actual competition proper, she'd not have won!  She cannot sing, and needs loads of people on stage with her to divert attention from her shortcomings. The moaning whinging tuneless dirge was embarrassing, luv.  Fuck off.  She deferred to some bloke for a rapping element, and he was as bad as her.  The performance of Crazy Stupid was dire enough to confirm that Britain certainly has fuck all talent.  Disappear, Pet!

RESULT

11th YM etc
10th Addictive
9th Paddy & Nico
8th Lettice Leaf
7th Jon Clegg
6th James Smith
5th Darcy Oake
4th Jack Pack

1st = Collabro . . . . WTF?

2nd = Lucy
3rd = Bars & Melody

SHITE.

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