Up late last night, watching the snooker, there was nothing else, and it's kind of hypnotic, those old and not so old commentators trying to find new things to say about a direly predictable and repetitive game of balls and sticks and pockets. It's like a quiet, narcotised corner of Hell.
The first match was between some pasty, overweight, unshaven Scotsman
and a natty little Chinese gadfly,
and a natty little Chinese gadfly,
who, convincingly, unexpectedly and entertainingly outplayed the former champion.
Jock was rated number five in the world, the Chinaman was, until now, nowhere.
The second match was between the current DragonGod of Chinese snooker, a morose, pudgy, short man,
Jock was rated number five in the world, the Chinaman was, until now, nowhere.
The second match was between the current DragonGod of Chinese snooker, a morose, pudgy, short man,
Ding, his name is, and he's as entertaining as bowel cancer; his opponent was a rather charming and graceful Scotsman, Alan McManus
absent from the World Championship for seven years and nice to watch.
When play ended for the day, Ding was 6-2 ahead, it's not that he was that much better a player, just that the Scotsman kept making tiny, tiny mistakes and once Ding had an opening he was remorseless, robotic, dull and annoying; the Scotsman played the graceful, innovative shots, the Chinaman just won and won and won, miserable little fucked-up shit; I wouldn't walk across the courtyard to watch him playing in the barn.
The commentators were that corny old Ulsterman, Dennis Taylor,
he of the memorable spectacles, and the tight-lipped snooker mechanic, Steven Hendry,
who has won everything more times than anyone else ever can or will. If you like that sort of thing, Hendry is/was your man. I don't like that sort of thing. I'd rather watch an erratic genius
like Alex Higgins or Jimmy White than a dehumanised, money-making machine, like Hendry or wossisname, that Steve Geezer bloke. I dunno, you know the one I mean.
he of the memorable spectacles, and the tight-lipped snooker mechanic, Steven Hendry,
who has won everything more times than anyone else ever can or will. If you like that sort of thing, Hendry is/was your man. I don't like that sort of thing. I'd rather watch an erratic genius
like Alex Higgins or Jimmy White than a dehumanised, money-making machine, like Hendry or wossisname, that Steve Geezer bloke. I dunno, you know the one I mean.
It emerged, anyway, in the infinitessimaly tiny small talk between these two braindead dullards, as they tried to enliven the grim proceedings, that Hendry, now retired from competitive snooker, "spends a lot of time in China," coaching, I guess, for huge sums of money, these Chinese automata, in order that they can come here and beat British players.
He's not alone, Shitmouth Hendry, lots of them do it, many for the headchopping bandits in the Gulf, for anyone who'll pay them, really. I suppose it's what they would call, in shameless Beckhamese, Givin' Somefin Back To The Game.
He's not alone, Shitmouth Hendry, lots of them do it, many for the headchopping bandits in the Gulf, for anyone who'll pay them, really. I suppose it's what they would call, in shameless Beckhamese, Givin' Somefin Back To The Game.
And then, today, I was wondering what would happen to me if I was walking down the road, you were in my way and so I bit you. As in bit your flesh with my teeth. And then I said, Oh, sorry mate, no hard feelings, tell you what, I won't go to work for the next few days, that'll sort it.
The boy needs help.
But if I bit you, with my teeth, I'd be in the cells now and going to the Magistrates Court in the morning, charged with causing actual or grievous bodily harm to you, contrary to Section whatever it is of the Offences Against the Person Act and whatever the magistrates said to me it would not be: And for the next ten Saturdays you cannot go in your garden.
But if I bit you, with my teeth, I'd be in the cells now and going to the Magistrates Court in the morning, charged with causing actual or grievous bodily harm to you, contrary to Section whatever it is of the Offences Against the Person Act and whatever the magistrates said to me it would not be: And for the next ten Saturdays you cannot go in your garden.
Sport is dominated by Murdoch and one of his slugs, a football scribbler on the Times, was saying, today, that this biting bastard needs help. No, he fucking doesn't, he needs kicking out of professional football at any level. And most of all, he needs to have his collar felt. Maybe, after servng a few months, he can join Shitmouth Hendry and go and coach the Chinks. If he bit somebody over there the little yellow bastards'd probably shoot him, charge his family for the bullet and harvest his vital organs before he hit the deck. 'Swhat they do. When they're not eating dogs.
And the other ShitSport story of the moment is that some AliBaba horse training crook
Sorry, your Sheikness, they found us out.
I think you mean, infidel son of a camle's afterbirth, that they found you out.
- aren't they all crooks, those horsey people - working for Saudi Sheik Loadsamoney, some thieving arab, so rich that he's a friend of our own Good Queen, Thieving Brenda and her Thieving Family, has been doping the gee-gees.
Yes, Sheiky, always best to blame one's servants. It's worked for my gang for fucking centuries. Off with their heads, that's what we used to say. And I believe you do still do that shit, out there in the desert. Well, each to his own, one is not one to interfere. Fuck, no.
I know that, as horsenews goes, it's not like Tesco and Iceland and all the rest of them feeding us DobbinBurgers and Horseballs in pasta but it's bad enough. If you were naive enough to bet money on one of the other horses, the ones not on speed, then you probably lost it, were, in effect, conned out of it, defrauded. But is AliBaba going down the nick, to be charged with fraud? Not a bit of it. He's going to judged by The right worshipful Guild of HorseTrainers and Dopers, they'll probably tell him that he can't work for a while.
Sorry, your Sheikness, they found us out.
I think you mean, infidel son of a camle's afterbirth, that they found you out.
- aren't they all crooks, those horsey people - working for Saudi Sheik Loadsamoney, some thieving arab, so rich that he's a friend of our own Good Queen, Thieving Brenda and her Thieving Family, has been doping the gee-gees.
Yes, Sheiky, always best to blame one's servants. It's worked for my gang for fucking centuries. Off with their heads, that's what we used to say. And I believe you do still do that shit, out there in the desert. Well, each to his own, one is not one to interfere. Fuck, no.
I know that, as horsenews goes, it's not like Tesco and Iceland and all the rest of them feeding us DobbinBurgers and Horseballs in pasta but it's bad enough. If you were naive enough to bet money on one of the other horses, the ones not on speed, then you probably lost it, were, in effect, conned out of it, defrauded. But is AliBaba going down the nick, to be charged with fraud? Not a bit of it. He's going to judged by The right worshipful Guild of HorseTrainers and Dopers, they'll probably tell him that he can't work for a while.
I thought it was just clergymen, doctors, lawyers, the filth and MPs who sat in judgement on each other but it seems that immunity from normal prosecutorial vigilance now extends to so-called sportsmen. My school rugby coach and pretend physics teacher, Shifty Watson, would shit in his grave if he knew about all this.
Never mind, soon be time for Mommasboy Murray, the Gurning Madman
and his encapsulated psychosis.
Modern sport, I fucking hate it.
20 comments:
I've just returned to archery after many years and a sobering experience it has been.
Instead of improving oneself (stance, mechanics of the draw, steadiness of hand etc.) they've spent fucking thousands inventing bits of kit which are now attached to the bows and anyone with the puny strength required to draw these pretentious bloody things can put an arrow in the gold. And the kit looks like something out of Mad Max 2. Great long sticks poking out in front in a Jungian nod to their private inadequacy, more sticks poking back - to counter the long stick in front, I suppose, and sights - bloody sights .. on a bow FFS.
It won't be long before I discover that there are special drugs to improve your archeriness. Bloody sure it wasn't like this at Crecy ...
I'd better shut up and go to work now ;-)
Funny business this sport stuff.
When I were a young un, eighty years ago, sport was something one did ...not watched.
The BBC had a 'Have Your Say (as long as nobody reports it on the most spurious of grounds)' about the rabid footballer.
It seems he already received a 7 week ban in the past for biting and an 8 week ban for 'racism'. Many of the contributors were shocked that he now received a ten week ban because, you see, this sent out the message that biting somebody was more serious than 'racism'.
Which it is.
But society has now become so fucked up and arse-about-tit that these bedwetters really do think that some black bloke would rather be bitten than called a 'black bastard' or whatever.
I'm not black but if some black bloke called me a 'white bastard' I'd be much happier than if he bit a chunk out of me. Sticks and stones and all that. And I'd want him punished a lot more severely for biting a chunk out of me than calling me a 'white bastard'.
Can't anybody call the cops and report a crime? Maybe nobody has bothered to report this assault and plod, as he does, is more than happy to sit in his station declaring that since no crime has been reported then crime has gone down.
It's hard to find well-informed people on this subject, however, you sound like you know what you're talking
about! Thanks
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Caractacus, have a look at the backyard bowyer if you like basic bows, he makes (and shows you how to make) replica horse-bows from PVC pipe. Surprisingly, they seem to be excellent.
Re: biting footballer, they can have a cannibal feast at half-time for all I care. Stadia have but one purpose, as has been the case since they were invented. Ersatz tribalism = lightning rod.
-richard
Along those lines, I always think that racism - the pure undiluted hatred and suspicion of all others -begins in the family and finds legitiimised expression in the stadia; having always been an Other, myself, I care for neither institution.
Anymore information, please, on the backyard bowyer?
@ richard.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrKqV9reA1M
Thanks for that :-) I had already seen BB in action and have been inspired to make my own. Unfortunately, however, I am having to make mine outdoors as the Memsahib is considerably less forgiving than Mrs BB when it comes to running a heat gun over her precious wooden flooring ...
Mr. Ish, I agree. I am quite proud of the fact that no.1 son did not think to ask until he was nine whether he was a Catholic or Protestant. No mean feat in Northern Ireland as I am sure you know. Re: the bow, Mr Caractacus (you are welcome Mr C,, and nice to see a fellow weapon'd man) has beaten me to it. I made one from a lesser diameter pipe as a practice to get the technique, using steam. But for a really interesting weapon I recommend the sling. I have been practising for years. www.slinging.org
-richard
@ richard
ref: slinging - absolutely fascinating! Takes me back to my youth when my chum and I used our hankies as improvised slings at Elbury Cove near Brixham. Unlimited supply of ammo you see :-)
Be assured that this will be added to the Caratacus armoury PDQ ...
Overhand sliding compilation by curious aardvark on youtube. They kept the best til last - me! Chap in the red shirt.
- richard
Sliding should read slinging - curse predicive text and Buckfast.
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That predictive shit, it really is fucking awful. Once upon a time I knew that what I had typed would read as I had intended, more or less, now, especially on this I-thing, one must proofread everything; some inanimate cyber thing, somewhere, trying to predict what I'm going to say when often I don't even know; it is a creepycrawly manifestation of mr verge's hive mind, a bit like the ukip wallahs, hive-ranting away to each other, as though one gang of politicians will differ from any other, buzz, buzz, buzz.........Farage, traitors, ...........Commonwealth..............EUSSR..........buzz, buzz, buzz.
I bet you a Winston, though, that Fatty Clarke, cool jazz man, has sent them an electoral windfall; what IS he up to?
My mother, the Belle of Belfast City, mr richard, used to hum to herself, Holy Mary, Mother of God, am I to marry Tommy Todd, for he's a Mick and I'm a Prod ?
I lived in Belfast until I was five, just off the Lisburn Road, an Orange marching route. A bit further down the Lisburn Road, towards Van Morrisons's Shaftesbury Avenue, on a hill going into town, was a deaf and dumb instutute, as care facilities were then called. I may have mentioned this before but, on the Twelfth of July, when I was an infant, I remember my mother, shouting to my father, - who was unwaveringly, although not by birth or upbringing, disgusted by Orange sectarianism - Quick, Joey! Quick! The Men are comin' up the Dummies' Hill, so they are, C'mon you an' see them. Ach, away, woman and gi' ma head peace, was his frustrated reply.
Childhood, eh; who'd have one?
My mother, a mill girl, knew no better and she peppered my childhood with tales of Fenians burning protestant babies and eating them or maybe it was just eating them raw. Joey, for some reason - and it will always be unknown to me - did know better and lived an agnostic life, his wife betimes insisting that since there were no presbyterian churches in England, whence we had migrated, that his children attend weekly - and more - the activities of the Molesting Methodists.
Although I have been raging mad about her tears for most of my life, maybe, for my Orange mother, there was a sharp, wounding irony in the comonplace sign in Birmingham windows - No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish.
Well who can say fairer than that, withall.
My granny used to tell about the pudding riots in Grimsby when the boats come in.
They were full of half huddled probate dodgers and fairy whistle grinders, and no mistake.
But she could never fasten her of shoes.
My grandad, died when I was 4, was raised a staunch Irish Catholic but hated Republicans and called De Valera the devil so my ma says, so she does. He also ran one of the few boozers in Hudds where Oirish were allowed. Nightclub now, full of immigrants trying to bag local tarts for the green card or whatever.
Although my mum's doing family history shit at the mo and found a newspaper cutting from before she was born, I guess, that has him in court as a witness after he tried to break up a fight and was glassed in the face which she never knew about - he didn't really go in for talking that much which I can defo relate to.
On a vaguely on topic related issue; John Virgo is a nasty, pathetic cunt of a man - won 1 comp in 1978 and that was through fluke and yet criticizes players who could shit him out with one arm strapped behind their back. How and why the BBC employ him remains a fucking mystery but no doubt it relates to blackmail and coercion. He has all the charm of a rotting, maggot infested turd.
Goo for yer mum, mr dtp, I wouldn't have the nerve, although, who knows, it might emerge that I am from what we call a Good Family; you know, like David Cameron or George Osbum,even, maybe, like the Goodest Family of all, Good Queen Brenda and her idle, thieving, poncing, pimping rubbish.
On the other hand, my paternal name is, orginally, courtly Norman-French, perhaps I am of better stock than these German slags. But then, so is almost everyone on Earth.
On balance quite agree about the twats in shorts but sometimes think it makes about as much sense to bother about what they get up to as it would an actor in a film - they're well-paid clowns, in character once the whistle goes...might as well indict Christian Bale for what Patrick Bateman gets up to in American Psycho.
The funniest one was charging John Terry with a racially aggravated public order offence for (not - Schrodinger's Coon in the house) calling Anton Ferdinand a fucking black cunt. Clearly by implication a fucking cunt plain and simple would have been no business of the law - which demands that we extend the implication and assume that Plod and the FA are much less exercised by misogyny than they are by racism. Cunts is right.
Louis Macniece had it about right: "all our games are funeral games."
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