CRICKET IN THE FILTH-O-GRAPH,
WITH OUR WIFE-BEATING CORRESPONDENT,
GEOFFREY BOYCOTT.
The thing what's wrong, like, with them English players wot lost so humiliatinly t'the Ozzies
is that th'never done any preparation, like, fer t'match. No, warramsayin' is, like, that th'mighta done some battin' practice, an' bowlin' but the thing wot separates t'men from t'lads in this game is that real cricketers, like worr I was,
Geoff, in his heyday.
they know that t'warm-up proper, like, there's nowt like gerrin' a woman in her forties, like, an' givin' her a right good slappin', just to lerrer know who's boss, nothin' too severe, like, a gentleman always knows when to stop usin' 'is fists, like, on a woman's face, an' a general rule a thumb, worr I 'ave, anyroad, an' I've stuck by it, through thick and thin,
is that a man who knows how t'proply beat a woman, fer 'er own good, like, so's she dunt ferget who's boss, 'e does it like a proper gentleman, s'that when both her eyes is proper blacked, like, and she can't see outa them,
he should start punchin' her in t'body, 'sonly fair, like, otherwise the bitch'll call the cops, like, and you'll be before some judge who dunno about life in t'real world an' teks 'er word agin yorn.
Cost me my knighthood,
she did, that bitch, complainin' like that.
But it were worth it, cos 'ere I am, commentatin' still, an' offerin' my advice as a cricket God to them young fellas, follerin' in me fiststeps, I mean foot, footsteps.
WITH OUR WIFE-BEATING CORRESPONDENT,
GEOFFREY BOYCOTT.
is that th'never done any preparation, like, fer t'match. No, warramsayin' is, like, that th'mighta done some battin' practice, an' bowlin' but the thing wot separates t'men from t'lads in this game is that real cricketers, like worr I was,
Geoff, in his heyday.
they know that t'warm-up proper, like, there's nowt like gerrin' a woman in her forties, like, an' givin' her a right good slappin', just to lerrer know who's boss, nothin' too severe, like, a gentleman always knows when to stop usin' 'is fists, like, on a woman's face, an' a general rule a thumb, worr I 'ave, anyroad, an' I've stuck by it, through thick and thin,
is that a man who knows how t'proply beat a woman, fer 'er own good, like, so's she dunt ferget who's boss, 'e does it like a proper gentleman, s'that when both her eyes is proper blacked, like, and she can't see outa them,
he should start punchin' her in t'body, 'sonly fair, like, otherwise the bitch'll call the cops, like, and you'll be before some judge who dunno about life in t'real world an' teks 'er word agin yorn.
Cost me my knighthood,
she did, that bitch, complainin' like that.
But it were worth it, cos 'ere I am, commentatin' still, an' offerin' my advice as a cricket God to them young fellas, follerin' in me fiststeps, I mean foot, footsteps.
Basher Boycott, writing in The Filth-O-Graph, home of family values.
I think of curious, patient mr mongoose, teaching the mongoslings about cricket and wonder to myself where a retarded abomination like Geoffrey Boycott fits into the mongoosian matrix of sportsmanship and answer comes there none.
LadyBeating clearly no longer has the criminal cachet it once had; before-before, people like Boycott would disappear from Celebrity World, not now; in fact, BullyBoy Geoff has been unfairly treated, for he was dropped by the Rupert, the organ of a pornographised teenage, trumpeting that Boycott's crime against women made him unsuitable as a correspondent; now, the Guardian and the PBC recently stood outside the poisonous Chris Huhne's prison gate,
hailing the return of the heroic perjurer,
waving contracts at him, even before he had completed his sentence.
Too sophisticated to physically beat his poor, mad wife,
right honourable privy councillor Huhne just bullied her into conspiracy, perjury and prison; now MediaMinster begs for his cunt-counsel, his insight, his wisdom;
Well, of course viewers should believe me, Andrew,
I have never told a lie in my life.
he is, after all, a MediaMinsterian, one of them, what does it matter that his own, betrayed children and other decent people rightly despise him?
These are the shifting sands of Ruin, the promotion of crime as, well, just a little hiccup in the lives of the Greats.
Once we would have thrown stones at these two bastards, now we pay for them to take the piss.
hailing the return of the heroic perjurer,
waving contracts at him, even before he had completed his sentence.
Too sophisticated to physically beat his poor, mad wife,
right honourable privy councillor Huhne just bullied her into conspiracy, perjury and prison; now MediaMinster begs for his cunt-counsel, his insight, his wisdom;
Well, of course viewers should believe me, Andrew,
I have never told a lie in my life.
he is, after all, a MediaMinsterian, one of them, what does it matter that his own, betrayed children and other decent people rightly despise him?
These are the shifting sands of Ruin, the promotion of crime as, well, just a little hiccup in the lives of the Greats.
Once we would have thrown stones at these two bastards, now we pay for them to take the piss.
15 comments:
Boycs is a dick, Mr Ishmael, but was a very fine batsman in his day. Opening batsmen also tend to be odd buggers. It's a precarious business. Whether and whatever happened that drunken day is now lost to us but it did involve the lady in question throwing his trousers out of the hotel window. A bit Benny Hill perhaps but she anyway cannot be all bad.
Huhne however is beyond parody. A completely useless good for fuck all parasite and cheat. Why did it not occur to him to take the points and put a chauffeur on his expenses? A couple even. His and hers. He deserved everything he got, and indeed much more.
I'm a Boycs fan; anyone who could face the West Indies fast bowlers protected only by a cap and a platic box has balls of steel.
Had dinner once with the Memshahib in Barbados; England were being thrashed; Boycs was on the next table with a bird in an eye-wateringly short skirt. I wanted to shake his hand but the Memsahib would not allow (because of the short skirt).
Was hilarious when Boycs had to explain to the (femail) French magistrate, examining his fisticuffs case, what cricket was.
Huhne I would drive over with one of Fred Dibners steam rollers.
On the subject of sport, hats off to that Simon Brodkin bloke for showering Thiefa Crime Supremo, Sebb Blatter, with fake dollar bills in support of the 2026 North Korean bid for the World Cup...
His prowess in cricket means nothing to me, gentlemen, anyone who leaves a woman looking like that, or indeed, in most cases, a man, would need to display the genius of Mozart, Michaelangelo, Shakespeare and Confucius for me to even consider forgiveness, savage bullying is not relieved by whatever combination of hand and eye skills render one superior at hitting a ball with a bat and I think he's vile, if he comes round here, trying to play cricket in my grounds I'll show him what a black eye is, the fucking bastard.
Anyway, this is the wrong time for you to be here, mr mike, I know you are in a different time zone but you could have set your post to arrive just around midnight, as usual. We have standards, here, it's not fucking Lords or the M C fucking C.
I don't know that story, mr sg, not come across it, but I am sure I will.
It is indeed telling, mr mongoose, that Huhne had the means and the career impetus to ameliorate a driving ban in ways few of us could manage, yet still pursued dishonesty and bullying for remedy; steamroller fodder, indeed.
Mr I: I'm in Sheffield right now. I feel like an extra out of a Mad Max film (the one with the aliens in the bar). It would be humane to nuke the fucking place.
In Boyc's defence, he said the lady in question fell on his forward defensive. He's still a great batsman in my book, the lady I can't remember. I plead guilty.
I remember years ago hearing my stepfather speak disparagingly of Mr. Boycott. This in itself was unusual because this fine man rarely spoke ill of anyone, but after a particularly average innings B was leaving the field and when the new batsman approached the wicket he asked B what the crease was like: "Find owt fer thee sen" came the snarling reply. Not a team player, our Geoff. Never trust any man who pronounces it 'creekit' ... and never have anything to do with a bully who could even think of doing that to a woman. Bastard.
Well, indeed, Mr I. Bullying anyone, especially women, is wrong and any fool know that. But Geoffrey said that she was raving pissed and fell down; she said he hit her a few dozen times; and the judge thought it all a great hoot, told them that they weren't in Glasgow now, and that the both of them should grow the fuck up. Which was about right.
Huhne on the other hand is at the other end of the scale. Boycott is a one out of ten professional Yorkie arse; Huhne needs hanging. It astonishes me that the other Hoon sas the poor, and useless, sod to end up as a euphemism.
Ah, welcome back to HMP Ruritania and should Chance bring you into contact with professional Sheffieldians, Mr Clegg, mr mike, or Blind Boy Blunkett, do, please, offer them our warmest, housebrick embrace. My Strangers Bar is in Star Wars, rather than Mad Max but I know how you feel, although if you think Sheffield is bad you should nip up to Glasgow, accompanied by a fierce dog and with a knuckleduster in your pocket, just so's you fit-in.
Funny, I only ever whizz past Sheffield, on the A1 and it always looks alright but quite clearly it is peopled by Clegg- and Blunkett-voting sub-humans, surely a man of your accomplishments can rig-up or concoct some small device, enough to send them to their Maker.
Aye, Graceless is right, king caratacus, whatever happened with Ms Moore, she sustained those injuries in his company, his conduct, thereafter, was repellent. Every one of countless photos of him reveal that crooked sneer, the snarl which damned him for your stepfather; batsmanship or not, I must differ withmour friends, here, and agree entirely with your family's judgement.
I do believe that we had some part in that happy euphemisation, mr mongoose, he really was what they call a piece of work, Geoff Hoon and, given his chance in a sting interview, he nailed his colours to Cunthood's mast.
As for Chrissie, I expect him to be dipped in shit, anew, when things, as they will, go sour between him and Carmina Trinningham-CarpetMuncher; he'll be whistling Once I had a Secret Love out of his arsehole when that happens.
Still, it is convenient that no one will disbelieve a black eye if the victim is weaker, especially a woman. And this case seems to rest largely on belief, with no particular reason to favour one character over the other.
I didn't hear the evidence, other than what my own life experience tells me I know no more than does anyone else who read the story at the time and can only satisfy myself that the court felt both had behaved badly or irresponsibly but that Boycott bore some responsibility for the injuries and that that equivalence was reflected in Ms Moore being awarded one franc in damages and Boycott being found guilty, at trial and appeal What else are we to do, mr tdg, suspect every court decision involving a gender conflict? I grant that courts sverywhere can be perverse, complicit in malevolence and as in SA, stupid but I don't think this is the case with Boycott. My own life has been neither gilded nor without incident but no woman has ever left my company looking as did Ms Moore, post-Boycott. I believe that Boycott is an oafish bully, not because a French court says so but beacause of the evidence of my own eyes and ears - although I am happy that the court agreed with me, I believe I got there first.
We should suspect every court decision that favours one account over another without strict reference to fact and character. Here we have two competing accounts where the court has picked one over the other while conceding that the character of the winner is suspect. In England she may even have fallen foul of the clean hands doctrine.
It is not that I dislike prejudice -- prejudice is how the human brain works -- what I dislike is the idea of cheap, short-circuited access to it. I want unfairness to be fair, if you see what I mean.
I do know what you mean, although, even by your standards, it is a vast, irresolvable conumdrum, the one you present. How far back do we go in jurisprudence, in the pursuit of neutrality? Why not, a priori, suspect the judges, the prosecutors and the legislators? Furthermore, the idea of blame is elastic, transferable via the notion of contributory negligence; for those, such as I, who dwell in an infinity of paranoid possibilities, many calamities are easily avoided and maybe the court should simply have said to Ms Moore, what the fuck did you expect, consorting with someone like Boycott, which would have been my response to the silly cow; given, however, that grievance and offence are relieved and chastised by due process, in this case, lacking the Scottish, Not Proven verdict, the court was always going to fall foul of King Solomon's dilemma. Boycott noisily appealed, didn't he, presumably on the grounds which cause you disquiet, and lost. I am comfortable that his uppance, for Ms Moore and I imagine other of his fellow persons, justly came.
Had he been sentenced to custody I might have joined you in prevarication, as it is he simply suffered a slighted ego, shame it hasn't improved his manners.
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