It's getting repetitive but I can't resist another YouTube clip via the good folk at Urban 75.
Absolutely hilarious and, as the uploader on YouTube points out, beware of the:
". . . dangers of running clips of people with strong Scots accents without checking what they're saying. BBC North West Tonight, 6.30pm, September 14."
Hat tip to 'Strung Out'.
. . . the Daily Record's sub-editor, 'Murray's Prayer' would have my back page headline for this wee bit of transfer news.
I'm away to put the kettle on whilst you, dear reader, tries to work out what I'm wittering on about.
Tony Mowbray leads R*ngers to their 53rd league title.
And the bloke in the blue is not a young Frank Skinner. He sussed out Mowbray months ago.
FFS, I'm away down the farmer's market.
Lafferty hears that Drogba might be leaving Chelski, and decides to submit an audition tape.
Yes, and R*ngers are now odds on to win the title.
I've no need to hastily construct a Temporary Autonomous Hibernian fan zone; I'll always have the highest regard for Derek Riordan. Even if it is the case that I can never pronounce his name properly.
'Tonight, Matthew, I will be diving that way'.
Is it too much to hope that Riordan does the business tonight?
It's all well and good(ish) winning dodgy penalties against the jam tarts, and then winding up the home support after cooly slotting home said pen but think of the pleasure of sticking it to both R*ngers and Gordon Strachan in the space of one match?
As Hibs are 0/3 against R*ngers this season, this is written more in hope than judgement but if Hibs don't get a result tonight - and by result, I mean three points - I can't see Celtic winning a fourth consecutive title.
Actually, what am I thinking? Riordan will probably get the winner against R*ngers tonight and then score two against Celtic on Sunday. It's probably what Celtic deserve this year.
This stream of rambling consciousness has been brought to you via 10 chewed down fingernails and a seen better days Brooklyn sofa.
"But the final years of his career were dogged by controversy. His most shameful act came during his stint at Ibrox, when he stamped on John McMaster's head; the Aberdeen player needed the kiss of life as a result. "I'm not proud of that," he says today. "It's no excuse but I thought he was Willie Miller. Miller was a great player but he was a hard man and deserved some of his own treatment back. Unfortunately I got the wrong player."
Skip past the opening paragraph - which is absolute bollocks - for an entertaining article about R*ngers' Willie Johnston, half wing-wizard/half thuggish wind-up merchant, from yesterday's Guardian Football Blog.
It pains to me to write it but people forget what a good team R*ngers had in the late sixties, early seventies. It just happened to be their misfortune to come up at that time against a better team . . . better club . . . better fans . . . better set of human beings . . . you get the partisan drift.
PS - Be sure to check out the comments to the article as well for other 'wee incidents' from Johnston's career. It turns out that decades on from his retirement, he's still a footballer and human being that splits opinion. This comment about his time playing football in Canada caught me eye:
I had the pleasure of watching Willie in Vancouver. They were an exciting squad to watch.In one game at old Empire Stadium, Johnston was bedeviling the visitors (I forget which side) and the Caps were winning handily. His marker, tired of being skinned, had resorted to all manner of tactics in a vain attempt to contain the winger. Finally, deep in the second half, he grabbed Johnston's sleeve and pulled quite briskly two or three times, without a whistle or any sign from the ref he was going to control the player. Finally, exasperated, Johnston spun around, grabbed the defender by both shoulders and planted a knee in his groin.
The ref saw that.
I know it's through a glass darkly but don't you think that Billy Mehmet looks a wee bit like Henrik Larsson in the pic?
I think what makes me think that way is the combination of the bald head and the joyous expression on his face after his team have gubbed R*ngers.
Brings back happy memories.
R*ngers supporters in humour bypass shocker.
This time next week: *Pope admits to wearing pointy hat*.
Weekly Bulletin of The Socialist Party of Great Britain (58)
Dear Friends,
Welcome to the 58th of our weekly bulletins to keep you informed of changes at Socialist Party of Great Britain @ MySpace.
We now have 1316 friends!
Recent blogs:
Poles Apart? - The Arctic, Capitalism and Global Warming The Curse of Money History as mystery
Quote for the week:
"Et non dicatis aliquid proprium, sed sint vobis omnia communia": 'Call nothing your own, but let everything be yours in common'. [St. Augustine, ca. 400AD.]
Continuing luck with your MySpace adventures!
Robert and Piers
Further to the comments to this post, Reidski was asking after it and Vinyl Villain's JC has delivered.
By far the funniest of the three of the Hitler's Downfall spoof YouTube clips that I've posted on the blog in rapid succession. In fact, I had tears of laughter running down my face when watching it. And, weird as it sounds, it now makes me want to see the original film.
I noticed that this clip has been viewed over 300,000 times since it was posted about four months ago, and I can't blame the original poster for disabling the comments facility. It would have been a bloodbath.
I promise that I won't post anymore of these spoof clips . . . unless I unearth one where it's an SPGB EC meeting that is being parodied.
Queen of the South's dream, I mean. We already know that Chick Young will always be a tube.
No triumphalist parades in SW6 and G51 for another season, and the super-rich and their flunkies can rest easy that Monaco won't be littered this coming August with empty buckfast bottles (made by monks), discarded union jack boxer shorts (Made in China) and renditions of not so popular folk classics (made up on the Shankhill Road).
What with it being Chelski, R*ngers and 21st century professional football - with its gaudy commercialism and fast buck mentality - the marketing peeps in the Blue Zone have went with the short term view that though not every trophy cabinet can have silverware, every cloud should have a silver lining and, with that in mind, have already rush released the 2007/2008 season's commemorative mementos represented below.
Depending on which side of the blue bed you get out of every afternoon, you can go for the Dave Weir figurine represented on the left or the Frank Lampard special that is slouching on the right.
The figurines are made out of the shoddiest materials to properly represent the personalities of your modern day footballer, and they are tastefully dressed in funereal black to mark another season of abject footballing failure. As is fitting for a season that has gone up in flames so spectacularly, the clothing that Mini-Dave and Fat-Frank are sporting is made out of 100% polyester because it was felt that that was the most flammable of man-made materials.
The jackets have been fitted with long sleeves to hide the questionable tattoos and, with summer approaching, both players have specially bolted on sunglasses to both hide their deadened eyes and to help them avoid the blinding glare of a world where the sun is permanently shining.
As an added touch, ugly scowls have been scarred onto both players' faces and you'll be pleased to note the manufacturers, with an acute eye to authenticity, have specially moulded their wee plastic hands into angry balled up fists.
The manufacturers want R*ngers and Chelski collectors to be rest assured that there are plans for other players to be featured in the series but the design department are currently experiencing teething difficulties with the John Terry figurine: they can't get it to remain upright in the box.
No gloating. No piss taking. No ha ha on the blog.
In its simplest terms, R*ngers did not do enough tonight to deserve to win the Uefa Cup. Don't believe me? Think I would say that, anyway? Just look how R*ngers own fans reacted after Zenit's first goal went in.
Just under twenty minutes to play and the deathly silence and resigned resignation - yep, resigned resignation - was palpable 3500 miles away in Brooklyn. If R*ngers fans were ever considered the 'twelfth man' for the club, Walter Smith should put them on the transfer list tomorrow morning when he gets back to Ibrox. Shocked at how they didn't try and gee up their team.
R*ngers played better in the second half, but they never really deserved to get a sniff of the game. Kirk Broadfoot was a lucky hunny bunny with that stonewall pen at the end of the first half, and Ferguson was kidding himself with that penalty claim in the second half.
What does it mean for the rest of R*ngers season? Well, they were neither robbed nor spanked - and that meteorite was a no show - so they're still red hot favourites to win the domestic treble.
Oh my, that was a stonewall penalty. Broadfoot's red face gave it away after the event.
Unless R*ngers win by two clear goals - and I don't mean on penalties - that will be a talking point if it's Ferguson whose lifting that trophy that Denis Law was struggling with before the game. (How's that for a convoluted sentence construction.)
R*ngers fans queuing in a disorderly fashion for their daily ration of buckfast at Piccadilly Gardens in Manchester city centre earlier today.
Joking aside, if you like very closely at the top left hand corner of the pic you'll see my younger brother. He's tall, dark, good looking and looks nothing like me.
Yeah, the family secret is out: my half-brother is a bluenose. Half the family is. I'm torn and conflicted about this sad state of affairs. I'm caught between pitying them and sending them a bottle of Russian vodka come tonight, when Zenit overruns R*ngers in the final.
What's a person to do?
As the Motherwell TAZ post falls off the bottom of the page, I prompted to ask myself if I can bring myself to try this TAZ lark again with tonight's game?
On the previous two occasions I've tried it, I've come unstuck. Does that qualify as blogging hubris or just bastard bad luck? And tonight's final is a bit of a special case in that it is Gazprom poster boys versus R*ngers. A case of the unacceptable face of capitalism versus the unacceptable face of Glasgow's south side.
Bottom line to ask myself is what's the best result tonight for Celtic's outside chance of retaining the SPL title? I can think of three possible scenarios:
Option A R*ngers winning tonight's final, and in their best fashion being consumed by their very own hubris which will result in them coming unstuck against Motherwell and St Mirren in the league. Option B Zenit Saint Petersburg do what they did against Leverkusen and Munich in the previous rounds in tonight's final, and a crestfallen R*ngers trudge back north only to come unstuck against Motherwell, St Mirren, Aberdeen and Queen of the South in the coming weeks. Option C A meteorite hits the middle of the pitch at the City of Manchester Stadium, and Barry Ferguson, David Weir and Nacho Novo fall into the resultant crater. Ferguson is out for the rest of the season with cruciate ligament damage after his knee smashes into Novo's new gnashers. Weir, conscious of the fact that he isn't getting any younger, decides that this is as good a burial plot as any and refuses to leave the crater. He asks that wreaths be sent to Little's Funeral Service Home on the Paisley Road West Road. The referee decides that his only option is to postpone the game. This despite Walter Smith's protestation that his R*ngers team has never used the middle of any pitch and why should they start now? The new crop of injuries coupled with R*ngers adding to their current backlog of fixtures forces Walter Smith's hand and he has to give Thomas Buffel a game in the season run-in. Rangers come unstuck against Motherwell, St Mirren, Aberdeen and Queen of the South . . . and barn doors the length and breadth of Scotland release a collective sigh of relief.
If it's about Celtic doing the impossible, and snatching championship victory from the jaws of Ibroxian mediocrity, I'll have to go with option a as the best possible scenario.
The blog's hexed ye.
What with an ex-Chelski player missing the vital penalty, I tempted to cry conspiracy but even I'm not that self-deluded. There's a reason Jody Morris's plying his trade in Perth rather than the Kings Road. And he proved it today at the most pivotal moment.
Mutu, don't fail me now.
I've got a bad feeling about this. I'd resigned myself to the fact that R*ngers would probably win the domestic treble this year, but winning the UEFA Cup as well? That's just taking the piss.
Fiorentina, it's up to you. I'm not asking much. Just a for a last minute equaliser by Viera at Ibrox, and for Mutu to score three or four in the return leg (on May Day, no less) at the Stadio Artemio Franchi.
Always had a soft spot for 'La viola', anyway. No, sorry that should have read: I've always had a sweet tooth for parma violets.
Bastards. The horn of a dilemma.
Celtic are scheduled to lose to R*ngers tomorrow morning, thus losing the SPL title in all but name, and I was contemplating making the trip through to Manhattan to experience the misery first hand via a Setanta big screen.
But now I've discovered that the Fox Soccer Channel have plans to replay the game in its entirety on Sunday evening 7pm (ET). Could I really go 30 hours without knowing the result? Do I really want to put myself through that much potential pain, when the real pain with regards to Celtic is watching them fuck it up live via satellite?
On the other hand, do I really want to have the same experience as last time of some Irish bloke screaming in my ear for about hour about what a shower of orange c*nts the Rangers players are? (Trust me, it loses it comedic charm after about 37 minutes.)
I need to think about this one.
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