Hello again, Fracas fans!
So, how was it for you, eh? The highs, the lows; the laughter, the tears;
the raw bloody thrill as England's finest took on the world and bravely fought
their way to a glorious victory!
Well of course they didn't. They were knocked out in the quarter finals, a
result so patently obvious that it could have been predicted by a man whose
innate loathing of the ridiculous game borders on the savage.
And was. Again. That's right, suckers. Panzerdivision: 2, misguided
patriotism and wishful thinking: 0. Thus, I win.
But what of Panzerdivision's Pygmies, you're doubtless asking, eyes shining with the innocent wonder of a small child at a magic show? Can it be that your unique brand of laissez-faire disinterest (and palpable hatred) has succeeded where conventional punditry has failed? What, pray tell, of the Alphabetised Eleven?
Alas, dear reader, I must confess I remain as much in the dark as you. Regrettably, my initial
enthusiasm for the project left me with the speed of a goal strike from David Rooney, and then
my internet connection got cut off. As a result, all columns for the foreseeable future will be
written without the benefits of "research" or "information". I doubt you'll notice any difference.
This, for the record, has been scrawled on the back of a bar mat and sent to Mr Likilla on the leg
of a pigeon for transcription.
[Note to Al: 1 x Saturday Sun, 55p. 3 x pts Gem Bath Ale, £6.90. Rental of pigeon - "Clara",
So, sweeping that painful memory under the carpet to languish with the rest of them, let's see what's happening this month in the exciting world of Association Soccer. Fracas aficionados will be pleased to note that I'll be using the patented and hilarious Panzerdivision Newspaper Headline Comedy Technique, in lieu of any better ideas.
"DEJA ROO", announces the back page of the Sun, in what I estimate to be 72 point bold. Helpfully, it's accompanied by the sub-heading "He's sent off again against Portuguese" and a picture of "Roo" looking unhappy as a referee holds up a red card. I think this pretty much speaks for itself. Silly Dave.
"O'Neill is petrified by Villa", it seems. And who isn't?
"MOUR: COLE BID ALL LEGAL", I discover on page 79, which I'm sure comes as reassurance to us all. Doesn't really draw you into the story though, does it?
"Jor one I want", exclaims page 68 and, irritatingly, I had to suffer two execrable paragraphs to work out that the pun revolves around someone called Joris Mathijsen. Furthermore, I think the writer meant "Jor the one that I want" but got chopped by an over-zealous sub-editor to fit two columns. Sloppy, just sloppy.
I'm almost tempted to read the tale of "Mutu" who apparently "would leave Porsche on a yellow line and pay £400 a week", but frankly the whole "Jor" business has left me weary. No, there's nothing more of interest here. Poor show, Sun.
Well, that rather leaves me up shit creek, doesn't it? I'm pretty certain I'm missing
out on my contractual minimum word limit here, even without the benefit of
twenty-first century technology.
Anyone read any good books lately? I'd personally recommend the Kinky
Friedman series of detective novels by the writer of that pseudonym, a
contemporary and amusing slant on the world of the archetypical hard-boiled
P.I. Philip Marlow.
Bingo players, of whom my readership is overwhelmingly composed, may be
interested to know that the odds of winning a line in five numbers is 2,441,626 to
one, assuming you're playing six tickets. If you're playing a single ticket, it's 14,649,756 to one.
Help, I'm a prisoner in a toothpaste factory.
- Clint.
