You’ve just got to give me back my floor!
Y’know what’d be a gas? If I owned an arctic white guitar.
But they’ve been aesthetically ruined by being the trademark of James Dean Bradfield. I just don’t like him. And even if I did own one, just like everything else I own that is white, knowing my luck I’d spill some bastard food on it.
This is why I can’t have nice things.
“It looks like he enjoys a good lunch, John”
Mark Lawrenson. Quite possibly the saviour of football punditry from its inevitable downhill slope. An absolute king of the microphone and a keen eye for observation. There’ll never be another one quite like our friend and neighbour, Lawro.
With his sharp, cynical punditry, I suppose we can forgive him for playing for Liverpool. We forgave Paul Ince didn’t we? But that’s because he just looks so slick and cool 365 days a year. It’s pretty clear some kind of secret handshake and a rap song (which John Barnes most fortunately had nothing to do with) is what earned MK Dons their league title this year. Blackburn Rovers are now in the hands of the Shaft of the Premier League. One love, indeed.
Lawro continues to raise the proverbial punditry bar season after season. He manages to relinquish his focus from the game in question for just a moment to give a brief analysis from an event from his past time and time again…
“When I lived in rural Oxfordshire, I was walking home across a field when I stroked a cow. The damn thing butted me in the orchestras”
This was of course followed by a signature-awkward change of subject by John Motson himself, and the game continued. First class. Lawro knew we were witnessing sub-par football, and he brought the event to life. David Pleat often has the same effect, but only because he is an uneducated, illiterate moron. Potato-Potahto.
I guess you have to feel a little sorry for John Motson, from the times Motty has made a supporting comment which sets Lawro up to offer his insight and on-the-field experience into the colour-commentary, which Lawro so frequently replies with a short sharp “No” or “Terrible”.
No sugar coating or bloating the truth. No favouritism or bias. Mark Lawrenson hates football. He hates every team and every player. He knows in the back of his mind that he could walk down the terraces; onto the field and play the game better himself. Everything involved with football, Mark Lawrenson cannot abide it. Mark Lawrenson just simply hates football, but obviously – He just needs the money. It makes sense doesn’t it? I hate my job. You probably hate your job. He’s like the rude, acne-ridden hormone-fest that completely ignores you at the deli counter in the supermarket because he’s thinking about video games and boobs. He hates cheese, deli sandwich fillers and sliced meat, almost as much as Lawro cannot fucking stand football.
Complete respect.
STEVE HOLT!!
It was me. I was the first Caucasian to illustrate something; anything as “Whack”. I single handily broke down the racial language barrier with what can only be described as relentless bravery. And how does that make me feel? After hearing the lifeless Matt Le Blanc utter “Playstation is whack!” in an uneven, ersatz portrayal of a fictional teenager (in preparation for an acting part in the plot) in the globally renowned series ‘Friends’, I couldn’t help but feel how John Logie Beard must have felt when entertainers continued to stage puppet shows inside small staged boxes subsequent to the introduction of the Television set. “It’s been done, and mine was better” is probably how he felt. And rightly so.
But you can probably trace the roots back further to situation comedies with a strong emphasis on the effervescent, spunky, hip black guy sporting a Letterman jacket and how he differentiates from his not-so-best friend – The white guy. The nerdy, nervous white guy who spouts faux confidence and displays a sheer ineptitude towards pretty much everything. He’s not as cool, witty or as smart as the black guy, but he constantly tries to be like him with the clumsiest of consequences. He might utter a half hearted “That’s whack” whilst taking a basketball by the foot and punting it into the air, in an embarrassing attempt to appear as an African American. But do you ever see the role reversed? The young, flat-topped MC Hammer protégé; wearing a cardigan, drinking tea and perching their face a matter of inches away from their car steering wheel as they grip onto it for dear life with both hands, or however it is white people are portrayed in interracial fictional media. I can’t say I’ve seen it happen. And what catchphrase would they mimic in a way the Caucasian attempts to mimic “That’s whack!” ?
“Bugger” ?
“Rollocks” ?
We can only speculate for the time being.
But that’s not the point here. The Caucasian buffoon may or may not have uttered “That’s whack!” completely void of heart and direction at some point in one of these interracial pantomimes, but it was only subsequent to my uttering of “That’s whack!” at the whole portrayal of the White man struggling to be Black. For once, I’d like to see the role reversed. No more rubbing hands together and licking their lips at just the meagre thought of how fucking cool they are. I want to see the coolest African American on the planet scripted as a Caucasian want-to-be. The bad posture, the acne… Hell, let’s give this gangster a lisp, a speech impediment, and a pair of dungarees. Let’s see him captain the football team when he can’t even say the word “quarterback” without spitting all over the girl he’s trying to bump uglies with.
Tight Jean. Black Shoe.
My top 3 favourite films with the word “Space” in the title.
#3 – It Came From Outer Space II
A superior sequel to a pretty dreadful original, and not really much of an improvement, but I was struggling to think of a 3rd film I like with “Space” in the title. This shit even went straight to TV because it was that poor, but I’m an absolute sucker for straight to TV films. Acted by nobodies. Written by 6th form media students. Filmed by some acne ridden hormone fest with his very own Ban Dai ‘My First Cam Corder’. Great film.
#2 – Lost In Space
Pretty atrocious film, with completely testosterone fueled comedy highlights from the faux-dumb one in Friends. Corking one liners about girls and beer, all wrapped up in a plastic Sci-Fi packaging. Subpar and utterly pointless. If you paid to see this film when it came out in theatres, you’re a fucking idiot.
#1 – Spaceballs
You see, this is actually a good film. Infact it’s great. I mean, come on. Mel Brooks and John Candy in the same film together? It won the academy award for “Greatest Film Ever Made!”. Seriously. That was the category, and it won. It wasn’t even against anything because there’d be no point. If you can name a better film, then you’re lying, and I’ll just talk over you.
Now Is The Winter Of Your Discontent
Balaclava’s, man.
The greatest socially unacceptable garment you could possibly wear. The status of this particular garment saddens me and not only that, but because of this, I have to let the hailstone bash my face to bits because you just cannot wear a balaclava anymore, can you? You definitely can not. They are reserved only for the consumption of bank robbers, baby snatchers and those folks that just want to set bombs off on aeroplanes. If I walked past someone, anyone, on the street wearing a balaclava, merely for the comfort of my face against the harsh, windswept rain, they would fear for their lives that I was about to pinch their Umbrella and their new Cassette Walkman. This extended woolly hat isn’t going to win you any friends today. So, why is there something so intimidating and gruesome about only being able to see someone’s facial features from cut out holes from a bit of wool? Who knows?!? But, let me tell you – The first bank robber to wear his winter headgear to swipe some swag certainly had his thinking cap on, but simultaneously ruined the northern hemisphere winter for us all, and the criminal activity within them has ensured that all face-covering garments carry criminal connotations. As long as the world is safe from balaclava-sporting angry mobs. We’re just fucked if we want to keep warm.
So, here’s to terrorism and to crime. A simultaneous salutation for the underlying principle my face stays cold in winter. Rain. Sleet. Hailstone. They all collide and collect in that little gap between my cheek and my nose, and that’s just right bastard uncomfortable. Back when I was at school, getting twatted with a plastic football to the bare skin of the face always hurt so much in the cold winter too. All which could have been prevented by an innocent, thermal balaclava. For shame.
