Boycott England
#6
International break will be over after this evening and tomorrow we can all start to look forward to the weekend and Fulham away. Bread and butter will never taste so good. Don't know about you, but I've already got my gram and hooker at the ready. However, the clock still needs to tick tock into Wednesday before I ruin my nasal septum whilst having a twenty-one year old wrap her legs around my neck.
I've been positively brain dead with boredom. Placing aside daily routines consisting of travel and work and household stuff (did someone say baby?), I've had to find ways to amuse myself, keep myself entertained. It's not like there are no Tottenham stories doing the rounds out there. There are plenty. But you'll have read them. Countless times. I'm not inspired enough to write up commentary on said stories either. Again, mainly because there's not really that much to comment on, and there are plenty of media outlets and sites echoing the same bits and pieces of rumours and quotes.
I've said all I've wanted to say about Gollivan and Brady. But that hasn't stopped me from crashing my lolcopter whilst reading how West Ham have had a huge boost in their bid to claim the stadium from the grasp of Spurs. Three words. Northumberland Redevelopment Project. The Olympic stadium is a 'back up' a 'ploy'. How many times now? Move the f**k on.
Then, I think at the start of the break, there was Comolli trying to take credit for the players he signed during his tenure that are doing so well at Spurs currently. Cheers for that Damien. Do you also want to take responsibility retrospectively of the fact the club signed mis-matched individuals with different levels of application and varying styles of ability and technique that as a collective didn't quite gel and blend together until after you (director of football, right?) was sacked? What? No comment?
Oh look, I'm commentating. Stop it. Down boy.
Sigh.
Once the England game is done and dusted we can start talking tactics and formations with complete freedom and begin the padding up process of our knees to help deter the potential for jerks post-final whistle over at Craven Cottage this Saturday. Ah yes, back to reality.
So, how exactly have I amused myself other than writing up these journals, burning the midnight candle? I haven't, if I'm perfectly honest. Seems the England disease has infected my tolerance level and I have become susceptible to various ills and tragedy. I'm practically draining the soul out of my body. I've done nothing with my 'free time'. To elaborate:
X-Factor
Sleep paralysis
Peppa Pig
Eye-balling a fox that was rummaging through the rubbish bins
The only way is Essex
I've hit rock-bottom.
This is England, this is torture. I've even starved myself of James Richardson's puns, bless his brilliant bald head.
So, as I've not been paying any attention to football news or found the patience to, I'll comment on the above list rather than whatever the heck is going on in the England camp at the moment. Regular readers, I apologise for the off topic meltdown. Day trippers, it's how I roll.
X-Factor - The newspaper coverage is almost akin to some of the BS you get about our beloved football club when the reporting bends reality to suit the headline and the hype. It's all self-serving and keeps it in topic. Do people honestly believe the judges (other than Cowell) have the full responsibility of selecting their 'final three' for the live shows? Cheryl Cole is there because of her undisputable beauty. That's it. You'll probably asking (again) why I even bother. Well as previously stated, it feeds my cynicism. I need a fix, and I'm happy to tap my veins on a Saturday night to get it. The first of the live shows was particularly uncomfortable car-crash viewing, yet behold, according to the 'experts' it was magical/brilliant/amazing.
Close your eyes and you could have been listening to Jamie Redknapp and Richard Keys telling you that the bore-draw being played out on Sky Sports is an epic 'chess game'.
Are people fooled by all this or do they know, but just like to pretend they don't? Watching this show, angering the blood, at one point I was certain I could see red, but alas, I had just subconsciously stabbed my eyes out with a pen.
Sleep paralysis - You're awake in bed, but you're not. Unable to move a muscle, buried under overwhelming fear of the unknown. You can’t get up and you can't wake up. Stuck in the limbo that exists between sleep and awakening. It's just like being in the singing section at the Emirates.
Peppa Pig - Countless potatoes references. Pigs and various animals driving cars stuck in a traffic jam. Banging theme music. Childrens television is made for magic mushroom consumption.
Eye-balling a fox that was rummaging through the rubbish bins - Next time, and there will be a next time, I will dismantle the sonofabitch piece of filth, bone by skinny bone.
The only way is Essex - Buckhurst Hill is where they frequent. Oh the shame of these plastic superficial twats, twatting around with daddies money. There are plenty of characters in and around Essex, so what do we get? Clichéd stereotypes attempting to act out their lives in forced exaggerated stage set-pieces in a production that makes The Hills look like Citizen Kane. Head butting the tv has never felt so great.
That's it. Someone tweet me when Liverpool go into administration because I'm immensely looking forward to the follow-up to that hugely embarrassing video Mike Jerfferies made with fans and 'celebs' where they all cry into the camera about how the Yanks have been raping the Anfield club and yadda yadda yadda. I might have sank low these past two weeks what with my ITV brain haemorrhaging session, but compared to the scousers, at least I've retained a degree (be it a little) of self-respect.
Peace. Out.
And for the love of God, COYMFS.
You've been reading the sixth and final part of Spooky's International Break diary journals.
Part one - International Heart break
Part two - Tottenham till I die
Part three - A spoon full of sugar makes the Venables go down
Part four - FAO Sullivan, Gold and Brady
Part five - In defence of Robbie Keane
