I hate football. I hate football because I watch it every week and can’t stop myself. Coverage of football is repetitive and in the main merely speculation, uber-rich Premier League footballers themselves are loathsome and the results are predictable. The Premier League is the least competitive league in the world, mainly because all of the crazy billions are stuck at one end of the table. The odd shock here and there, yes, but mostly it’s mostly the same old story.

Sooner the world will wake up and see that the top end of English football is vile, especially if one compares it to the lower leagues.

Even when Villa were six points clear of fifth there was an awful inevitability they would somehow slip up and the Arse would once again make the top 4 tiresome again. Because, as I frequently hear on rolling Sports News channels (sigh), “it would be a disaster for Arsenal not to be in the Champions League.” Yes, my heart would certainty bleed – poverty would have a new meaning.

Take a look at Luton Town; the authorities gave them an impossible mountain to climb, facing Hatters to contemplate an entire season of staring relegation in the face. Yet 40,000 of their fans turn up the Johnson’s Paint Trophy and are ecstatic with the doomed team’s victory. The memory of that will live on for a long time. Magical. The type of football story that brings a lump to the throat.

Now look at Manchester United winning the Carling Cup. To them, the winning of this particular trophy is merely a notch on their quest for complete domination of the footballing world. Soccercapitalism is what it is. In year’s to come, someone will remind a Man U fan that they won the League Cup in 2009, and the glory-hunting arseface will reply, “oh yeah, we did. When we won everything else aswell.” Congratulations; you’re rich. Any other club fan (except three others) would consider having 2009 tattooed on their arse.

I’m going to come clean; I’m a Spurs fan. I can tell you that Spurs would have appreciated winning the Carling Cup way more than any Man Utd fan, and yes, is because Spurs are less successful. But ask a random in the pub who they support – if they say something like “Norwich” or “Bury,” your reply will be “oh, really?” This is a true, thick-and-thin football fan. But hear “Chelsea,” and the instinct is to groan and go and talk to somebody else.

Man Utd have apparently been on a bad run recently. They beat Aston Villa 3-2, and then beat Sunderland 2-1. They must really be staring relegation in the face. I’m sure there are loyal Man U, Arsenal, Liverpool and Chelsea fans out there, and it isn’t their fault their clubs have been over-run with soulless, knuckle-dragging fartheads that support their club “coz dey looked good on duh telly.” But football has become too ugly and horrible to follow –for instance – Avram Grant finishes within a game of the Premier League title and reaches two cup finals and is sacked. That sums it up. Brian Clough is turning in his grave.

The solution – pretend the Premier League doesn’t exist. Either Wolves or Sheffield United will win the league this year despite neither of them being in the top four last season. Now that’s competitive and exciting. (JT)

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Today I’m going to spend my two pence worth on the many nay-sayers having their two pence worth. That’s right. Hold tight.

I read the Metro (because it’s free, and last week there was a story about a local police authority in Tiverton decideding to have some graffiti commissioned to “engage with youngsters…and show that graffiti is in fact an art.” I found this approach by the authority, spearheaded by Sergeant Robin Curtis, rather endearing. But without even reading the article I knew instantly how the paper would react – by collecting the sound-bites of local-something-or-others along the lines of “shouldn’t they be out catching criminals?” or “is this what we pay our taxes for?”

Sure enough, the Metro went straight to Matthew Elliott of the Taxpayer’s Alliance (clearly looking for a balanced opinion), who said the scheme was “pointless trendy nonsense,” and “to waste taxpayer’s money on such a gimmick instead of using it to fight crime is a disgrace.”

Imagine the scene:

(The phone rings. An operator picks it up).

    Caller: Help! Help! I’m being held hostage!

Operator: Just one minute, caller; let me see if the constabulary have finished spray-painting the officers’ nose and we’ll get back to you.”

Incidentally the article was written by John Higginson, the Metro’s CHIEF Political Correspondent. That’s right, Chief. To waste commuter’s reading-time and advertiser’s money on such a small story instead of using it to report on actual news of importance is a disgrace.

1-0 to me.

Whether the police officer’s idea of trying to recreate the youthful art is a good one or not, I can’t say that I’m totally against the use of tax money on things to make life a little easier and happier. I don’t begrudge the government for attempting the Millennium Dome project, for instance, as it seemed like a wonderfully courageous and grand thing to do. If they hadn’t arsed up the administration, spent  way-way too much on it and filled it with absolute guff, then we would all be celebrating it. Well, actually, we sort-of are, as the re-branded O2 is a massive success. And think about St Pauls, the Houses of Parliament and even Stonehenge – we celebrate these landmarks now but I wonder if a mass of petitions and Matthew Elliotts protested about them at the time.

Sergeant Robin Curtis is just trying to make life a little bit better. Even if it fails, he’s at least trying, which is more than I can say for you, Matty boy. Nice one Robin.

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When the English language was being concocted I’m sure the boffins in, oh let’s pretend it was Oxford, had the intention of creating words and sentences of the upmost intelligence and usefulness. It is testament of this modern age, therefore, that the English human race has conjured up sentences and phrases of such pointlessness and irritation that even describing them now will make me want to end this blog with a controversial and foul expletive.

Now, I am not as condescending and sanctimonious as to start going on about the state of education and how youffs don’t speak proper. Nearly every manager I’ve had has failed to write an e-mail with every word spelt correctly and the tenses fully up to scratch. I rather like that. But let me give you three phrases that infuriate and drive me to my other hobby; killing:

1.     “I’ll tell you what you should have done…”

Oh, fantastic. I’ve clearly just cocked something up and you have come to the rescue retrospectively. That’s just marvellous. I’m hosting a party in five minutes and the meringues haven’t risen properly, then you’ve popped up with “I’ll tell you what you should have done; you should have ra de da da da…” It takes a great deal of arrogance yet spinelessness to cockily proclaim how a disaster could have been averted. If anyone starts a phrase with this prefix, please hit them.

2.    “you tell me”

The blood-boilingly awfulness of this phrase was brought to my attention by those cruddy adverts for the well-known telecommunications operator featuring Kris Marshall. This three-word barrage of arsewipe-edness is said by people that do not know how to answer questions and have never apologised for anything in their life. If anyone says this to you, shoot them.

3.    “Chill out”

Gone are the days when ‘chill out’ had cool and positive connotations; one gets imagines of bearded carefrees in tents smoking magical substances and listing to plinky music. Now ‘chill out’ is used by housemates that have stolen bread without asking and aren’t prepared to fully justify themselves to the loafy victim. It is important to confront those that steal bread, otherwise it sets a precedent, and should the reply be “chill out,” you have my full permission to ram sharp objects into their eyes.

I have been party to conversations that have included all three of these phrases, causing my toes to curl so much you may think I’ve stapled onion rings to stumps on my feet.

Person A: “I’ll tell you what I should have done.”

Person B: “You tell me.”

Person C: “Chilled out.”

Piers Morgan. Sorry, but I had to do it. (JT)

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Food, not-so glorious Food

Jack Dee once commented, “What kind of a family eats out of a bucket?” And he’s right to ask this question. The kind of company that endorses eating food from receptacles usually reserved for coal or gravel needs to employ more chefs and fewer marketing and cost-cutting types.

The introduction of fast food has been a major contributory factor to the declining standards of etiquette in society and the destruction of the human palette. Not do these fat-covered liberal-interpretations of meat clog up our arteries but they have destroyed the food cycle.

Take the cinema – it is baffling to think the average person (in every possible way) can’t go two hours without shovelling sweaty, crunchy lumps of nothingness down their gobs. Many a time have the deep and meaningful segments of films been ruined by the sound of the salivary crunch of the world’s most inappropriate film-watching morsel.

The way to cure the scourge of food served in cement mixers and high-decibel snacklets is to eat meals. Proper meals. Watch Saturday Kitchen and Gary Rhodes, put a cooked slab of meat next to a couple of piles of roughage and you’re set. Your body will be thankful, your senses more satisfied and I won’t be tempted to remove your head and bury it in the residuey filthiness of an empty fried-chicken scuttle. (JT)

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