I don’t mind admitting I like football. I wish I could say I ‘did’ after this afternoon’s debacle, but the tense is still present. I do like the games that go belly up, even when it’s us on the receiving end. Sure, like you I want the players to accept their penance and volunteer 5 weeks community service when they return to the UK but I know they’ll be forgiven by amnesia-ridden fans in 4 weeks once the new season starts and they’ve run out of things to say about goal-line technology. The knobs.

As a national football team, we are destined to fail when asked to succeed, yet there exists this superiority complex holding hands with a delusion of grandeur every time we talk to the media about it. But failing is the language of Beckett. There is something poetic and scientific hiding here – the choice to fail when they are given every chance (money, facilities, coach, easy opposition, etc) to win. It’s a form of self-harm. A highly knackering public form of masochism. Maybe I should tape hacksaw blades to my typing fingers to truly understand. Or celebrate that we lose with more sadness and drama than France or Italy, and more ego and selfishness than Australia or Serbia, or more comedy and chaos than South Africa or New Zealand.

Stevie Wonder just said playing the final act at Glastonbury’s 40th birthday was fun.

Play for fun.

Got that Fabio?


Football can get bigger. But not on the pitch. In the stands and in front of the TV. By 2018, there will be the world’s first professional inter-league of super-fans who will be paid by the clubs they support. Some fans will be paid directly by players and they will share agents. Brands will also buy fans and contractually tie them into appearances with political figures and sponsorship deals. This trend will coincide with an incremental reduction in the salaries of players. Within 30 years, the actors and the audience will be evenly paid and then the beautiful game will once again find its feet.


George Osbourne does his best. The trouble is his best is the worst. That guessing look upon his face. The realignment of fiscal furniture to dust away Darling’s cobwebs. Within 2 years he’ll be minister of sport and asserting his expertise over the state of football’s debt. He is inflicting austerity as a form of terrorism and the media are in on it too. The fools.

I have an idea. It may be misguided but it’s better than the chancellor’s. What if we were trusted to self-impose pro-rata budgets in the same way we are asked to self-assess our tax return? By stripping away the colossal administration costs of HMRC and making it self-regulatory we could dredge this country up from the depths, or at least blow our last counters in the casino with some style. Anyone up for a march to number 11?


Imagine we all live on the moon.

It’s a clear night.

There are no street lamps.

And we’ve left our torches in the rocket that has since disintegrated.

The question is does the earth shine bright enough for us to see in the dark?


Stop writing about something.

Write something that is something.


Is the future going to be as anti-climatic as the past?

Will all the mistakes I make add up to one decision I get right before my time comes?

Is a wish just a regret in a time capsule?

How pissed off is the present moment with peacemaking?

Do the tea-bags know more than tea leaves?

Is an ache a no-through road?

If we were able to jump two lifetimes ahead, might we rue the one we leapfrog?

Is it true that Mystic Meg & Russell Grant have a lovechild, but he was born before them?

Are cats tired of reincarnation?

LUNCHEON MEAT (# 74,932)

Just a sad thought about spam.

As punishment I shall now eat a tin with a spoon.

While I choke on the gristle, the subsequent posts will cause the search engines to bump into each another to such an extent that they sue and counter-sue until all are bankrupt and return to their former jobs at Rymans.


It’s warm today, hot even. The climate is starting to do strange things to our animal world. This morning, as I wrote to a friend about writing, a tiny dragonfly with the coil of a scorpion landed on my hand. It pirouetted, open its wings, then took off. Two hours later, an intensely red spider the size of a pin-head ventured onto my keypad. I swore he had ten legs, though his legs were so small, they could have been hairs. Later this evening I have a feeling I may meet a minotaur, as we’re mid-moon and the sky is clear. If you should come across any mongrel strain of new species, please capture them and drive ignoring any speed limits to your nearest vet.


Patience isn’t a virtue.

It’s an excuse.

And excuses suck.

Time, as we know, can expand and contract at will – so never assume you’ll have plenty of time to do something, to fit it in because you won’t.

Assume you have no time and all your dreams will materialize. It’s not to say that nightmares won’t as well – so try and get them over with quickly too.

Once you’ve lived a few dreams, they stop feeling like dreams and become errands, albeit pleasant ones.


His life’s work:

to tell each of his fellow 9 billion human beings,

the same secret,


if passed on,

would result in their death.

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