In an attempt to keep up with wikijoneses, the OED is introducing 12 new meanings for PC. Incumbent parents (Politically Correct & Personal Computer) have been consulted and given their blessing. Everybody now…ahhh.

  1. Prime Chancellor: in line with austerity measures, job-sharing has gone straight to the very top.
  2. Post Closure (syndrome): the doubt that plagues recent divorcees and doormen.
  3. Pretend Christ: working title for Russell Brand’s anti-political party.
  4. Pasteurized Cable: mains milk on tap.
  5. Piss Caffeine: the drop in efficacy of coffee once a tsunami of milk is added.
  6. Poly Crayfish: synthetic seafood, made by man, best with horseradish.
  7. Poo Coo: noise of a shitting pigeon.
  8. Peer Celiac: fear of meeting someone of your own social standing and hobbies, leading to convulsions and stomach cramps. If symptoms persist, run away.
  9. Prov Cosmo: sudden influx of second home socialites to previously-dull-but-suddenly-hip rural village.
  10. Piano Cock: male rooster with mercurial symphonic skills.
  11. Pleb Class: socio-economic status introduced as election policy by coalition.
  12. Punk Croon: cross-decade mash-up music genre, sung acapella and out of key, made popular on Newsnight closing credits.


Dear Sepp,

It’s been a while.

Not that time matters when you’re self-anointed, unopposed and exempt from the laws that apply to human beings.

But let’s not take sides, this is about being fair and telling the truth. Now, if we can just wire you up to this polygraph a second. There, there. No need to sweat, we’re all white, old, plump, rich men here. See, it doesn’t hurt. Thank you. Now, all you have to do is answer the questions as best you can.

Have you held any other presidential roles, such as World Society of Friends of Suspenders?

Do you secretly wish you were taller?

If, as you suggest, a handshake can resolve racism, then can a high five solve Syria?

What colour card do you feel you deserved the day you interrupted one minute of silence for Nelson Mandela, after, correct me if I’m wrong here, 11 seconds?

Will Jerome Champagne befall a scandal between now and 28th May 2015, the day before the next FIFA presidential election?

What would you like on your tombstone, assuming of course, no evidence of fraud, filth or abuse of power emerges once you are gone?

If a fan called you the Jimmy Saville of football, would you do to him what Zidane did to Materazzi?

No further questions.

You may now kiss the ball.

No tongues please, your Qatari yacht awaits.


He loved to line up. Never side by side. Only ever in a queue.

He found comfort in being sandwiched between people with their breath warm and moist on his neck as, in turn, he stared at the way the hair parted on the head ahead.

Yet the moment he hit the front, he fled.

The point was not to be served.

It was just…to…wait.

He found the suspense pleasing, fulfilling, arousing. He dreamt of being in a circular queue that went round and round, never ending, never starting.

Was he waiting for God? Or Godot? Or God knows what?

All we know is he met his death doing what he loved.

In a queue.

Near a cliff.

Among lemmings.