February 14, 2012 § 1 Comment
So the Champions League is back. Are you excited? A bit? Yeah, me too. The football’s decent, though there is the ever-present sense that it’s all a charade, played out to line the pockets of men that are already insensitively rich. Plus, Heineken’s shite. « Read the rest of this entry »
June 15, 2011 § 8 Comments
All of what follows is a lie. But you knew that.
Alan Shearer is buried up to the neck in a vegetable patch. Only his head is visible, and that partly, as a rhubarb leaf obscures his right eye. A pigeon pecks the ground nearby.
He blows the rhubarb leaf out of his eyes.
French-Tunisian, I said. Came through at Clairefontaine, then Lyon, then Marseille, I said. Favourite food, borscht. Favourite song, ‘Making Plans For Nigel’. Favourite flavour Skittle, orange. Occasionally has a recurring dream about paperclips that hum. Hates Playdoh.
It appears he is talking to the pigeon. The leaf falls down again. « Read the rest of this entry »