Life During Wartime

In order to fit in the rest of the FakeNews media we should really run a whole transfer story arc here where Everton are linked to some player who in few a days apparently expresses a real interest in working for Carlo Ancelotti but then by the end of the week ends up as a ‘transfer blow’ with Arsenal and Juventus ‘closely monitoring the situation’.

Intersperse this with random tweets by people with 1878 in their names, who call players ‘lad’ and usually have an inordinate interest in ‘driving Gylffi Sigurdsson there myself’. Like little Saint Domingan Dominic Cummingses.

That’s defo how you spell it.

You have to hand it to the fella who has made ‘government advising’ the new rock and roll despite having a head that looks uncannily like Peter Weller’s in Robocop when he takes his helmet off. He is fucking killing it at the moment – every photo they take of him looks like a Vice fashion shoot. His look is absolute fire, and he has his version of Zoolander’s Blue Steel down cold. On cue he seems to be able to turn on an expression that says ‘I’m getting in an Uber to a meeting with some investors about a micro-brew pop up when I’ve had a text from Mary that says she’s just going to use the PC in the back room to do an Ocado shop – do I know I’ve left it on, and why is there a big bottle of Trex next to the keyboard?’

Going back to football, well, we shouldn’t be.

When hundreds are still dying on a daily basis, why on earth are any resources being put towards this macabre approximation of the game as we know it? Until supporters are able to safely go to the stadiums the whole thing should be fucked off.

The need for neutral venues and all sorts of testing for players and the rest would simply be avoided by spewing it. These rounds of half-arsed plague-ball – like something from Batman where the Joker makes a fat, trembling copper tapdance and sing Somewhere Over The Rainbow with a suicide vest on – exist for no other reason than the clubs and the Premier League grimly fulfilling their contractual obligations to Sky.

The half-hearted handjob of an end-of-shift Mumbai sex worker.

But with less atmosphere.

It seems like there’s nothing quite like a pitiless pandemic in terms of much of the world revealing itself for what it really is. Governments refer to people as ‘herds’ and show complete disregard and contempt for the very populations they were elected to protect. It was ever thus, but now they don’t even really pretend otherwise. They act with impunity and view us as maggots squirming in the shit.

Deny everything, call in the troops.

Football, meanwhile, is stripped to the bare bones and literally reduced to 22 millionaires kicking a bag of air around an echoing field in order to fill in the big gaps between the adverts for betting firms and lager.

Well you can stick it right up your hole.

Stay safe. Take no notice of them cunts. Up the Toffees.

4 thoughts on “Life During Wartime

  1. Nail on the head Mark. Absolutely spot on. But we’re not allowed to say that a global pandemic should stop the game, were not even allowed to question it, or to ponder ‘is this really the right thing to do?’ Because if we do, make no mistake, it’s because we’re bitter blooz, only interested in stopping the reds parade or some such inconsequential shite. Not the 300 odd thousand dead.

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