The downs and downs of being a Newcastle fan

A glass of Brown Ale

Oh, good grief. I arrived in Kuala Lumpur last night in time to watch our 3-0 thrashing by Arsenal in glorious Technicolor. I then find out we’ve sold James Milner to Villa (properly, this time – not like that farce a year or so ago when we changed our mind at the 11th hour). He’s going to be a star, that one. Always one of our hardest-working players, never a doubt about his commitment despite contract wrangles. If nothing else he deserves every ounce of our respect for the sweat he bucketed on the pitch for us.

Next up, we’ve drawn Spurs (at home, mind) in the League Cup. Always a good encounter, but a hard tie especially with them being the current holders.

Then we have Keegan worried about Owen. Despite first team football and the whole supporting army behind him, he’s being realistic that with new contract negotiations underway another team could snatch him. Which would really put us in the shitter with only two remaining starting strikers (no, I don’t count Ameobi).

Finally, though, some comic relief. French über-cunt David Ginola, once of this manor, has returned to tell us to drink his pansy piss-poor wine instead of Newcastle Brown. Daveed, are you leeseneeing? I shall say zees only wance:


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Another one bites the dust

Front cover of the BBC Radio Collection releas...

The man who produced the original radio series of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Geoffrey Perkins, died in a car accident yesterday. Pretty sad news, especially as I’m a huge fan of the series and also upsetting to see someone else so comparitively young (he was 55) passing away.

Life goes on. Maybe I should pick up a copy of the series somewhere and have a re-listen as some kind of tribute. Any excuse is a good one.

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Lloyds are cunts… no they’re not

Don’t worry – I’m not confused. I’m just reporting on a story that shylady passed on to me, which is great as it saves me doing any real work. Ideal, being that I’m a lazy twat. And have just passed my Rescue Diver course so I’m about to go out and celebrate with beer and pizza from the pissant place over the road who wouldn’t reply to my emails (hence why I’m diving with another company, staying with another hostel and only visiting their place for cheap food).

Anyway, the story on the BBC reports that a guy had an e-banking password of “Lloyds is pants”, but one of the staff changed it – without telling him – to “no it isn’t”. Funny, but not ideal when you’re trying to access your funds in a hurry.

Apparently, whoever did it no longer works for the company. Surely, then it would have made more sense for them to change his password to “Yes, they fucking are” as it sounds like the act of someone who’s working out their notice.

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Scariest hitched ride ever

Hitchhiking in New Zealand, 2006

I’ve hitchhiked a fair bit – mainly in the UK, mainland Europe and Australia. I’ve never had any real problems aside from perhaps not getting along too well with the person who’s picked me up, or falling asleep (which seems rude, but it’s better than them doing it). Hell, I’ve had some great experiences, such as realising I could actually hold a conversation in French for 20 minutes, or discovering courtesy of the lesbian truck driver who picked me up in Cambridge that Belgium is a lot more relaxed about homosexual marriages.

I hitched a lift in five stages from Sydney to Byron Bay, the last ride of which could have taken me 1000km north of Brisbane had I not been hopping off for the diving. All well and good. But I also have one bad story to tell. Not “bad” bad. I’m still alive and bear no (physical) scars, but this was a weird one.

I was in France some time ago and had been picking up lifts here and there in predominantly short bursts, as is the way near urban areas. After one hour of “thumb out” I had a lift from a guy with two little kids inthe car who drove me to an out-of-town shopping area where I grabbed lunch and walked to the nearest motorway slip. Plenty of traffic. Thumb out. Look friendly (and clean – this is a trick in itself).

It was a hot day and I was wilting. Rucksack to one side of me, sweat soaking into my cap and my skin doing a good impression of the bacon rashers I wished I’d had for breakfast. Eventually, a small car pulled up and the driver smiled at me and waved me to open the door. Score.

I made the usual apology for my French not being any good and asked him if he was going in my direction. I didn’t pay much attention to the fact he was shirtless and wearing shorts. Had I been on a beach or driving down the shops back home in this weather, I’d likely have done the same.

“Yes”, he was going my direction. Fantastic. I shoved my rucksack in the back and clambered into the passenger seat, pausing only to throw my hitching sign over the gay porn mag on the dashboard shelf… hang on.

You know when you see something for a fraction of a second, but it’s burned onto your retinas? This was one of those moments. My brain made sense of what it had seen around the time I started to fasten my seatbelt. And realised those weren’t shorts the guy was wearing, they were underpants. And he seemed too pleased to see me. Ah, fuck.

Too late and he’d set off so I just hoped he wasn’t going to show me his willy and ask if I wanted to go back to his place. Conversation was brief as I pretended my French was even worse than it was, and I settled for staring out of the window for some considerable length of time.

This was a good thing because every time I glanced to my left, he was wanking.

Only rarely did the little one-eyed pink bit stray outside of his shorts, but once was enough and I started counting the trees we were driving past. In addition, I couldn’t help but ponder about the extra mirrors he had set up. I think they’re designed so you can keep an eye on the kiddies in the back seat in case they try to strangle one another when they’re not busy asking “are we there yet”?

This guy had them (them – more than one) trained on his groin. Oh good grief. I’m a bit of a perv, but come on. Freak.

As the minutes dragged by I also started to notice an odour. Eventually I realised what it was. And I shit you not, people. A smell any self-respecting teenage boy with their own bedroom will recognise. The smell of…

Stale spunk.

I’d have been happier had I not sussed this one out, but it was too late. Breathing through my mouth didn’t help as it made me feel like I was somehow swallowing. My stomach started doing flips, and I just don’t get travel sick.

So… there I am. Sat in a car that smells of dried cum. With a near-naked guy beating off like a nervous monkey. And a stash of magazines featuring muscley young lads in cowboy hats in front of me. Not a situation I ever thought I’d find myself in. And hopefully won’t again.

In fairness, the guy didn’t say or do anything more inappropriate that tugging on his cock while he was driving – and he dropped me off exactly where I asked, which meant I got to my destination ahead of schedule.

But still… the lesson here is to check for gay porn on the dashboard of any vehicle you enter. I suppose this works both ways – if you are gay, I guess it’d be a bonus.

No, it’s not put me off hitching. I’m still keeping my eye out for the fit girl playing with her pussy while she’s driving. She has to be out there somewhere.

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I am not a spammer

SIERRA MADRE, CA - MAY 29:  Seventieth anniver...

Fucking hell. It looks like some cunt is using my email address as the “from” address while shipping out spam. In under 5 minutes I’ve just had 102 “spam” messages drop into my Gmail, virtually every single one an “Undeliverable” or “Message blocked by our spam filters”.

So if you do happen to get an email from “me” trying to sell you penis-enhancing drugs or shitty watches, please don’t mail me back and call me an arsehole. It ain’t me.

I wish someone would come up with a method of “signing” emails which everyone could/would use. I suppose I should really pop something on the old “Moshville” web page, but I don’t know if I can be arsed…

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