Innovative spyware targeting tech-illiterate Surrey householders has given Cull this gem…
Well excited this morning, Mourinho’s given us the day off after another victory and the latest Sony video camera came through. Not only that, the Burberry gold lame trackies I’ve had on order for months pitched up! It’s going to be a long day… Still feel good after giving that black cunt Hasselbank a kick in the face the other day; never liked him when he was at the Bridge – too much to say for ‘imself. I’m not no racist mind.
To kick it off my babe is making us all a roast – I spit in it earlier to remind her of the treatment she’ll be getting later – though no doubt we’ll all have been on the pop for a few hours plus. Lamps the Legend, Bridgey, Idle Eidur and Babz Babyaro (see!) are rocking up as usual. I’d ask Joey but he’s too unreliable, know what I mean. As CEO of the group I suggested inviting a few of the new boys along. The Portuguese lot don’t make the cut – seem to be happy with their coffee, those boys – so Cech the Czech and Duffy are in. Course Damian was here last year, but he was out of the game last year so couldn’t win my approval. Goes without saying that what with Chelsea’s door open to all and sundry these days it’s becoming increasingly difficult to get the kind of punter we’re after. Don’t know what Chopper would make of it! That said some of the girls wanted to get Drogba round...
Me old mate Sparksy is coming round with some goodies to keep us all up and ready for the main event. He’s a good lad. Once saved me from getting a slap from the West Byfleet lot. Wankers. That bloke’s sister was a slag and Sparksy knew it. He works on the door of that Chinki sounding club in my boy’s manor, Epsom – Po Po Fuck Fuck or summink. Jodie got him the job after a rumble with the bloke who owns it. The cunt would’ve lost an eye if he hadn’t given Sparksy the job. Jodie bit half his chin off anyway: the Morris man is another Legend.
Just strawpedoed my first WKD of the day, shaved a bit of my eyebrow off and checked the camera (can’t get the fucker to work – I’m taking it back and getting a new one for nuffink). The gimp mask prize goes to those who can get their female moaning the most. If things don’t work out as they should I’m taking my dog out in the SUV – there’s always some action in the suburbs on a Sunday. I spoke to Stan about it before he went on that reality farm but he’s got no class; just goes straight up to birds and feels their tits. Disgusting.
Get spanking – the JT
http://www.cinestatic.com/whorecull/issue4/football.asp
Check the attendances of most premiershit clubs this year, attendances are down on the usual. Below capacity, the shiny seats of our gleaming new minimal footy theatres betray a growing lack of interest. The only slavish devotees are at the Barcodes and Man U (who want to ensure competitive advantage by going to 75,000: no problem, there’s always going to be coachloads of fans ready to support them). It’s time to get less diehard, less precious about the Beautiful Game®©. Football and the wider popular culture it reflects are in parlous states.
Some are at last beginning to realise that it is way too expensive. Ration the games out. Part of this is encouraging, as in our 12th season of the football balloon inflated beyond safety by our friends in Isleworth (our 12th season of Richard Keye’s gorilla hair and Andy Gray’s stat-attacks), the Game With Total Coverage needs a reality check. Too Much Hysteria; check the outrage - from the media that is, not the fans - when Beckham and co declined to be interviewed after the Poland game.
Andy Townsend is Back
In our so-much-of-everything world football’s also far too much in our faces. Sky and co in their saturation coverage are not only feeding this ultramediation of the game, but undermining and undercutting its raison d’etre, the match and the cultures round it. Look at the new satellite offering: it has comprehensive round-ups of every prem game a few hours after their playing at the touch of an interactive button. Within weeks you could have a decent dvd’s worth of professional edits built up that way exceeds your fractious memory of the game. Better than getting an ST.
The vast majority of football fans’ knowledge of the game is fed through these Mrdch organs: Sky and The Sun. From these the watercooler talkbacks are generated. To me hearing about Everton fans’ first song at Eastlands on Saturday, ‘Rooney is a Munich’, tells me a lot more about football than the fact that, I dunno, Matty Holland is the division’s most consistent passer. All this ‘how did your boys get on’ language and first names for the players - I don’t play for the team, but they’re lines in tune with our consumer democracy, suggesting that we somehow have a stake in the team’s development when we actually have no influence at all.
{The young men want bloody shooting - Brian Clough RIP}
Any trip from Buenos Aires via southern Argentine Pampas, to Patagonia, up through Valparaiso and into Andean mountain ranges, pausing for reflection at Macchu Picchu, then down into Lima and by boat into Amazon territory, on the Colombia/Peru borders, would bound to have an effect on your outlook on life – as long as you’re not some western tourist trekking for “been there done that” photo opportunities.
Walter Salles’ film of the pre-revolutionary Che Guevara (then 23-year-old Ernesto Guevara de la Serna) and biochemist Alberto Granado’s voyage of discovery round South America is beautifully shot, with great (subtitled) dialogue and an abundance of poignant moments. Chief among these are when Ernesto breaks with protocol and shakes the hands of the lepers; then El Loco swims the Amazon to the southern side of the colony, where the lepers reside, because that’s where he wants to spend his birthday; and when in the last moments they cut to the real-life Granado (still resident in Havana) reflecting on their odyssey some five decades earlier.
As the film site suggests, the film does more to “humanize the myth” than offer a deep insight into Che’s slow dawning realization of the importance of pan-Latin American unity and revolution. We learn that, like Liam Gallagher, he didn’t like to dance. But we don’t get an insight into how much the young doctor knew in early 50s Buenos Aires, and not much on the key texts stirring him to activism. Yet with such stunning scenery prevalent the film necessarily emphasizes that sights and sounds can do much to awaken awareness as words on a page.
For stirring the soul and a portrayal of the importance of pan-Latin American unity while resisting big business in thrall to the interests of the north, a development we are beginning to see, this is a good film.
