God Hates God

Dear Football (Soccer, to the Yanks),

I’ve been attempting to write missives of wit and satire for well over an hour - but football is on the telly. Football is Immodium of the brain, drawing to a halt all synapses, save the one that makes men go “WaaAAArRRRararagh!” whenever some granny-fucking teenager fails to do what he’s paid grotesque amounts of money to practice day-in and day-out - get ball A from point B to point C without hitting terrace D.

And there’s another thing. I managed to walk in a straight line today without 1) falling into traffic 2) perambulating backwards or 3) cartwheeling down Wycombe End - all without international coaching, Star Trek style medical teams or obscene quantities of Nandrolone, so where’s my Banana Republic GDP salary and/or roasting spread in The News of The World? Congratulations! You managed not to fuck up for 10 seconds our of 90 minutes and that makes you a hero! Where I work that would make you very very fired.

But it’s not the game that I dislike with some fervour and gesticulation, it’s the post-match fucking analysis - no, let me narrow that down - it is DJ Spoony.

For those of you across the pond, let me explain; DJ Spoony has done but two things with his life -1) made shite music and 2) presented the ‘606 Phone-in Show’ on BBC Radio 5 Live. Yes, that’s 606, presumably the devil threatened to sue for defamation if they made the middle digit ‘6’ as well.

Let me explain my home to you, dear readers, I have 8 radios in my house. One of them is tuned to Five Live, and so are the other fucking 7. I only have 5 rooms, which means that after any given football match, I not only have to listen to DJ Spoony’s phone-on, but I also have to have it beamed at my head at every conceivable angle. Somewhat like a firing squad, only less pleasant.

Here’s a brief rundown of your average 606 phone-in:

Kevin from Bolton phones in.

“Innit,” says Spoony. “Keven, innit, yeah?”
“Gutted.” says Kevin.
“Innit,” says Spoony.”
“Innit,” says Kevin.
“Yeah,” says Spoony.

Wayne from Liverpool phones in.

“Gutted,” says Wayne.
“Gutted?” says Spoony.
“Innit,” says Wayne.

Sheila from Bognor Regis phone is.

“Innit,” says Sheila.
“Inni,” says Spoony. “Gutted?”
“4-7-5-3-1,” says Sheila.
“Innit?” says Spoony. “2-8-4-3-pi.”
“9-1-2-fish-piss,” says Kevin.
“You still there?” says Spoony.

“Innit,” says Kevin.

And round and round and round we go, in this, the precious time before sleep which should be spent listening to balanced BBC political commentary and ingesting enough nicotine to last me throughout the night. This endless droning, like bees without the purpose or the organization, is what passes for football discussion - and worse yet, as entertainment for which DJ Spoony gets paid by the good, clean TV license paying British public.

This is the time after the match when the synapses start kicking in, when the “WaarRRrRrrargh”s are turned into nonsensical mutterings. Like a child learning to speak, it is all nonsensical shite, “Sven, mee-maw, pee-pee, offside, innit,” and actual proper cursive talking is best left to the adults.

Fuck off back to your drum machine, Spoony,

Munky

Dear New Jobs,

The first day at a new job is mortally terrifying, a bit like having Leatherface lean over you with a brains and sternum encrusted chainsaw, only to find that your knees have fallen off and you haven’t yet finished your yummy sandwich. Only Leatherface is your new boss, the chainsaw is his bright-eyed expectation of you and the other bit of that shit analogy is the realisation that you are wearing a transparent dress and you’ve got a deadly case of the squits.

And from that naughty inadvertent peepshow, triple office flush (complete with de-strinking arm windmill exercise) and the additional wholesale misplacement of personality, your co-workers form an instant option of you, and it is, without fail, a wholly unfair negative one.

It generally contains the words “dotty whore, “fucking princess” and “shit machine“, and for the next several weeks, you try your damndest to eradicate false first impressions and establish yourself as a ‘nice girl’ - as ‘one of the gang’. You drink with ‘the gang’, buy drinks for ‘the gang’, pretend you know all of ‘the gang’s’ names (or, for that matter, give a fuck) and fetch bucketloads of tea for ‘the gang’. You work hard, smile for absolutely no fucking reason and finally, their incorrect opinions of you wither away in a tea and smiling haze.

And then you mutter the dreaded ‘cunt’ word, arrive to a client meeting with a pubic hair stuck to your jumper, tell the resident thick-o that she’s ‘one chromosome from lawn furniture’, kindly explain to your superior that he shouldn’t ask you questions, as he’s so full of shit, he might as well be a motorway toilet and - worst of all - eat the last biscuit.

And from there, the new job teething is over. You’ve broken the biscuit rule, given the boss an stellar view of your arse crack, offended all within earshot, shown your impatience with co-workers, wafted poo stink around the office, shouted like a teenage council estate mum and established yourself as the opinionated cow you really are.

Congratulations. Your work is over. You’ve ensured that you’ll always jump to the front of the toilet queue, nobody will bother you with stupid fucking questions, the men hang on every word you say, you’ll never have to attend unnecessary boring meetings and the biscuit supply has never been more plentiful.

Relax and enjoy the kingdom you’ve created.

To all the nice people I now consider to be friends; I adore you,

Munky

P.S. I am very much kidding. Except for the poo and slinky dress thing. And the impatience.and the me being a bitch thing. Obviously. And not only did I eat the last biscuit, I ate allllllllllll the fucking biscuits, but shhhh. My co-workers don’t know that I am the biscuit whore.

I really like my new job, which is why I’ve been gone for so long. Instead of writing and complaining in my spare time, I sit around smugly, walk my dog in the countryside and drink lots and lots of beers in very very old pubs.