After the plague, I have returned to Neo, and have decided to go on an e-ramble, and hoping someone can take the time to comment or something, unlike my last man flu-induced take on life. There I am, blog-comment whoring, shamelessly, using commas alot. Wahey, there goes a full stop, very good. Very good indeed. Unlike Crewe when I travelled down to Whaddon Road to watch them, not helped by a pernickety spineless ref who disrupted rather than disciplined the game, although perhaps that aided our game more than Cheltenhams. Clever taking out our only attacking threat only on, knocking big Calvin cold right in front of us, the bastards. Dario should have put Donaldson on instead though, Popey and Miller were tackless. But hey ho that's the beauty of football for you. Unless your six points adrift at the bottom of the table.
No matter, a Burton scout watched me score a twenty-five yard volley after a dribble and orchestrate a load of passing movements. Hopefully I can do what I didn't at Soton, Everton and Crewe and make myself a pathway to a career, maybe. Hopefully, perhaps. If I can make it, I'll be chuffed, but I'm looking to far ahead maybe. I may not make it, and I don't expect to, and hopefully I'd be able to make a living somewhere else, maybe I could write or something, but hey, I'm using commas to much to be published by anyone other than myself, there's always hope. What a self-centred ramble that was, with almost no point from the point I swapped paragraph onwards. But hey.
You have to imagine this being spoken in a soft, charming Irish brogue. Apart from I don't have an Irish brogue, or a soft voice, although hopefully the twang of Merseyside would be considered charming by some. Not, however, through a faceful of mucus, which is the condition I've been under these past few days, from Sunday the day of rest, to this afternoon, where thankfully the manflu has lessened and I can now now breathe through my nose. I never realised how much of a blessing that was until I lost it, it's bloody impossible to try and sleep without either asphyxiating or being kept awake by your own breathing.
So due to being in a degraded, delapidated condition, I curled up on the couch, unable to blog. Did you see all those 'c's and 'd's? That's what I call artisanism, or possibly alliteration. Does anyone care or this just bloggishness coming through my mucus exterior, forcing it's way through the sludge to my fingers on the keyboard, through a load of complicated wires which are way above my humble knowing and onto a pixelated screen. Woop dee doo. That reminds me of how I once wondered about the morality of my particular pixels while playing a bloody battle on the wondrous game that is Rome: Total War. Those dotsof light couldn't give a green monkey's flying toss what happens to them or those they were animatronically hacking to the ground. God I love the freedom of writing without an aim, without the limitations bound by a paper article, or a story which is supposed to be going somewhere, or one of those bloody stupid school assignments where you were given so many constraints and a framework which was tried so hard to be left behind, given only the perfunctory nod and briefly alluded to in an effort to write something vaguely interesting not just for the reader to read, but for yourself.
Not as bad as those 'reading' essays they enforce. Odd place to start a paragraph, that. Anyway, I don't see the point in analysing pieces of writing, off reading in order to dissect, not enjoy. It sucks the joy out of the story, turns it from a tale into a terror. Hey, teacher, leave us kids alone! Sometimes I hate the education system, the way it turns what could be vaguely interesting into something belonging to a syllabus or a curriculum, a load of insomniable waffle. Insomniable, what a word, that deserves a place in the McKean hall of fame. And on that bombshell, goodnight. Or good morning, depending on which time zone you happen to be in at this point.
The foghorn sound of my snozzlers exploding once more erupts through the room. I have the plague, and I am dying. My throat is dry no more how much water is tossed down to it, my head aches no matter how many aspirins are taken, no matter how many walls it is banged against. And to top it all of my nose is rebelling and insisting on spurting a viscous, thick, green sludge out at high speed every minute or so. Little bastard. The very sound of my typing is disturbing by the occasional snot rocket and every tap of a button grinds another jigsaw of pain into my cranium. A growing bag of used tissues is at my feet, a loo roll at my side, as I lament at the current predicament I am in. Woe is me woe is me woe is me. The unending depression caused by my degraded position is made all the worse by the fact that this is a weekend. The only freetime I get, and I'm spending it bitching because I feel crap. Woopdedoo. Perfect for me to miss the game today.
Anyway, you probably don't want a self-pity ramble from me, so I'll try and direct my descriptive energies elsewhere, hohum. I could ramble about rambling in a ramblish kind of way. See? I suppose, I suppose, um, I typed that went away and lost my train of thought. Ah yes, I suppose I could talk about a game or something, extend my borders, reach out of the world of tissues and snot rockets. Good idea mate. Spot on. Right, so. Recently I downloaded the national association badges for Football Manager 08 (thanks to the lovely cgauld7) to replace the generic rounded flags, and they look good. They look really good, they give the game variation that looks good with the Flex skin and cut-out facepack. The game looks really really good. And so does my team. But after looking at the squad line-up in overview mode I saw that I had more Spaniards than Englishmen in my 2014 Liverpool squad. Seeing as I had attempted to roleplay Rafael Benitez in the game this didn't surprise me, but then I looked back at my past transfers, and I hadn't signed a player from an English club for three years, when I panic bought Matt Murray as a back-up keeper from Wolves. Wondering why, it was pretty easy to come to the conclusion that they were all overpriced bastards anyway, and my youth squad produced enough gems anyway. So I clicked on my youth squad, and my assistant rated my top five youngsters under eighteen, only one of them was English, one was Polish, one Scottish and the other two Irish. Bugger that, I really was a foreign outlet. All Liverpudlian youngsters though.
It was time to compare my English and Spanish players to try and observe any class difference, it was- Pepe Reina, Miguel Torres, Raul Albiol, Emilio Insua, Iago, Silva, Fernando Torres, Alfonso Guerrero (regen forward) and Antonio Barragan versus Jack Hobbs, Steven Gerrard, Paul Anderson, Adam Barnes (regen wonderkid), Justin Kelly (another good regen) and Daryl Fisher (regen who failed to live up to expectations). 9 v 6. Looking at that the standard was higher in the Spanish camp, but they were generally maturer players in their peak and internationals, while the English contingent had only two players between 22 and 30, the rest being either youngsters or older (Gerrard). It seemed that the Spaniard were generally better and first teamers, while the English ones would one day be, hopefully.
What a ramble, I probably lost a lot of readers with that, ho hum. You'd have to be dedicated to slave your way through that, and I will be gratified if you did. Muchos gracias, all of you. And I hope your not too bored out of your skull.
So here's me, ruffling through the weekly shopping. Having snaffled a pork pie as a starter, looking for some real nourishment to kick me off for the weekend, and I open a perfectly innocent bag, strewn on the kitchen floor and find some innofensive plastic wrappers, emblazoned with 'McVities Penguin Wafer Triple Chocolate'. My mind went into insta-bitch, thinking of how poor it was likely to be. It wasn't too bad when I think about it, although it had the familiar wafter texture of chocolate-wrapped disintegrating corrugated cardboard. Inevitably something I will never grow fond of. Unlike jaffa cakes, the addictive little bastards, in their tubular packets, waiting to be seperated from biscuit to orange stuff. When you take one you take another and once two are gone you have to finsih the pack to avoid feeling guilty. A vicious cycle but one that whoever makes jaffa's have perfected. Bless them. Still don't like penguin wafers, or wispa's actually, prefer the aero. Love mars bars and toffee crisps as well. Oh yeah. And them cookies you get from the co-op, with three choclate and the size of my eyes when I look at them. Hell yeah.
Looking back at that paragraph, it's full of early-morning spelling, which I hope is full of character and has a unique charm to drag readers from far and wide to this blog. This could just be wishful thinking, but I seem to be doing a good job in rambling so far, which I like to think is a great plus. Possibly. Hopefully. Or it may just be pork pie fuelled randomity, I need a drink. Wahey. Happy Saturday people. Random shit forever.
And candy canes and silver lights are go. Christmas adverts are already established on the TV sets of the nation, and love them or hate them, it is now only three days until the run-up begins with Advent and calendars are opened across the country. It is the festive season soon, a credit crunch Christmas as some jobber in the media will term it, with the usual shopping rush and midnight ambulance services. All it takes is a brief line of a Christmas advert to sprout that shit out of my mouth. Which is what blogging is all about I suppose. Probably.
Imparting knowledge to the younger generations should be another part of every educated human being's life. I arrived late to the bus this afternoon and whiled away the journey giving a bunch of 11 year olds a much needed education in order to raise awareness that the key to the rest of your life is in your trousers. It's refreshing, morally sound and probably a good deed, educating the masses, do it today.
Seeing as this blog has no rythm or flow so far I suppose I should try and implement some, like the finesse on a rake or the varnish on the rough farming implement, the lick of paint on a tractor. No clever turns of words, or nuance between each sentence, no subtle allegory of love through a chess board. Just a load of shit patted into squares and lumped below a picture of some bubbly, which seemed to have crept it's way into my 'My Pictures' folder somehow. My determination to head every blog entry with a picture from that depleted folder seems doomed already, and it may need replenishing at some point. Rambling, rambling, rambling, you can only every stop when your in mid-flow and realise what you're doing. There I go again. See? However, when blogging I assume you have to check yourself, realise you're doing the right thing, and carry on regardless. It really annoys me when my English teacher bangs on about how I shouldn't comma before an 'and', alright, if it's a list, but it has no flow, no substance, no subtle break between the rythm of a piece of writing. The comma is essential. You gotta believe me.
Marmite is the smell of pure raw animal sexuality. I wish I smelled of marmite. After my recent termination of a relationship, after several questions as to my sexuality by a girlfriend of six months and culminating in the immortal words 'YOU CLOTH-EARED BINT' I decided no more, no more would I be yet another pawn in a card game. No more. No freaking more. But the heart has once more proved itself the king, while I play the pawn. Enough with the crap similies and illusions to board games WHAT A FREEKICK BY BUCKTOOTH RONALDINHO!!!!!!! Play up Pompey anyway. Yeah, well.
So I find myself swinging from roundabouts and spinning on slides, looking for a strawberry in a mulberry bush, writting shit on a blog. Woo a blog, I said to myself, always wanted one myself. And now I have one and I'm writing about strawberries and roundabouts. About the half-eated kit-kat on toast that is my life. Sickly but wholesome I like to think.
Two paragraphs and not one mention of the Alex, I must be going good. Dario is not necessarily a positive, although I love him to bits, hes nearly 5,000,654,234,567 years old, maybe he should resign before his dies at a match? Better than Stevie Dutch anyway. Bring on Nigel Clough I say, maybe he can stop the freefall and give us a kick up the righteous bottom.