LUIS Suarez, a footballer, has bitten a fellow footballer.
The occasion was the World Cup match between Uruguay and Italy. Mr Suarez plays for the former, for whom he is a star who can do no wrong. When it was reported that he had bitten a fellow player yet again, the Uruguayans, displaying commendable loyalty, said he was the victim of an English media conspiracy. I agree. For the sports pages were full of the Suarez affair when normally they would have been given over to England's lamentable performance in Brazil.
As I write, Fifa, football's governing body, is considering whether to ban Mr Suarez for a few games or cut off one of his limbs. It will probably be the former. Were it up to me, I would offer two possible solutions. First, Mr Suarez could agree to check in to the vampiric equivalent of The Priory, where his affliction could receive sympathetic treatment. Alternatively, he could have all his teeth removed, thus ensuring that the most damage he could do to his opponents is with his feet.
MICHTY me! You might think that an organisation calling itself the Scottish Research Society might be worth listening to.
How wrong you would be. It was formed in May this year, ostensibly to commission research from boffins. In fact, it is a front for Unionists of a bampot tendency. Its latest intervention concerns Isis, which is making mayhem in Iraq and a number of whose members come from the UK. Indeed, one is an Aberdonian.
Should Isis turn its attention elsewhere, a "spokesman" for the SRS says an independent Scotia would be "very vulnerable" and "a classic 'sitting-duck'". The same anonymous twerp adds: "This is a very complex geo-political mess, and although it is not of Scotland's making [!!!!!], we are not in any way immune from its consequences." Expect to see more such guff from this source. Meanwhile, do consider voting No if this is the kind of company you'd like to keep.
CAN you believe it? I did not receive an invitation to Rebekah Bwooks's party to celebrate her great escape. Jeremy Clarkson was there. Whatever. Was Tony Bliar, I wonder? What a loyal chum he is. Watching the whole sorry story on Panorama was to be reminded of what an incestuous cesspit the metropolis is, a place where politicians, press and police are all part of a clandestine cabal. Whatever happened to the old adage, vis-a-vis the press and politics, first articulated by the late, great HL Mencken, that the proper relationship of a journalist to a politician is that of a dog to a lamppost?
Thoughts now turn to what Ms Bwooks will do next. A book has been mooted which, naturally, would morph into a film. A producer is keen. He told the Hollywood Reporter: "Her rise … is almost like Great Expectations … with a moral." Does that mean he thinks Great Expectations doesn't have a moral? Another thought is that Ms Bwooks could emigrate to Oz with her pornography-loving squeeze. There, she could edit one of Loopy Rupe's rags, the Bush Whacker, say, or the Daily Boomerang. What a great end to the movie that would make.
I hadn't realised until Queen Tupperware paid it a visit that Games Of Thrones was made in Northern Ireland. It all makes perfect sense now. With the Home Secretary acting as censor I watched a couple of series of GoT. It is, of course, utter tosh, with generous dollops of violence and pornography thrown in. Why the Auld Kirk has not risen in unison to voice its disapproval I know not. In one scene, two women played with each other while the chap who was the mayor in The Wire did his best to ignore them. A more blatant example of prurience I have yet to witness on the box.
In another scene, a chap who wanted to wear a golden crown was given one. The only problem was that the gold was molten. His demise was horrible in the extreme. Meanwhile, dragons emerge from orifices normally kept under wraps and blood spatters everywhere, as in an episode of Dexter. I do wonder whether Queen Tupperware was told what Game Of Thrones entails. Perhaps I do her an injustice. Maybe she is a devoted fan of it. It certainly casts the skulduggery in Downton Abbey into the shade.
THE Home Secretary bursts into the Ovoid Office eager to impart news. Apparently, a lorry has overturned in North Yorkshire spilling its load of instant mashed potatoes and turning a road into an ice rink. She refers me to a police statement in which a spokesman is quoted thus: "Instant mash is covering the road and cars have skidded as a result of the mash swelling up." What she expects me to do about this is unclear. After all, I am dealing with the kind of problems ordinary mortals never need to bother with in their miserable existences.
In the end, I agree to issue this statement: "Our thoughts and sympathy are with the people of Yorkshire in their hour of need. Should there be a short-term shortage of mash to accompany their bangers I will personally ensure that supplies are delivered to the needy toute de suite. In the meantime, I urge everyone to keep calm and carry on."
TO Bannockburn for the re-enactment of the fisticuffs. I have yet to be assigned my role. I assume Brucie is taken, likewise Eddie II, the sassenach bully. My preferred part is that of Alexander Seton who switched from the English side to the Scots, bringing with him information which may have been decisive.
He is much remembered in East Lothian, where his name is ubiquitous. For example, there is Seton Sands Caravan Park. By the by, Seton was also known as Lord Tranent, in which capacity he was an early honorary member of the Anent Preservation Society. Isn't history fascinating?
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