At last. For the good of the Premier League it was imperative that somebody other than Manchester United won the title this season as there is only so long you can keep interest going in a league that only one club wins (witness Donegal Celtic struggling to break three figures in their crowds in a competition that Linfield have won six times out of seven). After all if the same club wins every year what is the incentive for people who don't support that club to bother? Variety is the spice of life and Manchester City's win is still new enough to be welcome. So let's review.

( Premiership 2011-12 Club by Club )

A satisfying finish all round for the most part. Nice one, City.

The Premier League is still to finish so I will deal with it as and when but I made my predictions at the start of the season so now that it is over I should loo at how close I was. So read on (which you won't) or off you go (which you will). My predictions are the table on the left, the real ones are those to the right.

( hit it, guys )

So that's that then. Still the Premier League to go with Albion in with a shout of claiming a highly creditable tenth place as a great way to sign off before next season's relegation and I'm sure all right-thinking individuals will join me in hoping that Mancini can finally knock Ferguson off his perch and deliver the title to Eastlands. So come on City (until we all get sick of your dominance and sudden influx of glory hunters and start hating you as well in a few years).

When Combat 18 leader Charlie Sargent was sent down for murdering fellow Nazi Chris Castle The Sun, a newspaper that would never incite ethnic hatred with its occasional dalliances with extreme right rhetoric, rejoiced in the comeuppance of the vile bonehead with the headline "the end of the road for the five foot toad". Whilst he may be slightly more than five feet tall (just about anyway) there is nevertheless no doubt that he is a crapaud (with emphasis on the first syllable) so I'm glad to hear the end of the road has arrived for the shrivelled monkey skeleton that is Nicolas Sarkozy. What an odious little man he has been, strutting about with his colossal plastic wife, laying down the law and taking offence wherever he could. If anybody summed up small man syndrome it was M. de Nagy-Bocsa and whilst fellow dwarf Silvio Berlusconi was equally reprehensible he was at least, one would hope, aware of how ludicrous he appeared but carried on regardless. Sarkozy on the other hand seemed to take himself ridiculously seriously, seeking to portraying himself as a grand statesman on the world stage, all the while appearing like Casey Kasem's uglier, drunker brother. If I never see him or that bloody Bruni woman and her botox-numbed face again it will be too soon.

I don't for a second imagine Francois Hollande will be anything special as President, given that supposedly left-wing candidates elected to the leadership of countries run on the liberal democratic model always end up being compromising sell-outs (with the notable exception of Salvador Allende). However he is not Sarkozy and as such he will make a bloody welcome change, bringing as he does an end to one of the most shameful episodes in the history of La République.

One of the greatest philosophers of our age Laurie Pike, a woman caught between the two stools of being the thinking man's Katie Puckrik and the non-thinking man's Karen Krizanovich, once spoke one of the greatest truths of our age when she opined "you cannot push your luck, otherwise click hello goodbye". Were the ginger American giantess (who may have actually been Canadian and not tall) here today she could deliver those self-same words to Edward Samuel Miliband and be right on the money for these local elections that are happening everywhere (except Northern Ireland where we seem to elect our councillors once every 87 years for some reason) are put up or shut up time for a man who has been pushing his luck for a little too long now. A government that has set about decimating public services, plunged tens of thousands of people into poverty, attacked the most vulnerable in order to bolster the richest and demanded more in return for less from the masses is a government that should be taking an absolute kicking at the local elections. Quite frankly anything less than a huge swing to Labour will have to be seen as a failure for them and must surely spell an end to the stuttering, sweaty, charisma-free interlude of Milibandery. Or as Pike would say "click hello goodbye".

For my part anything other than a bloody good hiding for the Tories will be hugely depressing and a clear indication of the selfishness of the English in happily backing a party that is going out of its way to make life miserable for so many. On the other hand anything other than a hiding fro the Liberal Democrats will be an absolute bloody miracle as I am mystified as to why anyone would vote for them right now. After all if you are the selfish type who thinks this malevolent government is somehow doing good then why would you vote the monkeys rather than the organ grinders? Alternatively if you think the government is the great pile of steaming mince it so obviously is then voting for the junior partner is out the window. Frankly I'm amazed that they'll get any seats as I had been led to believe lunatics weren't allowed to vote but there you have it.

Of course it all remains to be seen how it will pan out but the vultures must be sharpening their talons just a little bit lest the prophecies of Pike finally catch up with Miliband. Rout the Tories royally or agitate the gravel and make way for Dennis Skinner.

I was perusing the fine website of that august journal the Ballymena Times recently (your one stop shop for Raceview results, Orange Order investitures and heroin prices) but I was forced to leave in abject shock. The reason, nobody asks? I found myself in agreement with the malevolent Ian Paisley junior. Baron Bannside's wee lad may have built his political career solely on being Baron Bannside's wee lad but he is spot on about this latest round on "consultation" (for which read "we are going to do it no matter what") on yet more draconian laws against smoking. Although the days when I enjoyed my beloved nicotine are sadly over (daddy still misses you, sweet fegs) I have eschewed the John Reid path of becoming an anti-smoker just because I choose to deny myself the pleasure of wonderful tobacco. However as an ex-smoker I do know that one thing that never ever made me want to smoke was the pretty colours on the packet. Do the law makers think smokers are magpies or something that they would actually decide not to smoke because the box was a bit dull? Good Lord, you could have wrapped my fegs in brown paper with the words "this paper was previously wrapped round used syringes and shite" and I would still have happily bought twenty of them so who this is aimed at, other than counterfeiters, is lost on me. Enough is enough. The medical profession has got its way with the smoking ban and the constant tax increases, it's time for these unelected moaning minnies to stop dictating the policy of every successive government. Besides with all this "pension timebomb" crap we keep hearing about is it not time for governments to stop discouraging things that lead to early death? Either way, well done Little P - you may be a spoilt arsehole and the very epitome of nepotism but you've nailed this one dead on.

Oh buggery bollocks, sweetie! All of a sudden it seems inevitable that the best manager at the Hawthorns since Ron Atkinson did one in 1981 (ignore his forgettable second spell) is about to hit the road himself to take over bloody England. Bloody great! Just as I was looking gleefully at the collapse of Villa and the stuttering form of Stoke, with one eye on a top Midlands club finish, when out of nowhere the rug is pulled out from under us royally by the FA and their sudden decision that a cockney villain might not be the best choice to lead the Three Lions. Pish!

For Hodgson's part I'm not sure what he is going to get from it (apart from silly money, of course). Although he has a proven track record of achieving remarkable results with limited teams (you know, like the England squad) he seems to be loathed by many before he has even started, based on the notion that unlike Redknapp he has never won the FA Cup and he has no reputation for spending big in the transfer market (you know, the thing that doesn't exist in international football). Already it looks like he is on a bigger hiding to nothing than he was at Liverheil and he can prepare for streams of bile to flow forth from the measured doyens of the gutter press, all of whom worship the ground Redknapp walks on for some reason.

As for Albion if previous appointments are anything to go by then a manger who plays suicidal attacking football at a lower level and who will inevitably get the club relegated, albeit whilst looking pretty, is sure to follow. Ian Holloway it is then. Not only can we look forward to relegation next season but also some self-important, whining redneck taking every opportunity he gets to present himself as a "character". Grim times ahead. For God's sake Woy say no!

Acting on the advice of a recent poster campaign I decided to pay a visit to the Belfast's "4th Annual Anarchist Book Fair" today. Pretty disappointing all things considered, as I really don't count two half-empty tables, one containing only leaflets and pamphlets, as a book fair. For me that's simply a room with a couple of books in it. Not only that but the prices were far too rich for my blood, leaning decidedly towards the capitalist rather than the anarchist end of things. Nothing took my fancy in the end and I resisted the temptation to join some "workshop" in which a bunch of scruffs sat around trying to convince each other that because everything is now run on co-operative models (news to me) we are mere weeks away from true anarchy. OK. I'm no anarchist as you all know but I have no beef with them as they are nice, hope-filled dreamers but they really do need to get a little bit of irony about what they do because for the brief spell I spent at their book fair I felt like I was in a bad 20th Century Coyote sketch.

So I left empty-handed but luckily it was still early and this being the last day of the Irish League season I decided to pay another visit to Donegal Celtic, reasoning that I had yet to see their opponents Carrick Rangers in action and with their relegation imminent I might not get another chance to see them any time soon (and obviously only a fool or a madman omits seeing Carrick Gers in the flesh from his bucket list). My initial intention had been to walk the full distance but time beat me and by the time I reached the Kennedy Centre on the Upper Falls I was forced to surrender and hail one of those black taxis that link the western inner city with the sink estates that form the meat in the sandwich between Belfast and Lisburn. A Twinbrook taxi meant being left near the fortress that is Woodbourne RUC barracks PSNI lovely place and a run up the Suffolk Road itself but I made it in plenty of time to see the soi disant Amber Army make their entrance. I did a quick headcount from the home stand from which I estimate forty hardy souls made the trip from John de Courcy's old stamping ground (not to mention their Lisburn supporters club, which appeared to have one member) to the wilds of Glengoland so it was more like the Amber Platoon rather than an army. Mind you the home support was hardly overwhelming and all things considered I reckon if the gate broke three figures it wasn't by much. It's all glamour at the Irish League.

To the credit of the Platoon it must be said that they were in good voice from start to finish despite the fact that this was their last game in the top division before being dispatched to the even more glamorous environs of Coagh, Castlederg and Tobermore. Initially hate-filled, telling us that they hated "Portadown, Linfield ... Cliftonville too (they're shit) ... [and] Ballyclare Comrades [nothing like a bit of East Antrim provincialism]", they soon fell back on an interminable rendition of "when the Gers go marching in" before dusting off a rather inventive take on the "Blaydon Races", with lyrics rewritten to apply to Carrickfergus. As to the match itself, anybody who hadn't seen these two for the first time would be surprised to hear that Carrick were the team on their way down and DC were the comfortable in mid-table side thirteen points (at kick off) above them. Carrick were a bustling, busy side of battlers whose vocal fans will probably be asking themselves why their team didn't manage to play like this all season as, with the exception of a sweetly-struck free kick from Paul McVeigh for the home side, Carrick were on top throughout the first half and were unlucky not to go in at half-time with a bigger lead than 3-1. Somewhat surprisingly given Carrick's associations with loyalism and DC's republican identity the Amber Platoon were permitted into the home stand at half time to get their grub and even more surprisingly there was not even a hint of trouble. Indeed the whole thing was amazingly good natured, with the home support, a resolutely non-singing bunch who generally only puncture the silence with yelled expletives, rather taking to the sing-song East Antrim lot and rather enjoying their enthusiasm.

The second half was a rather more even affair, albeit with Carrick still on top, and it was frequently end-to-end stuff with the frankly ludicrous final score of DC 3 Carrick 5 establishing a new personal record for the highest-scoring match I have ever attended. What had started as a balmy enough spring afternoon had, by the second half given way to a sudden outbreak of bitter cold, not helped by the Suffolk Road's mountainous location and even a notorious cheapskate like me was forced to give up the ghost and splurge some of my coppers on a cup of tea, the first in at least a year for various reasons. By the time the madness ended it all became ridiculously polite as the DC supporters lined up to applaud the half-appreciative, half-embarrassed Carrick Rangers victors off the pitch in a rather touching gesture of sportsmanship and the Carrick supporters were brought back to the home stand to board their coach which had been parked behind it beside the social club. Everything was so nice that even as I waited at the Suffolk Road bus stop after the match and the Carrick supporters bus drove slowly past not only did nobody give me the finger or make a tosser gesture but a couple of them even gave a polite wave as if to say "hope to be back here the season after next". As football matches go this was practically a love-in at times.

So all in all jolly good fun in the end, despite the anarchist book fair being a bit of a washout. The standards of the Irish League are unquestionably woeful but it is rough and ready fun and it was a pleasant surprise to be able to watch Celtic and Rangers playing each other without all Hell breaking loose. Good luck to Carrick Rangers for next season as they are a good-humoured crew of roustabouts whilst for my part I will look forward to renewing my acquaintance with Suffolk Road in the autumn.

I'm not sure what is worse about today - finding out that yet again France has gone over to the far-right by tossing a shitload of votes at daddy's little girl (and I swear I will scream if I read one more ill-informed right-wing Anglophone tosser practically ejeculating over how great and totally non-racist she is) or finding yourself agreeing with the malevolent Nadine Dorries for the first and, hopefully, only time. God my head hurts.

I have spent the last few Sundays indulging in a spot of what might be called (at a push) excavation. Where I live suffers from a touch of damp and, based on no evidence whatsoever, I decided that the piled-up soil and greenery surrounding my place must be causing it and so it had to be removed. I am not by nature a gardener, finding it to be a tedious chore like all manual work, and as such clearing gutters, cutting down bits of tree and bagging up sacks of soil, humus (and quite possibly hummus as well) and generic waste holds little joy for me. Nonetheless I was eager to crack on and finish the blasted thing but unfortunately today's plans have rather gone for a Burton due to a combination of an outbreak of wooziness and bits of rain that have turned the soil from sod into a right awkward sod. It may yet be that I have a stab at doing a little bit but the grey sky suggests that an afternoon of removing old pieces of fireplace grate and vintage Tudor Crisps packets (do they even exist any more?) will have to be shelved until next week. And after I went to the Shankill and got proper garden waste sacks and all.

It's not always obvious from pictures, or even in person to be honest, but as a result of an accident with a glass door when I was learning to walk I am technically part of the facially disfigured minority. I'm no King Curtis Iaukea by any stretch of the imagination but there are at least two slices on my forehead. One of them is hardly noticeable due to age, as it has been more or less subsumed by a worry line, whilst the other is smaller but it is a straight up and down one and thus is not hidden by wrinkles. A third is slowly but surely emerging as the irresistible march of baldness continues to lay waste to my hairline. For whatever reason they all become more prominent in hot weather when the skin around them swells slightly and makes them appear that little bit deeper.

As I say they're nothing major at all but certainly they do contribute to people making judgements upon you. People are conditioned to see facial scars as a mark of danger and aggression and assume that the only way you can get them is from violence. Of course there are times when something giving you a bit of menace is a distinct advantage but there are other times when you are being perfectly nice and people still assume you are malevolent simply because of wounds you suffered years ago not healing properly. Nobody looks at a person with a missing fingertip or a limp or a gammy eye and thinks "what a bastard" but to some the very dint of having a facial scar makes one a dodgy son of a gun who you wouldn't want to bother with.

As such I am happy to big up the newly launched campaign against the portrayal of my deformed brethren in the cinema by Changing Faces. The stereotyping of the facially disfigured as evil by Hollywood is a tired cliché that reinforces negative assumptions about a group of people that have already suffered injury. Plenty of us hacked-up freaks are perfectly reasonable and nice human beings and there are plenty of bad slags out there amongst the perfectly visaged majority. Call off your tired old stereotypes and recognise my kind for the valuable contributions we make to society. Give me Gary Moore over Frank Iero any day of the week!

I've kept my counsel on the whole Trayvon Martin issue for a number of reasons, but the main ones being (a) it's one of those issues that the dogs on the street probably already know my opinions on so I have no need to waste a bunch of words; and (b) I try to not to write about American news on here as, to be honest, I reckon it already gets an inordinate amount of coverage in this part of the world as it is. However one thing about the coverage did catch my eye, specifically from those doyens of good taste at Fox News. And I thought the Simpsons were exaggerating about them for comedic effect.



"Civil rights group...the National Socialist Movement". Oh God. I knew they were right wing but an unashamedly neo-Nazi organisation that happily flies the swastika gets characterised as a civil rights group by a major news outlet. I know the Daily Star gives positive coverage to the mouth-breathers that make up the English Defence League but this is tantamount to ITN calling the November 9th Society a civil rights group. The story was quickly taken down after publication but the fact that this appeared in the first place is one of the most frightening things I have heard in ages.

I knew it was coming of course. Whenever I find myself extracting moustache hair from my mouth it is always a sign that it is coming, especially when the beast was just recently trimmed. So it's no surprise that I am sitting here feeling like a washed-out dishrag. Quite what is wrong with me I'm not sure but I'm running a temperature, I feel like throwing up, my knees are trembling, my head is reeling, my insomnia is rampant (to the point where I got around half an hour's sleep last night all in) and I'm freezing cold and yet dripping with sweat. I rather thought that I had gotten away with murder this winter in terms of flus and bugs so obviously my lousy immune system was just holding off to the spring before hitting me with the big one. To bed would be the sensible recourse but, as is often the case with me, the jitters has me as well, meaning that I would be thrashing about too much for it to do any good. Looks like I'll have to tough this one out on the sofa. Bloody spring lurgy.

Still I suppose I should look on the bright side really shouldn't I? At least Albion have a chance to finally confirm their survival tonight with a nice easy game against struggling Manchester City. Given that they've taken two points from their last three games and in the process meekly handed the title over to their cross-town neighbours (was there ever really any doubt that United would win, even when City were a trillion points clear or whatever it was) they should be easier to beat than a suspect in shackles. So fingers crossed for a nice 2-1 win or if, as is often the case, the hallucinations arrive, a nice 1,368-259 win. 5-0 to City is it then.

You know those double CDs you get sometimes? That's right, the ones where there is a CD on top as normal and then another one underneath that you have to lift part of the box to get at. Well, they're another thing that needs a law of standardisation put in place. Either hinge them at the spine or hinge them at the opening but stop this take your pick. How many times do you find yourself struggling to lift at the spine, even cracking the box, only to discover that it is one of those that opens from the other side? Just me then. No, I think we've all done that and I think we can all agree that it is a pointless choice, every bit as annoying as Colin Murray, shoe shops or people who say things like "should of" and "damp squid". CD case manufacturers get your heads together, decide on one side or the other and stick to it. Thank you.

I could add further ire about the skin-tight plastic that they insist on wrapping the cases in but that would inspire more anger than my fragile biosystem could cope with in one day so I'll leave it there. Goodnight each.

Hai guise. Long time no speak and all that. Little to report admittedly and little to get my vitriol rising these last days, hence the self-imposed period of silence. Still nothing to speak about really so in lieu of any actual content please enjoy this picture of a squirrel taken by my own fair hand this very day (well, technically yesterday I suppose). His name is Duncan and he lives in the Falls Park so if you ever find yourself there remember you are on his turf so give him the respect he deserves or he'll gnaw your face good.

There was a time I enjoyed April Fools Day (at least I think there might have been) but it has become such a drag due to the sheer overkill of it all. Lying stories by media outlets have become so ubiquitous now on this day that I find myself doubting absolutely everything. OK so some are obvious, not least the Guardian's effort (like Shaun Ryder could have associated himself with David Cameron and ever shown his face round Manc again, unless he actually wanted his melon twisted for real), but so much that you read and hear has a grain of doubt to it that you find yourself questioning it all, afraid to look foolish lest it turns out to be some overpaid hack having a terribly original joke at the expense of the worthless plebs. Sure, I'm absolutely disgusted at the complete hypocrisy of the Conservatives and especially the Liberal Democrats but is it worth getting too worked about in case Chris Huhne pops up tomorrow to say "just kidding"?

Let's face it, like everything else, April Fools Day has become too contrived, too expected, too bloody commercial. The days when people genuinely got away with elaborate hoaxes like the spaghetti tree are over because, quite frankly, the whole format has had the arse torn out of it. In this digital age can they not just set in place filters to allow buzz-kills like myself to banish all this crap from our screens as quite frankly I'm not even convinced Falkirk actually won the Challenge Cup much less anything important. Bloody nuisance.

I know that I am in a minority of one here as every single one of you that has an interest in this sort of thing has moaned in my direction in the past, setting out your reasons for hating the man. But when have I ever been moved by any argument presented to me in my life, no matter how well constructed? As such I greet the news that George Galloway has won Bradford West with a sense of pleasure. Yes, he's a self-publicist, yes, he made an absolute fool of himself in a catsuit with Rula Lenska, yes, he never turns up anyway, yes any other thing you want to throw at him but more power to him for proving that a dissenting voice can still make the breakthrough in the right circumstances. All due respect to Caroline Lucas, who has been a pleasant surprise, but as the only real opposition MP in Parliament she has been a little too mousey and a firebrand bucketmouth who knows how to play the media game is needed too, the very qualities Galloway brings to the table. Of course if Danny Morrison still had a say in Sinn Fein he would have been back as West Belfast MP when Gerry Adams pissed off but the days of Morrison calling the shots are long gone unfortunately.

The vote is also another one in the eye for the execrable Ed Miliband and his woeful spell as leader of the Labour Party. Leading opposition to a cuts happy government forcing millions into poverty on the one hand whilst dealing out tax cuts to the super rich on the other should be a piece of piss by Miliband has still somehow managed to fall behind in the polls. When he should be going for Cameron's jugular he instead sits there pouting with his puppy dog eyes, looking like some reject from Twilight, failing miserably to make any impact. If Galloway's victory forces this fool out and forces the Labour Party into actually positioning itself as a proper opposition rather than a group of background whiners then so much the better.

Still, either way welcome back Gorgeous George. No matter what they say I'm glad you're back.

Today we mourn a legend - the great Earl Scruggs has died. For me Flatt and Scruggs were rivalled only by Bill Monroe in terms of being synonymous with bluegrass and given that Lester Flatt and Bill Monroe are both long gone Earl Scruggs' death really does mark the end of an era. These were the boys who took the old timey template laid out by the likes of Uncle Dave Macon and Earl Johnson and turned it into the bluegrass we all know, love and hate to see Steve Martin pissing on so I'm sorry to see the old legend go. Play that banjo, son.

Good Lord but it was hotter than Haifa Wehbe herself today. Monday was hot enough to begin with, yesterday I was able to shelter from the worst of it by decamping to the frozen north and ensconcing myself in the frigid environs of Ballymena but today? Sheesh. This is still supposed to be March, isn't it? Already I've heard the quip "this is our summer", said with a slight sense of bitter regret. Well, I hope they're right as if this is only the beginning and we still have about four months of rising temperatures I rather suspect it will be a race to see whether a heart attack or skin cancer claims me first. Given that the buzzy flying things are already gathering around that nuisance tree at the back of my house the dread at hot weather and infestation is inevitably rising in me. Jack Frost get back here now, your work is not done yet. "Good" weather - you can bloody well keep it.

Despite living in Belfast (not sure if I've mentioned that I live there yet, but now you know) and being nominally a Cliftonville supporter (I was a regular around 1996-98) it has been several years since I put in an appearance at an Irish League ground. Today however, on a whim rather than anything else, I finally broke my duck. It hadn't been my intention as such but the others are out of town, I woke up rather early for a Saturday and it was much too fine a spring day to lounge around watching Jeff Stelling so I opted to get back to the match. I was faced with a straight choice between Crusaders-Carrick Rangers, Glentoran-Ballymena or Donegal Celtic-Cliftonville, the only three games in Belfast today. Glentoran-Ballymena was rejected immediately as they are far too loyalist and their ground is too hard to reach if you don't know all the back-streets round the Oval like the back of your hand (which I don't). My previously mentioned loyalty to the Reds meant that spending an afternoon with the Crues was hardly desirable and, although Seaview is easy to reach, their loyalism tipped the balance in favour of the Fenian derby.

Donegal Celtic Park is a good seven miles away from me and the club are recent additions to the Irish League scene so as a result I had not been there before and indeed had never actually set foot on the Suffolk Road in my life. Still luckily the bus goes straight past it, although keeping an eye out for the stop in the wilds of the west had me somewhat on tenterhooks. Despite my Red allegiances I ended up taking my place amongst the home support at the stadium. Well I say stadium for, whilst admittedly Donegal Celtic Park does have a rather picturesque location in the mountains, it is stretching credibility a bit to call it a stadium. The part I was in consisted of about a third of a stand, with two much smaller bits of seating whilst facing that was another third of a stand with a big walkway leading off the Suffolk Road. Behind both goals was a grass verge with no stands whatsoever. Spit and sawdust doesn't do it justice.

The action, such as there was, was pretty ropey too. Cliftonville were clearly the better team and had the upper hand for most of the match, apart from a brief period before half-time when DC got a head of steam going. DC played pretty defensively but neither team was any great shakes with stray passes being hit left right and centre, not helped by a very poor pitch, and the game getting a bit niggly (well, between the teams it was, the supporters, being all Fenians, mixed freely as they saw fit and at least one Cliftonville supporter spent the whole match in the DC stand). Martin Donnelly, a rare Northern Ireland international in the Irish League, was by some distance the Reds best player whilst Liam Boyce also looked a cut above the rest during an off-the bench cameo. Mention must also go to two Cliftonville players by the name of Scannell, with the mumblenews doing the announcements informing us that Cliftonville featured "number fee, Ronan Scallion". For DC the main player was Ryan Henderson, invariably referred to by the supporters as "Hendo" and clearly the blue-eyed boy amongst the watching dozens of the Upper Falls. However the mob of little girls to my left, apparently part of the Donegal Celtic ladies youth teams, only had eyes for Darren Murray, a strapping spide who huffed and puffed to little effect in attack and had his name shrieked for the entirety of the match by said little madams, apart from when they were going round with the buckets fundraising. In Gerard McVeigh meanwhile DC were cursed with a calamity keeper who from the word go was flapping at crosses and straying out of position. In his defence he made one good save in the first half and he couldn't do very much for Ciaran Caldwell's Cliftonville opener not long after half-time but the Reds second goal was laughable with Boyce hitting the post, the ball hitting McVeigh and going in the net to howls of derision. The announcer charitably told those of us in attendance that the goal had been scored by Liam Boyce but if that doesn't get given as a McVeigh own goal then I'm a Dutchman (which I am partly, but never mind). In the end a 2-0 win for Cliftonville was more than justified and if anything DC, who are anonymous in mid-table unlike Cliftonville who are chasing a European place having only very recently dropped out of the title picture, were lucky to get away without a bigger hiding.

Either way though it was good to get back to the blood and thunder of the Irish League after all these years. Despite being a dundering-in and despite being nowhere near me DC Park provided a grand old way to spend a fine Spring Saturday. I may well have to start going back to the football more often as it's a good laugh and the anticipation of a match is exhilarating despite the generally poor standards of play. Good show.

It occurred to me today whilst negotiating the joys of the Metro service on the Cregagh Road that isn't it high time we had a formalised bus etiquette put in place about when it is polite and when it is impolite to change seats. It's already a slightly uncomfortable situation for cold northerners to be forced to sit beside strangers but guidelines about the acceptability of moving really need to exist. Today a slightly shifty looking middle aged man took up residence in the seat beside me, there being no free double seats available, so fair enough. Before long one or two were available but he remained in situ which again was fair enough as moving at the first possible chance might come across as a little insulting. Before long however there were six or seven double seats going begging and yet my travelling companion saw no need to take one. By the time it had come to my stop there were three of us on the whole bloody bus and yet I was still wedged against the window by Mr Nevermove. OK, I know I'm oozing animal magnetism (well, I'm oozing something anyway) but there is such a thing as personal space. With this in mind I call for the creation of a new addition to the list of life's unwritten rules, namely that once there are five free double seats it is perfectly acceptable, nay desirable, to get up and move to one. Go tell it on the mountain.

And speaking of creepy buggers who won't piss off I see that Bertie Ahern is to be expelled from Fianna Fail for sleaze. As expulsions go this is right up there with the time that Sharon Ebanks was kicked out of the BNP for anti-Semitism (rather than being half Black, which of course had nothing to do with her expulsion whatsoever). What next, somebody being kicked out of the Tories for being a smug, self-satisfied, public school tosspot? Good Lord, being sleazy was practically a prerequisite for Fianna Fail membership in the days of Charlie Haughey and Albert Reynolds so the sudden pretence of being purer than the driven snow is frankly laughable. The Failures love their sleaze and always will and when Michael Martin's secrets eventually come out he will look very foolish over this.

There are few things in life more horrifying than the phrase "easy self-assembly" are there? Long-term readers, if any, will be well aware that I have previous in this area but nevertheless I recently launched myself headlong into the fray by getting hold of a CD tower from that august purveyor of tasteful shite Argos. Rather than waste time on the details it will suffice to say that the "easy" part of the phrase was a bald-faced lie and that the supposedly most simple part, attaching a piece of wood to another two pieces of wood, proved absolutely impossible for reasons I still haven't quite worked out. When screws fit very snugly with every test it seems beyond the realms of reality that they should fall out every time you insert them with a screwdriver but that is precisely what happened, to the point that I gave up and broke out the Uhu. After fannying about levels that were just ridiculous the thing is finally standing now, albeit with the two major sections showing a join that would embarrass Ernie Wise's wig maker and a wobble that suggests future mad dashes to avoid the thing toppling over. Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to stop buying CDs altogether and thus not have to figure out how to store so many of the bloody things but that's not an even an option as one can never have enough music and downloads just don't do it for me. Still, you would think that after years of things like this existing they would have figured out ways to make these things easier to build rather than making them progressively more difficult. Or alternatively after years of trying you would think I would have improved at these sort of tasks rather than getting worse at them. Either way "easy self-assembly is a bloody lie and I hate it. So there.

The departure of Rowan Williams as Archbishop of Canterbury is a minor disappointment for me. OK, as roles go Archbishop of Canterbury is about as establishment as it is possible to get but as holders of the post Williams has been a refreshing voice for the little man against the sickening neo-liberal consensus that exists between the three main parties in Britain. Looking at the records it seems Anglican Archbishops of Canterbury tend to last around the ten year mark so given that he will have done nine and a half years when he steps down it is hardly a shock. What did shock me however was finding out he is only 61. Good Lord! I thought he was pushing 80 to be honest. Were he not a man of God in that bland inoffensive manner adopted by the Church of England I would presume he must have lived a life of pure debauchery to look that bedraggled after a mere 61 summers. Were I him I would take the rest of my time trying to recover from whatever made him so haggard rather than skipping off to Cambridge.

And indeed, pot, kettle and black on my part.

I hate to flog a dead horse (says a liar) but if further proof were needed that the DUP are money-grubbing scum then it came today when it was announced that eleven MLAs have claimed over £60,000 in expenses and eight of them are DUP. It should be noted that the top claimant Jim Wells was for part of the period in which he was claiming also a member of Down District Council and thus was entitled to councillor's expenses, second top claimant Stephen Moutray remains a member of Craigavon Borough Council and thus is entitled to councillor's expenses, whilst in contrast third top claimant Thomas Buchanan remains a member of Omagh District Council and thus is entitled to councillor's expenses. Peter Robinson is in there too despite his salary as First Minister, his salary as leader of the DUP and his salary as a totally above board property developer.

And isn't it lovely that at a time when the DUP's Nelson McCausland is stating that he will be taking away free public transport from pensioners it is announced that the MLAs are to get an 11% pay rise. Well deserved too. Given that most legislation for this place still comes from Westminster a good place to deal out cuts would be Stormont by getting rid of a bunch of the 108 MLAs, not giving them hefty pay hikes. Crooked game all round. I can only repeat my earlier caveats that loyalists should remember all this before they drone into the polling booth next time and vote DUP even though it is the same party that keeps kicking them. If you must vote unionist vote Billy Hutchinson's mob for God's sake, anybody but Robinson, McCausland and the rest of that corrupt rabble.

Back in the late 1980s when independent councillor Nelson McCausland was also a leading light on the Ulster Independence Committee extolling the virtues of the "ancient and ethnic nation" that is Ulster he commented that "democracy in Ulster is dead". Well, as long as the majority keep forcing this hateful bunch of money-loving monetarists I say it can't die quick enough. And didn't he look so much better with just his moustache instead of that ugly grey stubble he sports now? I wonder where Nelson fits into Keith Flett's ludicrous assertion regarding beards, moustaches and the left?

Some Flagitious Idiosyncrasy in the Dilapidation is again needed to take away some of this rage. Aaah, aren't they sweet? There, I feel better now.

Well, whoda thunk it? Tom Elliott has followed Reg Empey onto the scrapheap of history already. As shocks go it is up there with stepping in bear crap whilst strolling through the forest. Whatever angle you come at it from there is just no point to the Ulster Unionist Party any more. When Peter Robinson is sitting in government with the IRA (well, Sinn Fein/IRA was his favoured term until recently so to his mind they are obviously identical) it is difficult to present yourself as a moderate unionist alternative whilst for those Ballyhackamore snobs who still think the DUP is a bit working class, based on the fact that they had factory workers and taxi drivers as candidates thirty years ago, there is always the Alliance, which makes no bones about being a unionist party. No, at the ripe old age of 107 the UUP has reached the end of its natural life and the time has come for it to follow the lead of the Vanguard of old and meekly disappear. If they insist on soldiering on (which they will - we all know how pig-headed unionist are) then the next leader will have to be Mike Nesbitt as a man who many moons ago tried to make it as a comedian is surely the only choice for a group that is fast becoming a joke.

And in other, related news (in the sense that all human beings are at some level related to one another) it has come to my attention that, in the annual parade of pap and poop that is the Eurovision Song Contest, Bulgaria is this year to be represented by none other than Sofi Marinova. What do you mean "who"? Sofi Marinova - you know "Stiga Nomera", "Obicham", the Romani nightingale. Around this time last year I revealed my occasional taste for the horrendous Bulgarian chav music known as Chalga, as well its Serbian equivalent Turbofolk, and I often wondered why neither country looked to these partially indigenous forms of noise pollution when entering the Eurovision Song Contest. OK, Serbia's 2010 entry Milan Stankovic dabbles in Turbofolk but as I also revealed a year ago this is, like Japanese garage rock or American punk, one of those genres where only the female contributions interest me. Glad to see that my words are finally holding weight in the Balkans, although perhaps inevitably the song itself has been somewhat de-Chalgaed and given a more westernised sound. Don't be ashamed of your own sound, you Bulgars. Were it up to me Preslava would represent Bulgaria and Stoja would represent Serbia and we would all live happily ever after. But it's not up to me so instead we get the defrosting of Engelbert Humperdinck and those pasty-faced, Max Headroom-haired, hellspawned Irish bastards who join Paul McCartney's ex-wife on the list of people I refuse to name so as not to give them even a modicum of publicity.

And yes it all does sound bloody terrible and I am a man devoid of all taste and discernment but if you didn't know that by now then you never will. Now enjoy some classic Desi Slava before the blonde spiral-perm took over and ask yourself where else you would get a death sentence on the Ulster Unionist Party combined with some choice cuts of awful eastern European bilge. There'll never be another.

In the interests of showing solidarity with my oppressed sisters the world over I have started today with an image from my collection in your honour. Yup, nothing says International Women's Day like a mural in honour of a bunch of big culchie sorts squeezed into fuzzy green uniforms tramping through the streets of some godforsaken County Laois village in their sensible walking brogues. But seriously for their strong work in support of the radical left I am happy to doff my non-existent hat to Winifred Carney and Nora Connolly, two fine females. I am normally critical of the arbitrary assignation of dates to a particular event seemingly based on nothing but International Women's Day was good enough for me la Lenin and so it is good enough for me. Mind you the "days" seem to be coming thick and fast in March - drunken tossers days on the 17th, Mother's Day on the 18th, Polish-Hungarian Friendship Day on 23rd (mustn't forget that one), clocks go in some different direction on the 25th, Reba McEntire Day on the 28th, the list goes on. Heck even yesterday was that most arbitrary and pointless of observances No Smoking Day, a day on which a former smoker like myself who nevertheless retains a pro-smoking agenda and who misses his fegs a lot more than he enjoys improved breathing (in fact my breathing is actually somewhat worse now than it was when I smoked) really has to marshal every fibre of his willpower not go and buy a deck of Dunhill International just to stick two fingers up to the health fascist mob. I didn't of course but No Smoking Day really grinds my gears as part of that insidious anti-smoking attitudes that is now trying destroy old films and even photographs with its twisted nannyism - mind your own bloody business and you'll have enough to mind, you whiny little bitches.

For my own part International Women's Day included a visit to Clonard Martyrs Memorial Garden, a visually very impressive Garden of Remembrance situated on Bombay Street in the Clonard area of west Belfast, ran by this mob. Given that the burning of houses by mobs from the neighbouring Shankill Road in 1969 helped to galvanise local support for the IRA and essentially begin the Troubles in Belfast as well as the large number of people from the area to die in said Troubles and the fact that it is right beside the peaceline it is a well-chosen place to house what must be the finest of these sort of gardens in Belfast. Its slightly unusual location (because of the peacelines Clonard leads nowhere and it is actually a little far from the main Falls Road) means that it is not as often viewed as some of the other similar attractions in west Belfast but I must say it impressed me and the availability of a (highly partisan) booklet produced by the ex-prisoners association was a very nice touch. And apropos of nothing here's me standing therein:



See I told you I had huge feet! So in conclusion Clonard Martyrs Memorial Garden is worth a visit and I salute my sisters in the struggle on this day.

If there is one thing guaranteed to get royally on my tit-end it is one of those patrician old English Catholics. Typified by the Dukes of Norfolk, these are stuck-up old monarchist boot-lickers who wedge their lips permanently to E2R's arsehole despite the fact that Crown of England is by its very nature an anti-Catholic institution. The sort who spend their Mass praying for the queen and would never dream of sharing a church with the sort of rowdy Irish immigrant Catholics whose very presence has helped to secure the strong reputation of Liverpudlian weddings as the world's most violent.

Well it seems that one of the main exponents of that thankfully decaying stereotype has bit the dust, in the shape of Norman St. John Stevas. For some reason the man of straw that was the fiercely heterosexual Baron Stevas always rubbed me seriously up the wrong way. OK he was of the old English Catholic stock that by its nature vexes and he was a Tory which is a big enough sin but there was something less tangible that pushed to a level of annoyance which at times nagged at me. Leaving aside his racist comment that the Irish are "not known for their cleanliness"¹ I can think of no one who so encapsulated that almost paradoxical combination of supreme self-satisfied arrogance with Uriah Heep² levels of toadying that sums up a snob who is also a staunch monarchist. Gyles Brandreth is perhaps the only one to come close and, surprise surprise, he's an old English Catholic.

I rather suspect that the root of my extreme distaste for the upper class English Catholic set is the fact that, despite enjoying a degree of influence, they were happy to stand by and let their supposed faith brothers in my neck of the woods be denied their civil rights and thus indirectly played their part in causing the Troubles. Either that or it is just that Norman "he loves the ladies" St. John Stevas was just a hateful little bugger in his own right. No tears here, folks.

¹ OK, so we're a dirty shower of tinker hillbilly dirtbags but that's not his place to say and there are plenty of English soap dodgers out there too.

²That's Uriah Heep as in David Copperfield not Uriah Heep as in Dreammare. And come to think of it that's David Copperfield as in Betsey Trotwood and Clara Peggotty not David Copperfield as in the plastic-faced, leather-trousered, Claudia Schiffer-bonking thaumaturge.

After two excellent results against the Tatters and O'Neill's Oil Tankers I expected Albion's fine recent run to come to a halt against Chelsea but nope, Woy's boys go marching on with a fine 1-0 win over the Pensioners. Smashing stuff. Just to put this into perspective Albion have never taken as much as a point from Chelsea in the Premier League era, Ron Atkinson was in the dugout last time we beat them and Chelsea shelled out £150 million on their starting 11 at the most conservative estimate, to say nothing of the nigh on 95 million quids worth sitting on the bench. I'm glad the FA are blinded by the Harrymania (inspired by Redknapp's unprecedented success of getting two time champions Tottenham to the giddy heights of third using home-grown talent like van der Vaart, Modric and Adebayor) because in recent weeks Roy Hodgson has been miles ahead of him in the English manager stakes. It's difficult to see how Villas-Boas can go on from here. He may be officially well lush but Woy has well and truly laid the smackdown on his candy ass today and there can surely be no way back from that. Still, that's the blueboys problem not mine and for now I prefer to bask in the majesty of three wins in a trot and Albion sitting pretty in the top half of the table.

EDIT: Just noticed that with Sunday only a couple of hours old I have already had 500 visitors for the day. Yeah, that sounds likely. As far as memory serves haywire page view statistics are often a sign of one of those terribly annoying DDoS attacks and considering Vladimir Putin is in the process of having his return to the Kremlin rubber stamped I fully expect all hell to break loose on here pretty soon. So, see you all in a week or so when the inevitable chaos has died down.

Jolly old fun had today showing my man burkesworks round the seedy underbelly of this dirty old town I call home. Well, what visit to Belfast would be complete with seeing the brutal beauty of the Falls and Shankill as well as the rather more resplendent, if sadly derelict, majesty of Crumlin Road courthouse? Let the tourist board say what they want, the real Belfast is in the estates not these ghastly Titanic vanity projects that they are throwing millions at. Plus there's nothing I like better than having a captive audience to dump all my pointless knowledge. Glad to see you, mucker and haste ye back. Oh and a heads up for the pair of you - Frank Carson's cortege is liable to a royal pain round Clifton Street tomorrow morning. Even in death he's a wheeler and Wilson.

And finally a strange coincidence came to light yesterday, perhaps another that might be placed into the recently discussed file known as Twilight Zone. Consider the evidence:

*29th February - David Jones dies.
*1st March - David Jones becomes manager of Sheffield Wednesday.

Who says that Leap Day isn't a magical, mystical time? If Ena Sharples turns up at Hillsborough and calls the burly Scouse play-off blower her grandson then we'll know this really is the world's final year after all.

It is fitting that in my place the daffodils are out for Cymru and Dydd Gŵyl Dewi. In the rush to sell booze to gullible fools on the 17th March and the rush to try to convince people that it isn't only right-wing nutjobs who make a big deal out of 23rd April, St David's Day often ends up forgotten in keeping with the status of the Welsh as a forgotten nation, all too often an irrelevant suffix to the "England and" combination. Well, not round these parts as I'm a dyed in the wool Welsh freedom man (for some reason) and I need to promote the cause of my Welsh ancestors (number discovered so far: zero). So enjoy the anthem Hendrix-style by a true legend of Welsh rock.

There is an unwritten law regarding me and the wearing of boots. Obviously it is an unwritten law as I still don't think we have reached the point where the government passes laws relating to one individual's feet, but I digress. If I buy a new pair of boots (as I did around a month ago) I will wear them for a while with two pairs of socks just to let them get the feel and shape of my feet. After a couple of weeks of that the extra pair is discarded and I tramp around happy as a sandboy with the boots officially broken in. Then it happens. About a month in the boots suddenly decide "this smug faced crow with kindling eye needs taught a lesson" and the pain arrives. Suddenly the boots become tighter than a polar bear's arse in a snowstorm then by and by they are looser than Shar Pei's sack and I'm left with more blisters than Alan Sugar has ill-gotten gains, all the while wondering who boots can be simultaneously too big and too small. Were they brand new I would get it but it's always after a month when they should more or less have moulded themselves to the shape of my flippers so what gives? A pox on footwear I say.

Not that I was merely walking round the corner admittedly but rather took my favoured route along the previously discussed Shore Road. One thing caught my eye as I passed the also previously discussed Mount Vernon estate, to wit the UVF murals that decorate the sides of the lovely Ross House, a tenement block with delightful views of the M2 Fortwilliam junction.



Nice paint job there, lads. I must confess to not being a huge fan of such examples of wanton vandalism, despite my personal distaste for the UVF, as the paramilitary murals are one of the few things to actually give Belfast any individual character and these days there seems to be any excuse to cover them with those hideous "community murals" in which some old rubbish in a contrived childish style purports to show some grim hellhole like Tiger's Bay or the Bone to be a diverse, all-inclusive paradise rather than the grotty, sectarian concentration camp for the poor that it actually is. I can't say I know who or what was behind this particular attack on an innocent drawing but were I to lay odds on it my money would be on a crowd of yahoos with links to Tommy English from the South-East Antrim Brigade of the UDA reacting in a fit of pique to the inevitable collapse of the Supergrass trial. OK, the world and his wife knows that Mark Haddock has been a bad bastard for years but when a case is built on the testimony of a couple of booze-sodden junkies who by rights should be in the dock alongside Haddock it is hardly a surprise when said case stands up about as well as the chief witnesses themselves do on a Friday night. The big fear now is that, assuming SEA is behind the paint attack, it could usher in the dreaded loyalist feud based on tit for tat attacks. Put it this way, if a group of YCV hoods turn up in Bencrom Park hurling tins of Farrow & Ball at the wall art then it will be bad news for everybody, with the probable exception of Harry Noblett. A matt vinyl slick of a level not seen since the dark (or magnolia) days of ought four could engulf this whole city.

And to return to my initial point about unwritten laws that need to be written (yes, this is all terribly disjointed but I've been out of practice recently) there really needs to be a rule that anybody ostensibly speaking the English language who uses the word "tranche" should be immediately sentenced to the ramming of a closed fist into their face repeatedly. Using bits of French whilst speaking English in an attempt to look somehow impressive was killed off by Del-Boy in the 80s and the fact that there are still people attempting it (invariably the sort who use several tranches of management-speak as part of their inconsequential babbling) is as good a reason for a bloody good hiding as I've ever heard. And "tableau vivant" doesn't count as the phrase "living table" would make no sense outside of a psychedelic nightmare.

Fin.

There are times you just get the feeling you must have fallen down a wormhole in time and ended up back in the past again. No, I'm not referring to the ConDem junta going down the road to the workhouses, nor Greece being bailed out of yet another economic crisis, nor yet more desecration of the Koran, nor even Chelsea losing yet another game of football and placing the officially dreamy Andre Villas-Boas back in the firing line. Rather I refer to what we shall hitherto call Exhibit A:



The third biggest story on their site tells us that that fragrant (in the sense that the stench of desperation is a fragrance) Imogen Thomas was the one who was being bonked by Manchester United youngster Ryan Giggs. Thank you, Exhibit A. I was unaware of that until several months ago when it was reported absolutely everywhere, including even in this load of old tosh. Good to see that Auntie has her finger on the pulse when it comes to the news.

And before Captain Obvious pipes up, I'm fully aware that the story is actually about it now being legally OK to mention all this and that me and the rest were technically breaking the law by naming him previously. Still if that part of Exhibit A is fairly weak in the Twilight Zone stakes then the fifth top story is simply inexplicable. "US X Factor drops Cheryl Cole". Well, I never. I was more than a little perturbed to hear of the sacking of the fragrant (in the sense that the stench of desperation is a fragrance) toilet attendant basher when it happened last May but the fact that it is now the Beeb's fifth most popular story a full nine months later is frankly mystifying. The calendar tells me it is 21st February 2012 but I'm sure there must be some mistake if wor Chezza and ein Imo are still top of the news.

Cuddly Dudley presents an evening with Whitney Houston featuring special guests Eddie Marshall and Gordon Beck, you say? I'll book the tickets right away.

Imagine a world without Rangers - loyalists having to pretend to support Hearts, Dundee or Morton, Celtic supporters having to pretend to hate Partick Thistle or Queen's Park, Aberdeen supporters having to pretend to hate Caley Thistle, supporters of all the other teams having to get used to hating only Celtic. It just wouldn't seem right would it? What would half of the spides in Belfast wear for a start? What would become of all those tasteful Rangers doors and fences bolted onto to council houses? How would Cash Converters cope with the sudden influx of Rangers-branded sovereign rings, gold chains and the like? What about all the tattoos on pasty arms, chests and arse-cheeks of flabby men from Ballinamallard to Bottacks? Hasn't Andy Fordham suffered enough in his life? Doesn't bacon taste funny these days? Yes, now that Rangers have entered administration there really are more questions than answers.

Despite my perfunctory, superficial, part-time allegiance to the green and white half of the Old Firm I must say that I take no pleasure (well, maybe a little but not a lot) from the current predicament in which the Teds find themselves. Lisa Simpson had it right for just as Sherlock Holmes had his Dr. Moriarty, Mountain Dew has its Mellow Yellow (bit lost on this side of the pond, that one) and even Maggie has that baby with the one eyebrow, so too do Celtic need Rangers to coexist. God knows Scottish football has become a big enough afterthought in recent years but how much worse would that get if there was just one big club rather than two? Either somebody else would have to emerge to fill the void left by Rangers or Celtic themselves would slip back and the SPL would end up around the level of the Maltese League. Certainly there is no club in the rabble of filler teams that could get up anywhere near the level of Rangers any time in the next twenty years so decline and fall would be the only outcome. Admittedly it might make the SPL more competitive if Rangers died and Celtic fell away but equally it could have the reverse effect. It seems boring now with one of two clubs winning every year but imagine a league where Celtic win the title every year without fail as, even if they did decline, they would still be far ahead of the competition (who would lose two big pay days a season from when the Gers are in town and their ground fills up).

So save the Bears it is then. You know, we are often reminded about the "Ulster" connection where Rangers are concerned and they are nearly all supporters to a man so why don't the UDA just buy Rangers and be done with it? It would keep their beloved club afloat, provide a convenient location for the laundering of funny money and allow Jackie McDonald the opportunity to strut about in the manner of Ramzan Kadyrov. Problem solved - get it done.

5-1, 5-1, 5-1, 5-1! One Odemwingie; there's only one Odemwingie! Boing boing and so on. You will forgive that little interlude but the mauling which the mighty Albion handed out to the stuttering Dingles cannot be ignored and indeed must be rubbed in some faces, such is my pettiness. I had rather begun to fear that a late season slump might see a relegation battle on the cards but that particular wraith has been turned for another few weeks at least. It remains to be seen whether Odemwingie's hopes of a top ten finish are anything but a pipe dream but for now YYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!

A rare, possibly even unique, occurrence has transpired and it has left me feeling decidedly odd to say the least. That's right I am actually finding myself in agreement with Alex Ferguson and, even worse, finding myself slightly pleased that the malevolent Manchester United have won a match. Generally I'm fairly neutral towards Liverpool but their handling of this whole Luis Suarez affair has been nothing short of disgraceful. He spends a whole match referring to Patrice Evra by a racial epithet, protests ignorance about it being offensive (because constantly calling somebody by their ethnic group rather than their name is never going to be offensive) and then, despite him being found guilty and sentenced by the FA, Liverpool act as if he has done nothing and Kenny Dalglish (was he always such a tosser or has age changed him into a moaning minnie of Tony Pulis levels?) keeps presenting him as the wronged party. Far be it from me to suggest that the whole thing has been a godsend for Dalglish as it has deflected attention from Liverpool's ropey form and complete waste of money that has been Andy Carroll but supporting the resident racist has certainly given the chirpy Scousers something to unite behind. As if all that wasn't enough Suarez today refuses to shake Evra's hand because he dared take offence at racial abuse. Disgusting. Ferguson is right about Suarez being a disgrace to Liverpool and the club are in danger of slipping back to the gloomy days of yore when a hate-filled bastard like Tommy Smith was hailed as a hero. Have these people forgotten what John Barnes endured for the good of the game? A day of shame for Liverpool Football Club.

We've discussed the origins of Madhouse Britain before on here so I will not recount the origin on this its third outing and given that the breaching of Offa's Dyke has yet to be avenged this story can come under that banner. So anyway it seems that Swansea University, that historic seat of learning that gifted the world such luminaries as Kingsley Amis and nobody else, has posted up posters in its toilets informing students and other patrons on the correct way in which to plant a dark onion. Yes at a time when universities are crying poverty and looking for any excuse to start charging nine grand for the pleasure of learning a bunch of stuff you're unlikely to ever use this mob are blowing God knows how much on a bunch of posters about how one goes about laying a chocolate hot dog. Call me demented if you will but who in their right mind would stand on the lavvy pan to chase a brown trout downstream? You would need to be a bloody contortionist to pull that stunt. Madness. Were I Noel Edmonds I would devote a whole section of my HQ to getting really rather miffed about this but I am not so I will simply say "boo" at Swansea University for being a bunch of money-wasting eejits.

So goodbye to Don Fabio then. The time he should have took John Terry's part was the time he whipped him (so he dirtied some mare that had previously gone round with his team mate, big fizz) whilst the time he should have distanced himself from Terry he backed him (innocent until proven guilty sure but the sudden resurgence in racism in football needs to be nipped in the bud and Matthew Kelly was off Stars in Their Eyes when he was under allegations of noncery). He flip-flopped over goalkeepers at the World Cup to the extent that he effectively killed off Robert Green as an international and saw his team humbled by a mighty Germany side in the same tournament. On the other hand he blitzed the European Championship qualifiers and had turned England in a hideously dull and ugly side that nonetheless was so infuriatingly frustrating to watch that they recalled memories of the reprehensibly attritional Greece team that bored its way to victory in the same tournament in 2004. Given that Harry Redknapp was cleared of being a geezer (there's no justice like rich man's justice) on the very day that Capello pissed off, given that he has spent the last two years virtually offering sexual favours to the FA in return for the England job, given that he is adored by the press and given that his managerial record of a single FA Cup win and two clubs bankrupted (possibly a third if Tottenham ever actually look at the king's ransom he has blown there) is second to none in the game it is inevitable that old putty puss will be in charge before long. Of course that raises the spectre of the aforementioned Tottenham Coldpricks waving their man off into the sunset just as they are in the middle of their doomed attempt to win the league. Some chance, meaning that either a wholly unsatisfactory for both Tottenham and England arrangement in which Redknapp finishes the season with Spurs whilst also managing England part time might follow, or else a rush job where some stooge like Stuart Pearce holds the fort just long enough for the team to collapse into mush only for a liberated H to pitch up in June to start as new boss a week or two before the start of the tournament in the manner so beloved by Nigeria before each first round exit at the World Cup. Obviously England remain favourites for the European championships despite this (they're England after all and as such must be favourites for every tournament they enter despite only having won one out of twenty in which they have participated) but the odds just might have gone from 50 to 1 on to only 10 to 1 on. Personally I reckon when Fabio signs his contract at Anzhi Makhachkala, Terek Grozny or some similar mysteriously minted Russian side he will be glad to get away from the whole circus and to leave all the entire crock of shit to Redknapp. And believe you me, having spent today in the rarefied climes of Portadown (a landlocked town in County Armagh, obviously) I know a crock of shit when I see one. To gaze upon the vacant lots of the Meadows on a wet February afternoon is to truly wonder why people don't worship beauty. And you think you have it bad, Fab?!

Still if Ken Snyder had ever stopped his God-bothering for five minutes he might just have become Brute Force. Really makes you think doesn't it? No, me neither.

The Diamond Jubilee is a pub near the bottom of the Shankill Road in Belfast. As part of a bloody history the bar, which faces the horrific slum known locally as Beirut, became the centre of activity for Johnny Adair and his gang in the 1990s and beyond and, amongst other things hosted the annual loyalist of the year awards where the top hitman for the UDA's West Belfast Brigade was awarded said honour. Stevie McKeag was the usual winner, although if not him you could bet your house on the winner being a spide anyway. A glass collector there by the name of Noel Cardwell, who suffered from severe learning difficulties, had his drink spiked with ecstasy by Adair and his cronies "for a laugh". When Cardwell accidentally mentioned to police from his hospital bed that he knew Adair he found himself abducted, tortured, shot and left to bleed to death.

All of this has little or nothing to do with Elizabeth Windsor's own diamond jubilee, not least because the bar is named after her great-great-grandmother Victoria. To be honest I just thought I would mention it as we could all do with a story that involves the words "diamond" and "jubilee" and isn't about what a grand boon to the nation the fragrant and beautiful Elizabeth has been with her serene ability to go on holiday and have arsehole wiped for her after every shite. Isn't it great that the same sponge has been leeching for sixty years? God save her and all who sail in her. Well the Stoop Down Low Party certainly think that way, the bourgeois scumdogs that they are. To be honest the only thing that surprises me about that is that Martin McGuinness didn't join in the chorus of cheers for his paymaster. Let's face it, the fact that one person has been in the same position for sixty years due entirely to the fact that they inherited it should never be a cause for celebration in a fair and just society. As a figurehead her reign has been of benefit to nobody apart from her and her mooching offspring (and don't give me that tourism crap - Versailles continues to attract plenty of tourists even without some fat oaf with a standard poodle on his head sitting on a throne). No celebrations from me - the sooner her and the rest of these mediaeval anomalies go the way Nepal the better as far as I'm concerned.

And don't get me started on the Olympics or all this Titanic crap. 2012 is shaping up to be one of the most irritatingly over-hyped years in history.

Severe weather warnings of heavy snow abound apparently. Cripes, you could have fooled me! The only severe weather my neck of the woods seems to be getting is a severe outbreak of warmth. Well, I'm exaggerating a little but the mercury is sitting around six or seven degrees round these parts at a time when the mainland is facing a new ice age. To the best of my recollection there hasn't been any real snow this winter at all; there was a few flecks a while back and it lay on the hills but nothing round my way that hadn't gone in an hour or so. Not that I'm complaining mind you as the older I get the harder I find it to cope with the cold (particularly in my hands which are almost permanently frozen these days) so snow can sod away off as far as I'm concerned. So, really not a lot of point to this post (what else is new) other than to shoot a smug smirk in the direction of those of you across the ditch all wrapped and shivering. Now if you'll excuse me I must go and open a window as it's so stuffy in here.

It's rare that Albion get involved in the whole deadline day nonsense but for once two new boys arrived at the Hawthorns at the last knockings. Keith Andrews will do in a pinch as there is an injury driven shortage of bodies in midfield and any half decent filler player who could come in and play a few games in the absence of Brunt and Gera was all that was required. I certainly don't expect him to become a new club legend but we'll give him a go. Liam Ridgewell however is another matter as I don't know whether to be very happy or very disappointed with him. The Albion defence has been pure shite this season so signing a versatile defender is a good step whilst the fact that other clubs have been sniffing around him seems to bode well. There again I'm reminded of the hopeless partnership he had with Scott Dann last season, the one that saw the Brum scum relegated handily, and the fact that any time I've seen him play (which admittedly is not very often) he hasn't half been prone to making stray passes. As such I'll cautiously welcome Ridgewell and hope that he can play a vital role in shoring up the duff defence all the while gritting my teeth a little through the smile. Still, at least Odemwingie was not sold, which was the main worry for January.

Oh and as stated previously I don't do those writer's block things on here, but once again I'll answer the question anyway. Unfortunately however I have no idea who my lookalike is. In the past the obvious answer was Buh Buh Ray Dudley who, eye colour apart, was the spitting image of me about seven years ago. These days though not so much as not only do we now have different hairstyles and facial hair but my head seems to have lengthened with age. As such no idea. I've often thought I bore a passing resemblance to Kirsten Dunst so we'll go with her.

theresitayju - you're welcome.
cassandryb - I'll decide what themes to develop myself, thank you very much.
weidneripuxe - Babel Fish couldn't make head nor tail of what you said so no response.
bernwace - nobody's making you read it if it isn't entirely interesting so piss away off, you cheeky knobhead.

There, that's today's bunch of Russian spammers dealt with. The anonymous advertising bots I can cope with but single purpose Russian language accounts that exist only to place bland comments on random journals I can really do without. Assuming this is something do with the Russian elections I would just like to make it clear to both sides that I couldn't give a monkey's toss who wins as it is no skin of my nose who leads Russia so kindly nick off and do something constructive like clipping your nasal hair.

See, I'm still alive, just a bit strapped for things to write about.

EDIT: I've just noticed this post seems quite anti-Russian which was never my intention. Nothing here is aimed at Russians in general just the spammers that are currently on the march round these parts.

Nick Hancock! Sybil Ruscoe! Ted Hankey! John Redwood! Dominic Cork! Dave Harold! Morten Harket! Frank Bough! Can you hear me Frank Bough? Your boys took one hell of a beating! Your boys took one hell of a beating!

Excuse me that little interlude but there are few things sweeter than doing over the violent thugs of Stoke City at their own ground. Even sweeter that they managed to nause up a penalty that should not have been awarded with their former player Ben Foster on hand to deny hatchet man Jon Walters a gifted goal. After a string of displays that could best be described as competent but unspectacular Foster was due a top class performance and this one could cement his position as a proper Baggie rather than just the current keeper. Glad to see Dorrans getting a goal too as the boy has had a torrid time with the injuries and the club needs midfield skill with Chris Brunt facing a long spell on the sidelines. Let's not get carried away as it was another game where a lead was thrown away but for the time being bloodying the nose of Boke Shitty feels great.

I never do the writer's block things that livejournal has as I prefer to approach this old rubbish with a free hand rather than being driven by some general question to which you are expected to provide an answer. Today is to be no exception although the question they are asking ("Who do you think would make a great U.S. president?") is one I intend to examine in passing anyway. And yes, I'm aware that it would have been easier to just use the bloody writer's block button but I'm anal that way :D

If the 1948 election had been won by Norman Thomas instead of Harry S. Truman the Cold War would have ended before it began, peace and prosperity would have ruled the planet and we would now by holding hands and singing all day in the blissful joy of one world built on fraternity and the end of all need, rather than collapsing under the crippling poison of a wholly amoral society that places the worthless concept of credit many rungs above humanity. As a result nobody would make a great US President now as the system is far too flawed for anybody to do anything other than muddle through. The roots of America's, and by extension the world's, problems show no sign of being tackled as whoever wins they will still be wedded to maintaining the iniquitous capitalist system and in following a foreign policy based on the concept of being a self-appointed world police force who can butt in were they like and force sanctions on already impoverished countries for doing a lot less than America does. In circumstances like those greatness is impossible.

As to the question of whether or not any of the current rabble getting primed for next year will make a great President the answer is obviously no given what I have just said. Given that it is a two party system and he at least made some very minor concessions to the rampant poverty in his country with little bits of welfare (or communism according to the repulsive Tea Party movement) and finally delivered one of his promises in withdrawing from Iraq and leaving it safe for demawkracy and daily suicide bombings I have to hope that Barack Obama retains his seat in 2012. In the unlikely event that he loses my levels of endurance amongst the Republicans would be Mitt Romney, Ron Paul, Rick Santorum and, God forbid, Newt Gingrich, a man whom I firmly believe would make George W. Bush seem like Julius Nyerere. Indeed were Gingrich to be elected I might have to revise my opinion of the allegorical nature of the Book of Revelation and assume that the 1000 year reign of the Antichrist had actually arrived. Ideally it wouldn't matter to me who wins but I live in the occupied six counties so I am a subject of the British Empire and as such whoever wins will effectively be my President too given that the British government has effectively been an arm of the Presidency since the Suez crisis.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to daydream about loping through the crocus fields in the sense of pure bliss that only comes from knowing all the world's problems are over thanks to dear Uncle Norman.

According to some old crap I stumbled across on the internet the distance from London, England to Port Stanley in the Falkland Islands is 7,877.48 miles. So if you get the notion to take a stroll out there someday you might want to pack a change of socks. And extensive deep sea diving equipment, obviously. According to some other old crap I stumbled across on the internet the UK is currently in possession of 14 chunks of land spread all over the world i.e. Anguilla, Bermuda, the British Antarctic Territory, the British Indian Ocean Territory (or the Chagos Islands as they actually were before the British government booted the residents out to make way for an American base), the British Virgin Islands, the Cayman Islands, Gibraltar, Montserrat, the Pitcairn Islands, the single territory of Saint Helena, Ascension and Tristan da Cunha, South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands, the Sovereign Base Areas of Akrotiri and Dhekelia, the Turks and Caicos Islands and the aforementioned Falklands, to say nothing of Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales. The self-same Britain once held a colonial empire upon which they boasted that the sun never set. The self-same Britain is now led by a man in David Cameron who has the bare-faced cheek to label Argentina colonial over the Falklands. Has the man no shame? There has been no country in the world more guilty of colonialism than Britain (France and Spain did their best but fell somewhat short) and he has the gall to throw that epithet at someone else over a couple of rocks nigh on eight thousand miles away that Britain has no more right to than it does the moon. Some things never change and we can include within that the cliché the fact that hypocrisy and imperialism still beat in the black heart of the Conservative Party. If he's not seeking trouble with overseas countries he's labelling one of the few MPs I have any respect for a dinosaur. What is this idiot's problem? We know he detests pensioners with all his heart, all his soul and all his strength so he should be celebrating the fact that a 79 year old is still working rather than claiming the state pensions that he wants to get rid of. Were there any justice this stuck-up, arrogant, jingoistic, out of touch nonentity would be run out of town on a rail right now but the really sickening thing is that with Ed Miliband going from one goof to the next and Nick Clegg having destroyed his own party for the sake of lining his own pocket this selfish bastard will no doubt win an overall majority next time out. IPLO, you should be alive at this hour!

I see the spam commenters are out in force round these parts again. For months now I had received none of the usual but in the last two days I have been offered counterfeit Fendi products and Tramadol by passing robots who decided to hit me with their little comments. Just a shame that Wikipedia is in blackout mode otherwise I would be able to find out just what "counterfeit Fendi" and "Tramadol" actually mean. I appreciate that the internet is awash with fools ready to be parted from their money for all manner of rubbish but how much business is likely to be drummed up by leaving badly worded adverts on random blogs, especially when our own livejournal then circles the comments in big flashing lights and sirens and tells you not to get involved? Must try harder, you scammers.

And speaking of livejournal have we been under attack yet again round these parts recently? It's one of those times when I'm not quite sure as the effects only seem to have been slow page loading and some image disappearance, both of which might be the result of my laptop acting up again. Mind you after the last so called "attack", which appeared to be the equivalent Big Van Vader being gently pushed on the kneecap by a four year old girl, I wouldn't be surprised as they seem to be losing their touch. Of course now that I say that they will storm the ramparts, overwhelm the entire site and replace this truly banal post with a picture of a man's stretched anus, Snoopy Doggy Dogg lyrics rendered in faux Victorian English over a Joseph Ducreux self portrait or whatever the craze is these days. And remember Hipster Ariel only wants legs so she can wear them ironically.

And I'll end this rubbish now as I appear to be sailing slightly too close to the edge of my knowledge and am in danger of falling into the bottomless chasm reserved for sad old granddads trying desperately to be with it.

The Bank of Ireland building has stood at the corner of Royal Avenue and North Street in Belfast city centre for as long as I or anybody else can remember. Of course the name is a misnomer as it hasn't actually been a Bank of Ireland branch for some time but rather has lay derelict for the last lot of years. Until today that is when I happened to pass by and chanced upon the following sight.



Yup, the "Occupy Belfast" mob who had been ensconced round the corner in their little tents facing Saint Anne's Cathedral had decided to occupy somewhere indoors. I've already covered my thoughts on the Occupy movement previously and I stand by them despite some childish name-calling but the Occupy Belfast brigade made the London event look like the storming of the Bastille. A few tents and a couple of signs about 99% stuck between a block of flats and a place where skateboarders congregate registered precisely nothing on the annoying the powers that be scale and frankly looked absolutely pathetic after the initial posters had announced a grand scheme to occupy the headquarters of Invest NI. They are now holding a derelict building which is not exactly causing a wave of disruption but to their credit they were blaring music, have erected large banners (although I don't like the "o" in their sign - far too much like Oswald Mosley's flash and circle for my taste) and had managed to attract a smattering of curious gawpers, as well as forcing three or four of the pigs slash brutes to muddy their boots standing around rather than leaving them to spend a whole shift fannying about in Musgrave. Of course were they to make any real difference the place to occupy would be Stormont but unfortunately these sort of protests are far too bloody nice to break the law and so I suppose this move has to be seen as a big step forward. So well done boys and girls although in my day we occupied buildings that people actually used. Still made no difference as tuition fees not only remain but are higher than ever but at least we had a go.

And here's another picture (also taken by my own fair, and very shaky, hands) just for fun:



Painting the address to which a wheelie bin belongs in huge letters is a perfectly good idea but you really might want to consult the sign at the end of your road before doing so. Well I suppose "street" is a very long and esoteric road so there is no shame in getting wrong. "Steet", I ask you?!

Three cheers for Walt Disney. He may have been a talentless hack, a ruthless bully and an anti-Semitic uber-capitalist who built an evil empire on fear and shady practices but thanks to his ESPN subsidiary I have been been able to watch the BDO World Darts Championship this year without it being totally ruined by the BBC's God awful coverage. Well, I say their God awful coverage but of course there is only one thing really wrong with Auntie's broadcasts and that is Colin Murray. God but I hate that Ballybeen bastard with a passion. His constant smug grin, reference after reference to darts' players weights (it's a sport played by heavy men, if you have a problem with that why take on the job?), his stupid "ironic" hipster glasses, his bloody annoying accent, the fact that the BBC has him hosting every bloody sport despite there being no indication that he has any expertise, his shitty taste in indie music, his being a short-arsed son of a bitch and just his general wankerness combine to make him possibly my most hated man on television. It says it all given my enmity for Adrian Chiles that Match of the Day Two actually became even more unwatchable when Murray replaced him a couple of years back. Hazel Irvine, Manish Bhasin, Gabby Logan, Rishi Persad, John Inverdale and Harry Gration are all under contract to the BBC and could all have been called upon but instead they had to go for bloody Colin bastard Murray. So thank God for Uncle Walt's Sports Telecasts who not only have all the games live anyway (unlike Murray and his crappy highlights show) but have had the good sense to leave presenting to Ray Stubbs, a man from the grand tradition of bland sport hosts who let the action take the lead and don't see everything as an opportunity to foist their own "character" onto the viewing several. Plus unlike Murray Stubbs realises that sports presenting is not a substitute for stand-up comedy and, whilst humour can be used now again, it is neither necessary nor desirable to treat everything as one big bloody joke. I watched very little of the tournament these last two years because of Murray's presence but finally this year I have been able to return to the fold and once again make the BDO Worlds one of the highlights of my sporting year. Huzzah!

And finally if you fancy a gamble on the outcome I'll give the nod to Tony O'Shea to win the title by defeating Christian Kist in the final. You heard it here first...unless you heard it somewhere else already obviously.

The Glencairn estate is one of the more peculiar parts of Belfast. For a start it is not actually in Glencairn as that specific area lies a little to the west where one can find the rarefied environs of Glencairn Park and the once grandiose but now scummy Fernhill House from whence the late Gusty Spence announced an end to loyalists killing (except when the notion takes them) in 1994. Rather the Glencairn estate is a bunch of 70s and 80s junk houses for people that nobody wants to admit actually exist sandwiched between the Upper Shankill and the equally grim Ballysillan, a heartland for the sort of oft-discussed loyalists who continually get screwed over by Nelson McCausland but who nonetheless vote for him year on year. Belfast's greatest psychopath Lenny Murphy bought it up here in what was unquestionably one of the best actions the Provisional IRA ever undertook.

One of the things that makes it unusual is that it is surrounded by woodland, with Glencairn Park on one side and the wilds of Forth River Linear Park, which is basically a mess of trees and corpse holes gathered around one of the city's mini rivers, on the other. As a consequence of all this sylvan splendour, as well as the fact that it has quite possibly the grimmest housing in Belfast now that Carrick Hill has been redone, it is perhaps the only part of the city where both the heron and heroin are in plentiful supply, making Glencairn a paradise for the birdwatcher and the smackhead alike. Were I a more metaphorical man I might also attempt to draw some inference from the fact that the Forthriver Road (the main drag of the Glencairn estate) rises sharply for the entirety of its length only to suddenly come to a dead-end, rather like the uphill battles ending in misery for the sort of poor saps forced to live in such a hellhole but we'll leave thoughts like that for the park bench philosophers.

So, skint loyalists being screwed over by the masters they chose are inevitably present whilst large wading birds were a bit more of a surprise but, given the presence of a rivulet, perhaps not but this?!



Yes we had always been told that he lived in a pineapple under the sea but apparently SpongeBob SquarePants actually makes his home in the backwaters of Forthriver Drive, Glencairn. Whoda thunk it? Well, it makes a change from "UVF - For God and Ulster" I suppose. Naive outsider art at its finest right there, pals and gals.

So after yesterday's 4-2 win over Cardiff City Albion will now be facing the might of Norwich City, with their baked flans and their misplaced pedantry, in the fourth round of the FA Cup. I feel a bit of a heretic saying this but I'm struggling to care one way or the other. A couple of ropey results in recent league matches mean that my earlier optimism was, as I suspected, misplaced and that Albion are facing yet another relegation battle so these injury magnet games for a tin pot are really a distraction that we could do without. We all know how it will end anyway as a middle ranking Premier League side will make the final where they will be outplayed by one of the big money outfits but the game will still end 1-0 to make it look closer than it actually was. Were I a gambling man (which I'm definitely not, having turned down a free ten quid bet after registering for Sky Sports Super 6) I would put my money on Manchester United winning it for the umpteenth time with Newcastle donating their bodies to the "spectacle" come May.

Still I suppose it is a break from the gloom for some (well, maybe not crisis club Liverpool, who even managed to turn a 5-1 win into yet another PR disaster) so in case any of you reading care and don't know how to log onto any of the thousands of websites that carry this then the fourth round draw is as follows:

Brighton & Hove Albion or Wrexham - Newcastle United
Sunderland - Middlesbrough
Dagenham & Redbridge or Millwall - Southampton
Hull City - Crawley Town
Milton Keynes Dons or Queens Park Rangers - Chelsea
West Bromwich Albion - Norwich City
Blackpool - Sheffield Wednesday
Arsenal or Leeds United - Aston Villa
Stevenage - Notts County
Watford - Tottenham Hotspur
Liverpool - Manchester United
Derby County - Stoke City
Everton - Fulham
Macclesfield Town or Bolton Wanderers - Swansea City
Sheffield United - Birmingham City or Wolverhampton Wanderers
Nottingham Forest or Leicester City - Swindon Town