Crimson flames tied through my ears/Rollin’ high and mighty traps/Pounced with fire on flaming roads/Using ideas as my maps/“We’ll meet on edges, soon,” said I/Proud ’neath heated brow/Ah, but I was so much older then/I’m younger than that now
While we wouldn’t like to condemn anyone before they’ve done anything, as we’re not Tom Cruise, or Philip K Dick, or whoever the bad guy was in Minority Report (I’ve not seen it, though heard it was shit). But it’s a fact universally accepted that the recently-racially-abused Patrice Evra’s name will be met with a chorus of boos at Anfield on Saturday. The FCF wonders whether the articles explaining why booing Patrice Evra wasn’t racist have already been written.
Fackinell Pt. 1
There are almost limitless reasons to have contempt for Harry Redknapp. Jamie Redknapp. Not talking about transfers when all he does is talk about transfers. Not talking about referees just before he launches into a hypocritical one about referees. His smug self-regard. His destruction of players’ egos seemingly on a whim. Bare bones. And that’s just his time at Tottenham. But on the internet the best people have come up with is to bully him over his spelling. Very strange to encounter bullying on the internet.
Fackinell Pt. 2
In his new, long-awaited book, Danny Dyer has given his account of the joke in an advice column for Zoo that it was an off-the-cuff joke that should never have been printed. It’s Zoo’s fault, obviously. How is he choosing to rehabilitate his image? His next film, “I play this serial killer who likes to kidnap women and abuse them and then kill them.”
During the first set of the Murray-Djokovic game, the face of the Australian Prime Minister – somehow able to nab a ticket – appeared on the screen, and was greeted with raucous jeering. Meanwhile, in England, the prime minister and “royals” swan around the best events and take the best seats, indulged as though it’s as some kind of favour; our miserable servility deserves what it gets.
There’s been plenty of chatter about whether Anton Ferdinand and John Terrence will shake hands when QPR face Chelsea, in a contest so legendarily intense that plenty of tickets remain available. Except that line doesn’t really work these days, with man of the people Tony Fernandes expecting supporters to give fifty sheets to watch. Anyway, back to the handshake, given that it has no influence whatsoever on what happens afterward has anyone any idea why they bother? Ah yes – the vacuous, meaningless, self-important pomp that infests sport and life, dupeforcing us to pretend that everything’s great and we’re all friends. Everything is not great, and we’re not all friends.
The greatest hustle on earth
There are now six months to go until the Olympics, and no doubt the whole country will be getting behind Sebastian Coe – I can’t think of any reason why you wouldn’t want to – in hoping that they all run smoothly. It’s probably handy for the government, too. Aside from handing out all the best tickets to their chums, and even having a 40,000-strong list of elite persons who will even be given their own traffic lanes for the occasion, they also get fancy new police powers for the event, like being able to enter homes, and arrest anybody within camera-shot of the events that commits a crime such as wearing a t-shirt that disagrees with one of the corporate sponsors. It’s like Diana’s funeral and the Reichstag fire all in one handy package!
We’ve said it before
Andy Murray gets a lot of stick, but at least he’s got some attitude, at least he isn’t a boor, at least he isn’t thick, at least he once called an umpire a fucking cunt, and at least he eschews the smarmy platitudes that underpin almost every modern sporting interview. The FCF hopes he annihilates Djokovic and his missing glutens.
Photo courtesy of Well Offside