Mornings alone/When you come home I breathe a little faster/Every time we’re together/It never be the same if you’re not here/How can you stay away, away so long?
There was something refreshing about Joe Hart talking trash to Scott Sinclair prior to his penalty yesterday – the sort of thing that should happen more often – and it was no surprise to see someone with such high voice and opinion of himself bottle it. But then a close-up revealed the embarrassingly self-monikered Hartdog to be repeatedly barking “Don’t wait for me! Don’t wait for me motherfucker!” as though the entire situation was contrived so that he might make some nebulous, narcissistic point linking respect, validation, and acting promptly. It was not, he did not, he did not, and he did not. Excellent goalkeeper, total prick.
Racing in Jamaica with Usain, beach volley in Rio and polo in Sao Paulo; where will that freeloading cunt “Prince” Harry “Windsor” turn up next, and which fawning fuckers will next celebrate the joyous honour of his presence? It’s impossible not to not wish ill on all concerned.
Our Brave Leader
Having lost his party, more or less, on the seaside over the weekend, Nick Clegg endures. To do something that he was not mandated to do, to do something that he was not elected to do, and to do something the members of his party wish he did not do. In his head, he’s a statesman fighting for what he believes is right, not easy – reforming the country in difficult circumstances. In our head, he’s a cunt, fighting for his own narcissism. What a beautiful time to be alive, men in thrall to their own power delivering policies nobody but the corporations and landed classes want.
Photo courtesy of Well Offside