John Nicholson

The bile is rising in Johnny's throat again. He gets angry at things so you don't have to. Read on for more foaming, sweary rants...


Money
The PFA apparently has some sort of deal with the Premier League which ensures that the players get first call on any money a club has. This means that Portsmouth have had to lay off 85 people to save money and yet have to pay John Utaka a wage so huge it alone could probably keep all of those people in work for a year. Lay off one rich man or 85 members of the labouring classes? Way to do solidarity with the workers, Gordon Taylor. Hang your head in shame.


Rock Me Baby
A player has scored. Great. But oh look at the a******e now. He's rocking a pretend baby! Either he or one of his mates has sprogged another infant to sap the planet of resources and harsh our buzz by crying in coffee shops and restaurants.

Well f****** done for having sperm and doing the most common thing on Earth, reproducing. Oh and EVERY OTHER F***WIT HAS DONE THIS CELEBRATION ALREADY!!! FOR NEARLY 20 YEARS!

Why not mime your over-made up bint actually giving birth instead? Get your legs up in some imaginary stirrups, son! At least it'd be f***in' original!


The Streak
A cheer goes up and there's a brief flash of flesh. It's a streaker! Yes! Go on, son! We all love streakers, so Mr TV Director, bloody well show them instead of panning away and pretending to be all snooty and prudish. Every game is improved by a fat man suffering from significant shrinkage; his penis crawling up into his pelvis as he evades stewards and police while doing a stark-naked version of the Lambada.

In fact, even a fully-clothed pitch-invader is tremendous entertainment if he's chased around the pitch like a rabid dog and then rugby-tackled. Let's actively give them the oxygen of publicity. F***ing killjoy TV directors, grow a pair and give us what we want and stop kow-towing to the disgusted of Tonbridge Wells brigade; it won't cause a riot. Very few of us want to strip naked and run onto a football pitch and we won't change our mind just because see someone else doing it.


You Better You Bet
The Betfair Front Room must be one of the most bilious exercises in advertising since the last time I saw that achingly forced, self-conscious, puke-inducing, Redknapp ad for being on f*****g holiday. So here we have some people who are, on the face of it, very easy to despise, being employed to make Betfair look like an attractive, macho way to throw your cash down the drain. I stare, mouth agape, wondering what the f**k is going on? I never even bought a Flake when the ads showed some lass in a field simulating fellatio, so I'm sure as hell not going to put a bet on because I've seen some cockney shouting on the telly. Shouting **** off you ******* ***** seems the only reasonable reaction.


Other Business: Non Football Anger

Queen Bitch
What is this f*****g idiotic trend for some women who, on hearing or experiencing something potentially slightly upsetting, start to make that flapping gesture with their hands around their eyes? Are your eyes hot or something, pet? Does hand-flapping delay the onset of tears? Or are you being a big f**king drama queen and copying some s**t you've seen on a soap opera or a hysterical chat show for the socially dysfunctional and intellectually challenged. I think we know the f***ing answer.


Rock 'n Roll Doctor
Had to go to the doctors this week due to a bout of tennis elbow caused by furious self-abuse or possibly by lifting weights in the gym. She looks at it and basically says there's not much she can do. She's typically watery and slightly patronizing, treating me like I'm 13 but scared to say or even do much, maybe in case I sue her, or this being Scotland, produce a knife and ask for heroin or that tanning drug that they shoot up in the west of Scotland ( I'm not kidding).

I suggest a massive shot of cortisone has fixed it before but she doesn't like doing that and I come away with the highly educated advice to take ibuprofen. F**k me! Run along sonny, you've had your six minutes, seemed to be the underlying vibe.

Last time I had this condition it was all different. I had a 20 stone doctor in Newcastle, 1979. He was called Sidney. He wore a three piece suit, had a watch on a chain tucked into his waistcoat pocket and held his trousers up with high-tensile braces stretched to capacity. He chain-smoked throughout a consultation and had an ash tray the size of a hub cap piled high with fag ends and ash. He was fantastic and would give you pretty much any drugs you wanted if you asked nicely.

He treated my tennis elbow by inserting a needle into my elbow joint and wiggling it around furiously. The cold steel burnt like a bullet.

"Yell when it hurts like f**k, kidda, that's where it needs to go," he said. Treated me like a man, even though I was 18 and wet behind the ears. And here's the thing, he f***ing cured it, whereas I'm sitting here with shooting pains down my right arm and no prospect of it ever ending.

God, I miss characters like him in public life. The world is full of corporate, bland people trying not to offend you, who end up offending you by being so f***ing bland. Came away missing Sid, depressed and f*****g annoyed.