In this season of good will to (nearly) all men, may I begin this rare outing in print by presenting my Sevco supporting readers (Sid and Doris Arsehole) with a Christmas card. It depicts a zombie Santa Claus, a zombie somebody else and a baby zombie who has been opening his presents under the tree. Always a difficult one, presents for zombies, as I’m sure you’ll agree. For my own zombie pals, like Ian here, I was going to get a few calculators to give out.
Jamesy, on the other hand, could possibly make more use of a dictionary. The poor lad’s brain went into meltdown when his beloved Sevco had a brief spell at the top of the league and he actually managed to confuse the dictionary with a library – understandable when you consider that Jamesy is most probably a stranger to both.
Leave it to Mossblown Loyal to explain the complexities of the league table:
If you’re anything like me you probably had to read that twice. But trust me, it doesn’t matter if you read it a hundred times, it’s still genuine Copeland Road frontier gibberish.
The trouble is, if you develop an allergic reaction to dictionaries, like Jamesy G, sometimes the words just don’t spring readily to whatever vegetation lies dormant inside your skull masquerading as a brain. Rossco seems to have contracted this malady, as he can’t distinguish between an implication and an implantation, such as when he heard that The Scotsman had run a story implying (or maybe implanting) that HMRC had overcharged Sevco in their last tax bill and they might be due a rebate:
Quite mad, indeed, when we stop to consider the implantations of it all. But I would like to reassure Rossco that if he thinks we’re mad then the feeling is mutual, just like football pundits are supposed to be. Actually I really have no idea what Sparess is trying to implant… er… imply about Chris Sutton, but when he is finished with the dictionary (mutual comes before neutral in the library as Jamesy would say, although Mossblown would possibly bring in quantum physics as well) perhaps he could lend it to the chap who irons the letters on the backs of the Sevco kit.
Naming somebody ‘Stewrat’ is not a good look, unless it’s some kind of bizarre homage to the movie Shrek (apologies to the player but I don’t know his actual name – like most of their current squad I wouldn’t recognise them if they got into my car and sat in the passenger seat.
If you do have a spare moment to yourself, dear reader, and fancy a shot at solving a real word puzzle then here’s a tweet from Nacho Novo, the subject of which is, I believe, his erstwhile business partner.
My guess was: ‘My partner and I are Finnish. I have not gone quietly. Do not take the pish out of me. Please no! Go, if you care about me. I am lost in love.” Try it yourself. Insert random punctuation and you can make lots of different messages. The implantations are endless.
No such ambiguity can ever be ascribed to our favourite poetess, Melody Bedford. At Christmas we should remember those whom we have loved and lost, and there is nobody better than Melody at cherishing the memory of the late Diana Spencer:
I’m pretty sure all sufferers from IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) take comfort at the thought of Lady Di as they are shitting themselves inside out in agony. Which brings me back to Christmas, and the ideal gift for the Sevconian in your life plagued with IBS:
That’s correct, a toilet door commemorating Barcelona 1972 complete with the words of a song recalling how the Spanish police were clubbing their supporters over the head at the time. Available from a company in Belfast. And for the staunchest Christmas ever, decorate the toilet with this tree. The poppies will remind you of the fallen reindeer and the gallant elves who died on Flanders fields.
Toodloo the Noo
and Merry Christmas