NEWS LATEST

Male cuts off penis in eating establishment. After having his car confiscated this male member of society decided to get real. He cut his penis away. He wanted, it is reported, to show himself as a real man without car. Afterwards, as he wept, a BUN reporter heard him say " It was never really mine anyway". When asked why he did this act in public he replied that it "was to educate" and "to make a stand".

At the same time the hospitals are full of patients suffering from trauma. It seems that many of the females, in that big London restaurant, were shocked. A Doctor there said that there were two categories of trauma. The first and the largest in number was a kind of penis envy that was so badly taken away through such an awful act. Lost now in a lost world was how one therapist described it. The second was a kind of self-hatred because many had wanted to do this act themselves but had never quite found the wherewithall to actually do it. So far penis meat has not hit the headlines but it may not take too long before it hits the menu. ( not sure what to mix it with however but .... we wait...)

Anyway London is full to the brim with trauma cases right now. Tourist agents advise the routes to Manchester where the penis syndrome has yet to be discovered and where the football is better. But then it all depends on your character and your taste.

I did try to send this male penis cutter to all the Awks but I was too slow it seems. He only got to Yellow Duck and then blew a big wobbler.
This is not to blame Yellow Duck, of course, but a question has been raised, in the higher ponds, as to the side-effects of the "Pond".

All ABOUT FOOTBALL

That old "BOLDSCOT" has been at me agin. Demands more chat about football. He talks of a hero, Jim Baxter, who was in the bar boozing when he should have been playing. He talks of his opportunity on the pitch as Baxter gets pissed. How true to life and how wonderful. Jim Baxter was one of the best "half-back" players ever to be on display and he rates in any world top twenty. Like a good football player he liked his booze. Rugby players only tried to keep up. But our very own "BOLDSCOT" went onto the field and replaced his hero with himself and all this through popular demand. The rumour is that he did very well. BoldScot remembers it still today after all those years. To stand in for a hero is wonderful and a working class hero is something to be.

Had a similar experience myself once. To stand in the shoes of a hero is ........... let us just say memorable.

SNIPPETS FROM A SPORTING LIFE
It is Saturday today and after a long week is is good to get into something less serious and more sporting. I will scribble a few things about football. But first why football?

My school years, or what I remember of those years, were times of hell and fury or times of boredom and waste. I was never big enough to play good rugby but somehow the school kept me in their team. Damn them. it was hell. The "up and under" stuff hurt. Too many times I stood waiting for that high ball to descend into my shaking arms as the mob rushed towards me. Courage I used to say to myself. Get ready for that clean catch and dig that booted heel into the turf. But always, if I remember, the mob crashed down on me before I had that safe heel dug dowm. Black and blue and bones crunched by the mob. Later I managed to get transfered to the wing. Thought I could dodge and out run those hefty types. Same again. Crunch. Black and blue. So rugger is not really a good happening for my Saturday
Cricket? I guess OK when batting or bowling but for the rest total boredom. Never understood why those white clothes were necessary either because they always turned out with green stains or red-ball stains. The food was also over-rated. So football it will be today.
My earliest memories of football are simple and wonderful. Lads just playing on the grass with the basic minimum of equipment. Just one ball needed. Goal posts were clothes thrown into two piles at each end of the field. Later I was to play for money as a semi-professional and that helped my beer consumption stay at a reasonable level during university. But after two broken legs it was advisable to quit or just watch. I did that for awhile until I became fed up wuth the loutish behaviour of too many.
As a young child going to a football game would be a social happening. Young kids would be passed down to the front on the heads and shoulders of the big men. They helped us see the game that way. Alas that sociable behaviour vanished. But there were fun memories of loutish behaviour too.
A young university student, a female, asked me to take her to a football game. I was the gentleman, of course. She was a rather sheltered woman more into "posh" things than football. Anyway she merged with the standing crowd and began to talk loudly in a posh accent. This was a mistake. After many awkward looks from around I knew I ought to advise her to be quiet. Too late. She turned to me and said : " Somebody has pissed on my legs". I escorted her away and home. She never spoke to me again.

Oh another memory too with my own loutish behaviour this time. I was playing at right back and the winger from the opposing team was well known. He was fast and agile and very good at fooling defenders. The manager gave me orders. Take that winger out as soon as possible he said to me. he is too dangerous. So I began the game in a hard way. I gave little or no joy to that fast super winger and I was there, at him, even before the ball reached him. I was, at it were, biting his legs. But according to one spectator from the stands I was a "paid monkey". He rushed out from the stands and over the rails and attcked me shouting "monkey...monkey". The winger smiled at me. I had been biten now and in front of the spectators. My poor image! Humbled.

What else do you expect on a Saturday?