Sometimes, it's just a cigar

This is our truth, tell us yours

No, no, we’re playing in that direction….

This was going to be a celebration of the best media own goals of the year, including our friends and acquaintances in the new media.

Leader in the best own goal scored while believing you were actually achieving a great victory was going to be Glosswitch’s astonishing attack on Stavvers and others under the guise of re-defining talking about the sex you like as being a smugsexual. In the context of such a stunning volley into your own net from the halfway line the subsequent short term flounce from Twitter, followed by a re-appearance draped in an unapologetic amnesia about the whole thing was the goal celebration such a stunning effort deserved.

Unfortunately the award was snatched from Glosswitch’s grasping hands by this astonishing injury time effort by Waitrose, supermarket of choice for the pearl clutching minorities.

Instead, in honour of Caroline Criado_Perez and all the twitterati who sought their fifteen minutes of fame, let’s have a turn of the year poem for the people of the year, for all their slogans, and all their deeds, and then let’s forget them in favour of all the unsung heroes who spent their Christmas running crisis centres and foodbanks, and who’re even now getting their hi-vis on for another day of flood clearance and power line repairs, while the useful idiots of the BBC tell me how long the queue was at Next in Oxford Street and do pointless vox pops with anonymous consumers about their purchases.


Consider famous men, Dai bach, consider famous men,
All their slogans, all their deeds,
And follow the funerals to the grave.
Consider the charlatans, the shepherds of the sheep!
Consider the grease upon the tongue, the hunger of the purse!
Consider the fury of the easy words,
The vulgarity behind the brass,
The dirty hands that shook the air, that stained the sky!
Yet some there were who lived for you,
Who lay to die remembering you.

Mabon was your champion once upon a time
And his portrait’s on the milk-jug yet.
The world has bred no champions for a long time now,
Except the boxing, tennis, golf, and Fascist kind,
And the kind that democracy breeds and feeds for Haringey,
And perhaps the world has grown too bitter or too wise
To breed a prophet or a poet ever again.


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This entry was posted on December 26, 2013 by in Uncategorized.

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