Do we dometimes trep ta roe an wehg ‘n tourp hca fghro shfan. OK, *dusts self off* let me start that again. Ah might a bin movin a bit too rapid fer meself there. Tonight “Mad Men” Season 5 began with a 2-hour special. Don Drapegoat and Co. schmoozing and snorting vodka like water. The amount of cigs and booze they get through is a trifle much innit? No wonder Drapegoat looks half-pissed all the time. Being a working class hero, you’ll prefer the stuff with the hops and barley but ‘ave yer ever tried Chilean Charlie? Bizarrely, a feller ridin’ a Harley, face all gnarly, agreed to a parley where they played Bob Marley, birds swingin’ some major rackage, game for delivery of a backstage package, key by the three, talc on yer goatee, calm the fuck down Tatlock, you’ll be an amputee, these brethren of Little Pea blow up like TNT, The Nameless Thing, walkin’ with the king, put your head in a sling, fire it cross the border like the fucker got wings. Yeah, I know; I love Chicharee, getting poofy for he, that lesbian lookalike glowin’ like Chablis, but what about Tony V, confidence like a .50 BMG, goin’ rat-a-tat-tat, take that yer twat, tearin’ 600 new arseholes in Balotelli’s hat, and I know this is pathetic – do the arithmetic, I’m a childish old cunt but I’m unapologetic. Some of you probably really thought I was an international gangster there, but I’m not. No, honest, really, I’m not even Mexican. I’m just all hopped up on Chilean Charlie. You heard it here first, you savage red bastard. *grinds teeth* That’s right, I’m overlapping into the sordid world of #internewt symbolisms, an amphibious realm where the mudflats meet the pissflaps in the poison penalty area studded with potholes near Tockholes. Sorry, I promise I’ll try to stop doing that.
It’s tense as we enter the final furlong, with just United and city neck and neck like two beasts on a rancid racecourse nostrils flaring flanks streaked with blood and sweat trailing steaming lashing tails crowds bawling and shouting having a flutter don’t stutter you nutter one step from the gutter with dogshit a clutter a cutter through butter like Tiger Woods’ putter you’ll feel the steel hear the spiel when the Bittermen kneel at the heel of Emile as the lights congeal on the silver trophy makin an appeal to a dude named Kofi an shady deals with firms like Sanofi for superdrugs that go under the radar from Sarajevo to Zadar, can’t run can’t hide yo comin on the ride legs astride sacrifice a virgin bride on an altar stone she layin prone feel the nose-cone hear the drone Red Devil make her moan from Salford Quays to the Andes we got the candies from Nam to the Dam we behaving like Zandies, so Google that you twat or ask David Platt a buh beh jeh deh guguh de lat yeah that’s scat, cat, but it make no sense so up against the fence an drop the pretence it should be an offense to be so dense but yo blue Magoo so Zou Bisou Bisou feast yer eyes on the prize we nineteen you two so what you gonna do when the Roon bites you like Shamu with his trainer it’s a no-brainer the galaxy is a planar swirling container a dervish entertainer with ziggurat insaner than the rabble an their babble spittin words like scrabble come an have a dabble Bertie Bitter Ferg’s no quitter chasin triumphs broadcast from the Crystal Palace transmitter raisin a titter to litter the sky like glitter when we reds dance and advance like a knight with a lance viewed askance by the giants of France Germany Spain where Andean cocaine arrives on the plane up the arse of the mule they call Raoul poor fool be pickin it out of his stool an bound for Liverpool no money for fuel just two Berretas some poorly scrawled letters an a suspicion his betters are bad bedwetters it’s Chilean Charlie drivin yer barmy fer Isabel Sarli from Medellin to Cali throw in the towel yer hybrid monkey-owl a scat cat sat on a rat whose stalkin a gecko that looks like Deco but it’s really Edin Dzeko an there’s nowhere to run to baby nowhere to hide it’s a nause with no get-out clause running into quicksand that looks like mint sauce man city are shite they’re collapsing as I write cos now is the zeit when Fergie’s Army bite in vintage black an white like the Orca with a ragdoll they need more than panadol to salve this pressure valve our candle too hot to handle an we carryin it through scandal like a vandal nerves of steel an yeah the Bittermen will kneel. Well, after that blast of utter nonsense the last eight people who bother to read me will finally throw the towel in as my fellow wordcunts of United We Stand rejoice in my final destruction. Or not. Do zombies fart?
Tags: alex ferguson, cocaine, edin dzeko, little pea, manchester city, Manchester United, mexican gangsters, sanofi, sarajevo, stream of consciousness, zou bisou bisou