A crappy thought stopped me in my tracks the other day. Pacing the homestead like a frustrated Pacman waiting for United to kick off, I remembered I was going to die. I’d totally forgotten about that. Ruined my fucking day to be honest. When I mentioned it to my mate The Chilean he laughed in my face. “Death?” he said. “What a pile of shit that is!” The Chilean reckons death’s an illusion invented by what he calls “our serpent overlords”. We were already on two feet when snakes appeared a million years ago. No wonder we’re fascinated and repulsed by the slippery fuckers from cradle to grave.
Serpents and death, we’re ruled by at least one of them. If entire regions of the planet suddenly began to die; soils, trees, animals, fungi, that’d wake people up. Especially if you were forced by law to share your house with all the refugee type cunts that were being displaced by it. Queuing up to use your own toilet is bollocks, but large scale disaster is nowt new. The bible described a worldwide deluge survived by natural enemies capable of living together in an ark. That would be like us cooperating with Scousers to solve a problem. But those ancients who wrote the bible had their own bible; a book of horror from the dawn of time. The Epic of Gilgamesh it was called and we should remember its lessons. If not we might well end up cooperating with Scousers.
Gilgamesh, or to use his full name, David Gilgamesh, thought he could oppress the citizens. He presided over the First City on Earth (as opposed to “the City of Firsts”). He had big ideas, such as taking the piss out of a famous resource the people held dear; the Cedar Forest, a beautiful expanse of potential red lumber guarded by a ferocious ogre. Despite being tastier than a Yankee Stadium hot-dog, the ogre was leathered by Gilgamesh and his mate, the forest pillaged for all it was worth. An environmental catastrophe The Chilean doesn’t like the sound of. I likened it to the rape of United and explained to him there was talk of befriending the Scousers. He ranted, “Cats living with dogs…it’s not right!” from behind 3-D glasses, hopping between browsers on his PC like it was a pinball machine, twelve tabs open in each, displaying Red Sox v. Yankees tickets. He got his tickets, and will probably get a few beers and a hot-dog between innings an’ all.
Football’s impending apocalypse was caused by football taking things for granted. Like season tickets; we live in an age where people still drag their sweaty carcasses to OT, obliged to watch matches IN PERSON. United take them for granted. They think they’ll always be slavering at the turnstiles like grinning clots with brain issues. In “the future” the process of obtaining tickets to games will be very different. When you browse Viagogo there’ll be little teaser videos you can click on and watch – videos of FUTURE matches, like trailers from movies. You’ll be able to see part of what happens, the odd goal, etc, and decide whether you can be arsed going. At least that’s what The Chilean reckons. He reckons we’ll become too much of a handful for the serpent overlords and they’ll be forced to gift us time travel, albeit in this shitty monetised form. Those without tickets can be plugged into an instrument that virtually places them there, maybe even lets them see the game through the eyes of a star player, for a price. At that point will it matter if it’s real or just the Matrix? All the pie-buyers, those passionless puppets, may as well be watching a virtual football match anyway. After all, reality’s just electrical impulses. Billions of rods and cones transmitting the action to the back-ends of their brains. Slack-jaws-a-plenty with green and gold upon them, enjoying their pies more than the match itself. Must be some fucking good pies, that’s all I can say. Once the serpent overlords give us the technology no-one will ever miss out on “being there”. It’ll be like the second coming of some kind of Rave Jesus, breaking capsules instead of bread and fishes, making the E go a long way. Feeding five thousand Gregory Pecks with dancing dust, or virtual match-going experiences, turning 80 thousand tickets into 80 million. For now, though, you’ll just have to heave your sweaty arseholes onto those plastic seats and not buy a pie at halftime.
But back to Gilgamesh, his mate and you the ogre – tastier than a Yankee Stadium hot-dog – that failed to protect the thing held dear, the self-proclaimed “biggest football club in the world”; looted, exploited and left decked in Norwich colours with an Old Trafford pie in its hand and a replica shirt on. Which brings me to the next order of business: How WANK is the current United top? Seriously, was that chest stripe fashioned from excess cloth off old women’s pseudo-velvet cat-suits from the ‘70s? Park and Evra resemble Star Trek Enterprise personnel, the kind that are engulfed by living slime within the first 6 minutes. By which I mean those two look the BEST out of the fucking team when in that shirt. I’m positive the club are copping some sort of benefit from Nike on the strength of agreeing to it. Would that surprise you? It’s something to think about while you sell retro Adidas trainers on EBay, moan about pie-buyers, and defend the rights of Thompson and Venables with fellow queergoats. Frankly, you disgust me.
David Gilgamesh is the scab you think is a crow; you keep picking at him and wondering why he won’t go away, and you end up with the aroma of Malted Milk and dogshit occupying your nostril. You’ve tried stickers, protests, FCUM, G&G, and even discussed co-operating with Scousers, but nothing has worked to exorcise Gilgamesh from the babble turrets and quadrants of OT. Perhaps religion will work…The Manchester United Sacred Trifecta is trotted out on clacking hooves – the Father, the Son and the Holy Goat: Busby, Best and Giggs. Unfortunately, the goat’s been got at, gagged by the arrogant scab, Gilgamesh, in his attempt to defy the football gods.
I know, I’m boring you. I’m boring myself if I’m honest. I usually go online and do what any red-blooded man does when he’s bored. That’s correct; GoDaddy, to check out what domains are available. I had a butcher’s on there today. “Hmmm, spazchariot.com is available…not bad…” I mumbled. The Chilean pipes up, “Has spazchariotsoffire.com been taken? THAT definitely has possibilities…” I imagined travelling the UK offering to paint flames trailing from the front wheel of peoples’ spacker-chackers. Taking photos of them with the owner grinning from behind handlebars of mayhem. I could post videos and photos on the website. Possibilities, definitely. Maybe I could move back to England and earn some money at that. The Chilean is machine-gunning his keyboard, going, “As your attorney I advise you to buy that domain and hit Limeyland with a ton of cocaine – Oh, wait, there’s already a Facebook group for it. Never mind.” So, bored again, we embark on a fierce attempt to properly analyse Planet X and what it means for our serpent overlords when it finally arrives in 2012. The Chilean explains that there’s an underground war currently taking place between the Greys, the Mantids, and of course the reptilian illuminati which emerged from the OT darkness in the form of David Gilgamesh.
I told The Chilean about rumours of an internal war raging deep beneath the great theatre between two different species of stewards. One species committed to total domination and the other determined to fight for our right to obscure the scoreboard with green and gold banners. I began to daydream, delusions of grandeur…me in full battle dress above the crowd, fighting the evil species. The Chief Steward hissing at me like a snake in the melee, thinking no-one can hear him, “Weee willl con..trrrolll yoooo….weee willl ssssuck thisss cllubb drrryyy…”
“Too late Buster,” I tell him, holding up a phonecam, “I’ve just beamed you live to a fifty foot screen in Piccadilly Gardens where it’s driving an immense crowd mad with hate.” And he just stares and stares at me in disbelief (mainly ‘cos he’s never been called “Buster” before) and he knows I’ve got him by that worn-out scaly nub he calls his balls. Then a great roar goes up and the crowd floods the streets, fighting the evil steward species hand-to-hand. The Piccadilly lot have reached OT now, assailing the inner sancta, soiling the reptilian buffets and pummelling the serpent overlords. The police are moving into position, trying to decide whether to let people buy chips or not at the top of SMBY, or whether to stop our army as it moves in the opposite direction towards Salford. There are shouts, screams, low-flying black choppers and the acrid stench of chemicals coming off the Ship Canal. I’m flying a vast gold and green flag from a huge gilded pole, but the evil ones are pushing us closer and closer to the water’s edge…and then they see it: A mass of spaz chariots, spaz chariots of fire pouring round the corner from White City, so many spaz chariots that the mind boggles. The serpent overlords embedded in the crowd begin to panic and a new fight erupts. The reptiles are jumping into the canal to escape but the spaz chariots just follow them right in; an endless battery of fiery plops, like penguins off an iceberg, each one exploding in the water and lighting up the area with a livid incandescent flash. I see David Gilgamesh clinging to a sinking chariot, begging to be rescued, but Granville Boden roars out of the darkness in a stolen Reliant Robin, launches his three-wheel steed off the quay and straight down onto Gilgamesh’s screaming head.
Then there’s a tap on my shoulder. It’s The Chilean. “As your attorney,” he says, “I advise we drink many Margaritas at Pancho Loco’s bar. Drown your sorrows after findin’ that domain’s worthless”. And I’m back in The Now, somehow…
