Have you ever been stoned off yer face an had a thousand brilliant hypotheses, but not wrote em down and consequently lost every last one of the fuckers, but it probably made no sense in the morning anyway, faded like a pair of Tesco jeans you’d mistook for Levis in the exploding firework tangents of THC to the brain insane as the scissoring tendrils of cosmic expansion fail to explain how the Milky Way is a giant spunk stain or why Rooney’s dustbin’s full of Rogain cuz he fink like Samson the hair is to blame for dippin form so he’s feelin shame that slavery to fame, of bein too tame when the television call his name out loud to the crowd an the furrow he’s ploughed might turn out bollocks like the Turin shroud, all for nowt, no doubt, runnin outta stout, givin grief to the thief when you’re low on beef an a thought gets caught in a coat you’ve bought like a moth, a sloth or unsightly wart, showbiz with no jizz, a frumpy block on yer granny-shaggin cock while yer screamin brood’s got one eye on the clock, an Fergie’s in the ear of the fourth official, claimin his outlook’s prejudicial and we’re deep – well deep – into injury time, playin like a team from the five n dime (a dozen), ten a penny its British cousin, Crossroads Benny with his broken antennae, against Norwich two but Arsenal many, so what’s the scrip, why the slip an when we goin see Nani flip, an Tony V beat fools for free, send crosses through’t mush to Little Pea; prays pre-game int centre circle cravin salvation like a newborn turtle crawlin to’t light in’t shimmerin sea whence all life sprang ‘cludin’ you n me, then bung – we’re talking Park Ji Sung – racin like a fish with a transplated lung, tearin like a greyhound whose arse got stung, by the knife n fork when the dinner bell rung he sends the ball to Ashley Young, with cheekbone frown an skin o’ brown he swerves inside an bends it round the goalie who is on his arse an sympathy is sparse, they’ve took it back to the middle, rarin to go like they’re on the fiddle, but they’re cookin on Calor, not short on valor, so let’s put some red in that prison pallor, those mind games forever, Ferg’s life endeavour, chippin away at whoever’s in second as the scousers’ perch it beckoned, now we’re scenario bestest-case, like a dirty big spiked mace on their stricken face, sad losers think they’re givin chase, United’s number one just in case, you didn’t notice an it’s fuckin ace, but countin chickens what the dickens plenty crumbs n finger lickins like the FA champs an Europa tramps, for second rate managers and their aide-de-camps, cos money’s not everythin it can’t buy love, an a hamstring’s just a hamstring innit, Guv, to the toppermost supporters of the biggest club where the dream is real an so’s the craic in’t pub, while the problem child refuses to go on as sub, so welcome to a place that’s small and wet, like the patch on yer sheet where you won’t beget, any fond memories cos they’ll all forget, an Carlos doesn’t want to be Mancini’s pet, giant ego maybe – but whingeing like a dingo took yer baby? – or Hart’s been replaced by Massimo Taibi, Hargreaves and Vieira (who’s changed his name to “Sarah”) are thinking MLS an a life in the Sierra, is preferable to Mancky, them fannies gone all yankee, but sunshine an ackers is another word for “knackers”, when yer peak has passed yer join the lower caste, Beckham stands aghast at English football’s motley mast, an its flag is flyin high, just a pound sign in the sky, for the mercenary type who are always on the gripe, they’re forever bendin rules an lookin down on mules, cos they’re thoroughbred twats with the morals of rats, keep their shit buried – just like fuckin cats, incapable of compunction, hid by super injunction, while they lappin up the choicest minge while you just get dysfunction.
Anyway, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by one of my eighty six other personalities, when you’re the worse for wear on the weed and the brain is exploding like Roman candles, each ball of coloured fire trailing new ideas outward, outward in jolting streams of realisation, you do start to have some funny thoughts. Everyone has an opinion, even if it’s just a carbon copy of the bloke’s next to you. Opinions lead to ideas, which cause people to develop new ways of doing things. For instance the other night I was talking to a spider about geology (or was it airbeds, I forget?) and it said something to me I’ll never forget: “Biggie Smalls is the illest.” Just like that, out of the blue. And the worst part was, its voice was identical to that of Emlyn Hughes, which kind of makes sense, but it was still unbelievable.