Cod Almighty | Diary

We love you, that's why we're here

1 July 2020

So the youngsters have struck for BAME and Aaron Lennon's on sale again. And what have we learned this week? Mason Mount doesn't sweat for 72 hours; of this he's sure, for men.

Apparently on a clear day you can see Barnard Castle from St James' Park, if your eyesight is up to it.

Yeah, the thing is, right, my blood's so mad, feels like coagulatin' and I'm sittin' here, just contemplatin'. I can't twist the truth, it knows no regulation for, as predictably predictable and predicted in this very diary spot by this very Deviant Diary, the Premiership is boring the ants off the televised pants. Even Jermaine Jenas at his most earnestly earnest couldn't enliven a desultory Saturday evening watching the defectives. He's like a 21st century schizoid Trevor Brooking, but without the danger. He gives bland a bad name.

I particularly enjoyed his hipster reference to Barry Maquire as the beating heart of the Groan U defence. Or maybe the Beeb's JJ Blooper was subtly sending out an SOS to the world with his message from the media bubble - we are on the eve of destruction.

Let's not be bedazzled by the little piggies of the Premiership crawling in their dirt. We, the people, shall arise once more!

Ah, Rick Parry, so you're back from outer space. I just walked in to find you with that sad look upon your face and blubbering about regional football. Let's take him at his sad face value – he's against going back to the 50s, as things stand, on what he knows, at the moment. Who could ask anyone to stand on principle any more than that; he's practically manning the barricades.

Saturday night the air was getting hot but a hollowed out Holloway was deflating live and exclusive on Quest, dribbling some dodgy stats on season ticket refunds. Well, he does sup from the same spoon as the local TopCons. Maybe fibbing is infectious.

And if you really want to wallow in nostalgia, what about the Jolley times? We can thank Mickey J for ensuring we didn't have the financial hell hole of a hollow play-off place. Poor old Exeter, all that expense and effort for nothing but half a page of scribbled lines tucked inside the backside of newspapers. What they didn't need was a darn good thrashing.

If there's unconscious racial bias in commentary what about written word reporting? How does our own output stand up under that blazing spotlight? Are we institutionally blind to our own institutional racism? High up here on our petard can we see where the sun don't shine? A scientifically dubious and in no way independent cursory canter through the Boy Butcher's compendium of cobblers, that 20 years of blurt, reveals that, like Mr Mackay, he's firm but fair and treats them all with equal contempt. What's wrong with a little institutional misanthropy between trends?

You know marches alone can't bring integration, not when human respect is disintegratin'. See, it's not about races: just places, faces.

Well, there's a dozen deep nods and winks to dodgy popular culture for you to disentangle over lunch. Can you tell what it is yet?