Cod Almighty | Diary

Diary - Thursday 31 May 2007

31 May 2007

Your lunchtimes are no longer wastelands of salad, sausages and surfing, for abnormal service has been resumed. Hi-di-hi campers, it's Deviant Diary with a medley of summer fruit for your dessert, or an oasis of fruity summer froth in a desert of facts.

In the years since our ships passed on the river Babbelot the wonderful world of Buckley has moved on from stop-motion inaction to digitally-enhanced rumour. Let's dive into the desperate pool of despond and dross.

Lincoln fans are agog and awash with wailing gnashers at the thought of captain Paul Morgan's ruminations. He wants to move home, towards Manchester, for family reasons (babelfish translates that into English as "I've spoken to Big Keef at Bury"). Another day, another thought. "If Grimsby want to speak to me I'd certainly listen to what they'd have to say". Now if that ain't a binding verbal contract (with one year option) I don't know what is. You want substance to your idle gossip? Well, his fiancée has withdrawn her application to transfer to the Lancashire Constabulary, you know. So he's going to Boston then.

Ah Boston, such happy memories of six points and six-shooting down in the badlands. Are we happy or sad? Why, oh tell me Steve, why do people break up? No longer the Fat Fenland Fraudster, but now the biggest creepy Crawley of them all. Oh dear.

Alan Buckley has been talking to people. Three keepers, two strikers and an Alan Partridge DVD. Ah-ha! so who's been buying a Ginster's pasty and a bunch of flowers for the missus at the infamous petrol station at the end of the A180? Who said Danny Coyne? He's off to coin it somewhere else, where the benches are padded and the cheques dangle brightly. Let's just wait, shall we.

Positively fourth street John has been blathering on again, for he wants us all to be together in his concrete dreams. The clone dome moves ever nearer in his own mind, which makes one wonder why they are bothering to waste money on the old pitch. A couple of bags of grass seed, two forks and twenty tonnes of chicken droppings are, like love, all you need. So why has he got himself a big ten-four convoy of tractors and has his staff seeding four ways. In certain Scottish isles, and Immingham, that's still illegal.

And the GET wheel out their weekly update on Curtis Flophouse, the flipping flapping pugilist. Why should we care about, if I may say so minister, a here today, gone tomorrow footballer? I'd rather read in-depth analysis of John McDermott's shrubbery (rear garden). I bet he uses chicken droppings.