Cod Almighty | Diary

Diary - Thursday 8 March 2012

8 March 2012

"Isn't it grand! Isn't it fine! Look at the cut, the style, the line!" The most remarkable set of proposals that they had ever seen. The trusty courtiers at the court of King Fenty cheered like mad, except one section of boys and girls. Well, as the King came by the boys and girls looked and, horrified, said: "Look at the King! Look at the King! Look at the King, the King, the King! The King is in the all together..." But no-one listened.

So eight out of ten lobotomised cats prefer to be neutered.

When the average Briton is confronted by numbers and monetary matters, their minds turn to mush and they just let the nearest snake charmer tell them what to do. And your average Town fan is a very average Briton. We'll let the reliably sane blog-chap at Too Good To Go Down give you reliable commentary on the least surprising news since teary old Vlad beat the odds to win, sorry, beat the odd protester to win back what he never lost.

Comrade John as a mini-Putin? You gotta be crazy? You betcha, my little droogs. I spy with my little eye an iron control of the message - through supine and cowed local media, no visible opposition and relying on the fear of unknown and vague threats of Armageddon without the great leader. Shall we wear black and white ribbons? We all look forward to pictures of a bare-chested Fenty riding his horse across the Freshney. Maybe he'll wear one of his Greenwoods cardigans if it gets a bit parky.

In the end nothing changes.

In a rare example of self-awareness and contrition, the FA has charged itself under Rule E20(A) for failing to ensure the referee conducted himself in an orderly manner in the Tussle of Tuesday, the Farrago at Fleetwood, that Bad Day near Blackpool. Oh no, my mistake. They're blaming us and being tardy about mardy Vardy's intimidation of Shouty. Someone really should do a statistical analysis of Fleetwood's dive-to-penalty ratio. And when that's done, we're sure that, at the end of the day, the answer would make Fergie and Caligula blush.

And finally, squirrel, we must end on a light note. There are no duck-walking surfers, or surfboarding ducks, but there is the curious case of John Van Engel, who believed in Marcel Cas's stories of fame, fortune and glory away from the fantastically and evocatively named Dutch Hoofdklasse, the highest tier of non-League football in The Netherlands. Swapping the bright lights of Boston for the dark misery of Kettering seems perfectly Dutch in its daft logic. Didn't Daft Logic play the Winter Gardens in 1987?

That was your Deviant Diary: don't give valuable time to people who don't care if Town live or die. Be careful out there.