Cod Almighty | Diary

Mulling over the whines

20 December 2016

Yes Minister, what can be more British than swearing at an oaf.

Good morning, good morning to you all in the pre-Christmas dead zone where everybody knows there's nothing doing and everyone you see is half asleep. Rest easy, my fellow travellers on the Grimsby train, ‘tis the season of slightly less ill-will, so that wasn’t a reference to Hurst’s Minstermen midfield stocking-fillers and caterpillars. Your Deviant Diary simply has got nothing to say. But it’s okay, there’s no fake news here. This elite bubble of enlightened Guardian-eating yoghurt readers will ramble on to fix your hole in the day. Now’s the time, the time is now.

Omar’s favourite cheese is "melted".

Just the facts, Jack.

Shall we dig deeper into our secret Santa sack of news? Yo-ho-ho. Well children a car has broken down on the A15, there’s some roadworks near Tesco, but let’s just skate over the usual litany of local low-lifery.

Oh, but what’s this? There’s something from the weekend? I know because I saw it (on YouTube), I can't simply ignore it. Ahkeeeeeeem Rose scored again for the youthers against York and your own, your very own SNOS is bigging up the buzz on the boy. Well, it’s better than brooding over Bogle, or berating Berrett. Look to the future now, perhaps Ahkeeeeeeeem has only just begun.

Where next for non-news? We’re a long way from home, welcome to the pleasuredome. It always rains on Rodney Parade so the Nabobs of Newport are building a dome over their mudheap. Is that a cut above Gateshead’s laser-levelled pitch of doom? Movin’ on, keep movin’ on.

Perhaps it’s a yurt. Or is that something you find in Hull Marina?

Ok, what’s next?

Notts County have been sold up or down the river again and Carlisle are the latest to have mysterious foreign investors swirling around their boudoir, all twirling moustaches and silver-tipped chicanery. The uncrumbling Cumbrians are worried that Cheese Curle may get chopped. It does put old flaky Fentycon into some kind of perspective. Ours is a local shop for local people.

You know, there’s far too much football these days, but not enough Town games. This Football League lark is short-changing us. Oh how we pine for the days of yore when we had two games every week and enough change from the turnstile to buy a pie. Even the festive fixture list is languid and leisurely: Monday-Saturday, Monday-Saturday. Bring back fixture congestion, it’s a core British value we can all swear by.

Stop, that’s enough. I’m under orders to eat cake today. It’s the most wonderful time of the year.