Football or Bust?

We are now at the half way mark in the Fifa World Cup. Hexhamite knows, because despite his detestation of the “Sport of Plebs”  it has been all but impossible to avoid the wall-to-wall media coverage given to this Festival of Poop.

I also gleaned that the bloke with a face like a potato did not live up to the expectation engendered by his colossal salary and the England manager is at risk of losing him job for failing to produce a world class team from a sows ear. Oh yes, and some hombre is receiving police protection because he did not award a hoop to “our boys” in some game or other. Apparently the hoi polloi were a tad miffed by this.

There are so many things about the Carnival of Shite that could raise my temperature, if only I cared. However, I fail to understand why the bourgeois get so excited by this interminably dull game. Why does anybody care about Dwayne Rooney's metatarsal or that Frank Limpdick did not score or that Tiddler Taylor is servicing Jimbo Jockstrap's NAG? (is that the expression they use?) Because they have no lives? The whole thing is simply a bloated soap opera in which the principles are paid the equivalent of a third world country's GDP to under perform.

But they are “our boys” I'm told. Our finest young men who represent national pride. The best of a generation blah blah. Rubbish! From where I am standing they look like a bunch of iritating millionaire wide boys who spend ninety minutes a week hoofing an inflated bladder around a field.

No, what has really boiled my urine has been the reaction of certain fans to England's heave-ho from the Jamboree of Feculence. The ones who paid five thousand notes to travel to  South Africa and are now bleating that the England manager (the one who looks like Garey Busey in The Buddy Holly Story) should reimburse them because his team failed to reach the final. England's ejection means they have had to cut short their drunken jaunt and come home early!

Quite apart from the staggering delusion these people are under (did anyone REALLY believe that our third rate squad of tossers were going to go all the way?), are these peasants really suggesting that there is now no reason to see out their holiday because “our boys” are no longer in the competition?

South Africa, one of the most staggeringly beautiful countries in the world? Africa's cradle of culture? A land so vast you could spend a thousand lifetimes there and never behold  all its wonder. But it's not worth seeing because our contingent of deadbeats are no longer kicking a leather blister around the park?

Are they for real? Would they cut short a holiday to New York, because the Empire State Building is no longer the tallest in the world?  Probably. This sums up the mentality of the commonality. Nothing matters but football. Arseholes.

Summer Scum

Aah, the first signs of Summer are here. The days are becoming long and sultry. Nights are sweaty and uncomfortable. Young ladies in flimsy summer dresses show off milk bottle white legs. Kiddies splash about in paddling pools. The dog lolls his tongue. Thoughts turn to firing up the barbecue and inviting the neighbours round for a beer and a burger. There is every possibility (with a bit of luck) you might poison the boss with a piece of undercooked chicken. Happy days.

Yeah right. You know that Summer is drawing near when after the first two consecutive rain free days of the year every white trash yobbo feels it is his solemn duty as an alpha male to strip off his shirt and parade around the town in all his semi-naked glory.

You cannot venture out without running a disgusting gamut of sweaty, tattooed oikdom, all crappy ripoff adidas clothing, I.Q.'s lower than a pensioners tits, and uglier than a hatfull of ass. They roam the city centres in herds like bare chested townie adonises, reeking of counterfeit Hugo Boss aftershave and cheap cider. Presumably exposure of the torso is part of a primitive mating ritual along the lines of, “If I takes my shirt off and shows my sixpack, den all da bitches will be gagging for it, innit.”

Yes it's warm, but for fucks sake! At least we can be grateful that the female of the species usually keeps (most of) her clothes on. Albeit these consists of a sleeveless vest and a white denim skirt that covers barely a quarter of her thighs, meaning that when she farts the skirt will reveal all. Phat clunge!

You have to pity the poor sods who use public transport during the summer. Fine weather guarantees that our buses and trains are packed to the rafters with these untermenschen flocking to seaside hellholes, erm... that is, hotspots like Seaton Carew. Imagine being crammed into a sweltering coach with no hope of escape from the stench of musky perspiration and being assaulted by the tinny sounds of So Solid Crew and Blazin' Squad emanating from a Motorola Razr V3i Gold D&G! Or worse, having to sit on a seat previously occupied by Bazza and Britny. You could catch a very nasty dose of chav.

No normal, self-respecting person goes around half-clad like this. You wouldn't go into the bank shirtless, or pop down to the post box with your wedding tackle swinging in the breeze. Hopefully you don't dangle your baps over the cold meat counter in Sainsburys. Decent people understand about modesty and decorum.

The uncomplicated, uninteresting and wholly unneeded Neds of urban Britain think it is elegant to amble around the Kwik E Mart with their out-of-a-bottle tanned (or never-been-washed grey) flesh on full display. Of course their idea of living is hanging around outside the local chip shop, car park or McDonalds shouting abuse at anyone not wearing burberry, drinking stolen alcohol and smoking/sniffing/trying to fuck drugs. That's real class.

Change Your Attitude

“I'm sure they pick the grumpiest ones they can find.” How many times have you spoken or heard someone else articulate those words? The curmudgeonly target of your ire is almost certainly a bus driver or train conductor. They've almost become a cliché.

How many times have you waited, hand outstretched with a fistful of cash and been astonished to have your head bitten off by the ticket collector? I am certain that at some time you have gone home and complained to your loved ones about the ferocious bus driver who remonstrated with you in front of a charabanc full of commuters. You may even have made a complaint to the transport company about the rudeness of their staff.

Did he wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Has his wife just left him for the milkman? Has he got toothache or a case of Delhi Belly? Is he just a terminally bad tempered old fart? No! I'll tell you what is wrong. It's you.

What's that you say? I haven't done anything wrong. I'm just trying to get to my destination and this officious oaf is being as unhelpful as possible. Think again buddy. It is 100%, unequivocally, irrefutably and entirely your fault.

I can see you shaking your head. Hexhamite must have lost the plot . He should be on our side. How can Mr Angry possibly be siding with the Transport Gestapo?

I repeat, if you've had a bad experience with a bus driver or train conductor then as sure as day follows night the fault lies at your feet, and the problem will have started before you boarded whichever clapped-out mode of transport you have deemed worthy of your patronage.

Open your hand. See that crumpled banknote? There is your problem. When Hexhamite was a boy and God still wore short trousers, it was considered extremely rude to get on a bus without the correct fare. If you did not have coins you went and bought a newspaper or a tube of extra strong mints so that you did. Expecting the conductor to provide change of more than £1 was unheard of.

In today's overly affluent, me-first society, showing such consideration is scoffed at. Handing over a £10 or £20 note for a £1.30 fare is the norm. Today's punter does not grasp the notion that a conductor carries a float. He is not a bloody bank!

When he asks if you have any smaller change, what do you reply? I was running late? The ticket office was closed? I usually have change? Not my problem? I thought you carried a float? Can't you do the rest of the tickets and return with my change? Everyone else is certain to have change.

95% of the idiots travelling our networks think this way and there is no acceptable excuse. It is discourteous and inconsiderate. See the Conductors point-of-view, and be grateful that the worse he does is scowl. You deserve a fat lip.

Chimps On Push Bikes

I hate BMX bikes and the people who ride them. Really, truly loathe them. Bicycle motocross? My arse! How can it be a motocross when it does not have an engine? It is not even a proper bicycle. The BMX was designed as a toy for children too young for proper motocross, who fancied hopping over a few jumps.

Somehow this prepubescents plaything has become the preserve of teenage show-offs and street urchins. The ragamuffins who congregate in gangs around shopping precincts, doing 180 barspins and annoying decent people. You know, underclass scumbags who think they are cool. They are too stupid to realise that when you reach your late teens and are pushing six feet, you do not look cool on a cycle designed for a six year old. You look precisely what you are - a lanky chimp on a push bike.



The BMX is not designed to be ridden. No one goes out for a ride on a BMX. They pootle about, do tricks and jumps. Trash it down some steps or clatter off a park bench. But nobody uses it to get from A to B.

Yesterday I spoke with two kids on a train who were dragging their two wheeled pieces of junk along for the ride. They were only travelling one stop and the journey was less than two miles, so I asked them why they did not simply cycle. The reason given, (and delivered entirely without irony) was that the bikes only have one gear which would make it too difficult to climb the big hill they would encounter on the way home.

Aside from a damning indictment of the fitness of the modern youth, this proved what I have always believed. These things are no good for anything other than performing circus tricks and crashing off curbstones. Because the wheels are so stupidly small, it takes ten times the effort to pedal the damned thing the same distance as a proper bike.

This is why snot nosed punks are forever pleading with train conductors to be allowed to take their BMXs on busy commuter trains. One of my favourite sights is seeing their faces as he tells them the train only carries two bicycles. They argue feverishly over who gets to travel, then six or seven are left on the platform looking sick as chips while the train pulls away. They should get themselves proper bicycles. The exercise would do them good.

Later the same afternoon I watched a man board a train with his BMX. He must have been about 40 and weighed as many stone. Union Jack t-shirt and Burberry flat cap. Visualise Dom Deluise in denim Bermuda shorts. Rakishly unshaven and studious round glasses. The type of guy who thinks he's still one of the kids. Typical BMX bandit. Possibly the most tragic looking loser I have ever seen.

If you are older than 12 you really should not be riding a BMX. It's not big. It's not clever.