Saturday 02 February 2013

Cultch Vultch

I was quietly confident that I could satisfy some cultural spaces today. Given that I had all day to myself surely I could do some good reading, watch some interesting films or TV or write something other than an essentially unnecessary blog.

Amazingly I did start off with some purpose. I got up and walked to the Post Office depot to collect a missed parcel. All pretence of a queue had been abandoned. At first I was (internally) outraged. However it proved irrelevant as the counter people took the cards of everyone in there. There was a small amount of unfairness about the whole thing but the kind of unfairness that people are prepared to cope with, like the working classes being crushed rather than something like people getting more Olympics tickets than other people which almost caused the collapse of British society.

This was fine, a fine day. I’d stretched my legs and got some fresh air and it was still not midday. There was plenty of time left. I would definitely be able to do some reading, watch a film up for awards and start on Utopia. The only way I could mess that up would be to watch about 14 episodes of The Big Bang Theory, some American football documentaries, live rugby and United play Fulham.

I did all them things. That was why I wrote it like that. Think about it, why else would I have written that? They were hardly the ONLY things I could do to mess it up were they?

Let’s not make out that I was a complete slave to not achieving anything: I did TWO washes as well as watch all that TV.


As I drifted into the wee small hours Twitter told me that The Sunday Mirror was running a story that the former footballer Paul Gascoigne was classified as high risk by those who knew him. The suggestion was that he was teetering on the edge of drinking himself to death. This started some people saying it was a disgrace that he wasn’t getting more help, certainly from the PFA.

I hope Gazza sorts himself out. I know he probably wont. More realistically, I just hope he doesn’t die too soon too horribly. But I hope people don’t go on about no-one wanting to help. He has certainly been in treatment many times in the past. He also burned through millions by not treating the money with any respect (too generous for his own good apparently, i.e. people bled him dry and took a lot more than they should have but don’t want to feel any responsibility for their actions).

The PFA is surely there to support those who aren’t earning the top money but who find themselves in hard times due to injury and illness and not someone who is apparently incurable and wasted money by buying loads of people motorcycles and other relentlessly hair-brained schemes. Should the PFA really be spending hundreds of thousands of pounds treating someone who will say he is cured for a few months before getting thoroughly pissed out of his kettle again? (If past iterations of this cycle are anything to go by).

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