Duck My Sick Kevin McCarra

Arsenal can beat anyone, including themselves

What a load of rubbish. What an arse-hole! This comment (from nebalt) sums it up perfectly for me;

Kevin, this article proves yet again why you are more Duncan Castles and less Henry Winter. In today's GU football podcast, you argued with Doyler that Taylor's challenge was down around Eduardo's ankle when your own paper has published a picture of the incident in this article:

http://football.guardian.co.uk/News_Story/0,,2259993,00.html

You dare call Wenger a hothead but never criticize Alex Ferguson when he goes off on his rants and says the most stupid things because you are a world class sycophant.

This year you have accused Arsenal of fictitiously simulating in a game at the Emirates when three weeks later Evra and Anderson were rolling around the Emirates as if they were shot. Not a peep out of you then. You also accused them of being short then retracting it again on the podcast admitting you had been wrong. And in the aftermath of this latest sad episode, you rather talk about Gallas' and Wenger's shortcomings than berate another Scotsman for giving the mandate to go out and cause bodily harm on an opponent. Your bipolar approach to Arsenal is quite frankly getting old. You are, unfortunately, not a credit for the paper you work for.

Anyway, the guardian has proven itself of late to be little more than a tabloid. With the exception of Charlie Brooker, the only use I put that paper to these days is wrapping my chips. I will say good day to you Mr. McCarra!

I SAID GOOD DAY!

J.K.

High Stakes English Debate

you can be a real pedanterist sometimes.

but I was just trying to be a correspondentionalist

well thats to be admired I suppose
when we all become monosylaballists, that's when i'll start to worry

Our Antipodean friends

So as I trawled through the world of internet television, I was flicking through some video content, one of the pieces was about an Australian girl, who got into smoking marijuana and it became an addiction, she woke up, did a bong, got up had a coffee and smoked a blunt at the kitchen table, then met up with her hippie friends and drove to someone's house and smoked until she came home at midnight. She continued to do this until one day she heard a voice telling her to jump out the window, then another few voices telling her to do all sorts of crazy, religious and dangerous things. She had developed schizophrenia. The girl checked herself into a mental hospital that deals specially with cases involving severe aural and visual hallucinations brought on by psychotropic drugs and where the average stay is 3 weeks. She was there for 6 months. Possibly because she was crazier than a shithouse rat, and the drug was the trigger for her mental breakdown. Or it was because she simply did smoke too much. I watched in horror as her life fell apart and she couldn’t even walk down the street as the buildings closed in and her father (in her mind) worked for the CIA and was going to have her "taken care of". I left the programme as I had decided to continue to apply myself to the project I had been working on the previous day, the complete ransacking, tidying and clearing out of my "office". So as I drew the task to a close, I found a small bag of grass on the table under my keyboard. Instead of immediately thinking of my Australian hemp smoking pseudo artiste friend, I plunged headlong into construction of a powerful mind altering joint. Having 12 personalities was low on my list of importance as I scanned the desk for a lighter and lit the top of the perfectly made cone. I sat for a moment allowing the smoke to fill my lungs and my mind to slowly empty of coherent thought as my body slipped into the chair. Quiet filled the room and sun shone in the window. For a few seconds I had complete relaxation, but my moment of peace, serenity and utter abandon was shattered almost immediately with the sound of a posh English voice filling the room, "are you going to paass that or must i have to aaask". I must have frozen in my chair for what seemed like an age and then slowly swivelled to face the voice. A well dressed middle aged man with a thin ginger moustache and a wide brimmed hat sat cross-legged on the couch facing me, his left foot bobbing up and down and his highly polished shoe dangling from his toes. I gazed down at my hand. The joint had gone out. I lit it again and leaned forward towards the man and extended my fingers towards him. He plucked the joint from my hand. "Splendid" he cooed. There was a long pause. "Hallucination" I finally replied. He reclined in the seat and moved the hat back onto the crown of his head, the joint pointing upwards from his thin fingers. "Well dear boy, I wouldn’t normally be an advocate of it, but you should have listened to the bloody Australians"