Whenever I read an article by a Fleet Street know it all football pundit, the same three questions crop up.
Does this bloke have any idea what he’s talking about? Why am I reading this crap? And… I wonder how he’d fare, if he had to work while thousands of people chanted abuse at him?
The answers to the first two are easy. No and because I’m a mug for provocation. Piers Morgan has 1.4 million followers, and the worst injury he’s had is a paper cut and the nearest he came to exercise was getting punched by Jeremy Clarkson. And yet, he not only questions the courage and the efforts of young footballers, he frequently holds them up to ridicule. But, dammit, I can’t stop myself reading his newspaper column. And getting angry.
Clearly the newspaper tactics work.
But wouldn’t you love to know how the likes of Matthew Norman and Piers Morgan would cope with the stick they seem to relish dishing out?
Imagine Piers Morgan, on his way into work, the hangover of alcoholic depression working its magic on his self esteem, when he’s suddenly confronted by thousands of leery fans outside his building.
One of them has an accordion, and plays the first few bars of That’s Amora! Then the crowd begins to sing.
When your front page is shit, and you’re faced by a writ,
That’s a Morgan!
He pretends not to hear and get on with his game. But the second verse gets to him a bit.
“When the facts are all missed, cos you work when you’re pissed, that’s a Morgan”
the nearest he came to exercise was getting punched by
Meanwhile, restaurant critic and inexplicably appointed football pundit Matthew Norman, who knows everything about football, except taking part in a team sport, is emerging from a restaurant in London W1. Immediately, all the local market traders, couriers, big issue sellers and porn merchants of Soho burst into a version of Bananarama’s Really Saying Something.
“He was wobbling down the street,
Shoo waddy waddy
Couldn’t even see his feet,
He was really weighing something
Really weighing something
Fat fat fat b’stard.”
He shrugs it off. But there’s another chant to try and smile through.
“You’re fat, and you need a bra,”
Still, that’s not going to happen. But it would be interesting to see how cocky Fleet Street’s pundits would be if the tables were turned.
Anyone know any songs about Harry Harris?
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