The Human Condition

Albert Einstein once said: “Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former”.

I had decided to drive to West Ham due to problems with rail and tube connections (i.e. there weren’t any after 10.18 PM and Upton Park, West Ham and Plaistow tube stations are notoriously difficult to get into after a Hammers match).

I picked up my sister at noon and proceeded to sit stationary on the M6 for the best part of the day. At first I was worried and concerned that there had been some kind of accident (I was aware of one further North on the southbound carriageway), but three hours later, as we approached Stoke at eight miles per hour I began to glance at other motorists and realisation dawned.

Car after car contained bag after bag of shopping. Fat, ugly, greedy simpletons, engorged with food and presents after Christmas, had gone on January sales rampages. Not content with filling their feeble and pathetic lives with materialistic trinkets and stretching their already disgustingly foul and bloated (figuratively speaking) bodies with the heady stench of over-indulgence, they had gone back for more, snarling up the roads for the rest of us.

I was going to experience something tangible for God’s sake!! To wallow in life for the joy of living, and giving my love to Wigan Athletic, expecting nothing in return. Those who feel the need to buy, to fill up a void inside, surely do not appreciate the wonderful state known as existence. And they should not be allowed to fuck up my day!

GET OFF THE ROADS!!!!!

We arrived in East Ham just before 7PM and parked up, a journey time of 7 hours. Thank you shopping knobheads.

The Latics faithful were unusually subdued, the long journey during the festive period and a 7.45 kick off hardly being condusive to a hearty sing-song. Anyway the blues did us proud with Roberts and Camara drilling home a goal each in the closing stages of the first half to screw up that arrogant git Pardew’s day. The defence was solid, restricting the Hammers to a few off-target efforts, meaning Pollitt didn’t even get his gloves dirty.

The journey back home was much swifter, and I was tucked up in bed by 3AM, so I was fresh to go and brave the January sales at Gemini in Warrington to buy a computer desk. No, the desk wasn’t reduced, it was full price, I’m just a fucking masochist.

All You Ever Do Is Criticise

Paul Jewell has critisised the fans for "staying away" for the Spurs game. Sorry Paul, not everyone has 50 quid to spend in a week to watch the two games.

The fans have critisised Paul Jewell for the teams recent performances. What you have to realise Paul is that you're dealing with morons here.

Average attendances 10 years ago were approximately a tenth of what they are now. The new recruits never saw us lose to Mansfield Town 6-2 at home, or Port Vale 4-0 at home. So calm yourself Paul, just smile at these fools and ask them to go and listen to some Alan Shearer punditry, they might learn something.

No Smoke Without Ire

Finally the club has decided to make the JJB totally non-smoking. This move has to be commended in the light of the sport becoming more family orientated and the increasing numbers of children in the ground. The concourses were getting to the point where the fog of nicotine was unbearable to non-smokers and positively dangerous to those with respiratory ilness.

Letters to the Evening Post however show some fans in disagreement, they complain that they've been watching the club for years (as if this has anything to do with it) and now cannot have a fag in peace whilst watching the team.

If I get a big horse to shag me up the arse on the concourse, are you willing to have it shag you up the arse too? No???? Well don't smoke near me, I don't want to breathe in that shit.

Backroom Novices

Just a quick note concerning the backroom administrative department at England's newest Premier League phenomena. Over the years, as a supporter of this team I have had many run-in's with the no-marks who run the club. They don't seem to be interested in football or the history of the club, and have little or no interest in prioritisation of ticket sales, but that's a different story.

A nice illustration of this is club spokesman, Matt McCann (Origins: Leicester, club supported: Leicester City) stating the recent 25,004 attendance v Arsenal being a club record. The clubs official website states the record is 27,526 v Hereford United. A prime (if inconsequential) example of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing and that the head doesn't care.

This mentality pervades through the entire club.Just a small bugbear, but one that annoys the true blues to the bone.

Road to Perdition - Portsmouth v. Wigan Athletic

Well, the truth is, I couldn’t be arsed to drive to Portsmouth as, basically, it’s a long way. I’d always been averse to using the official supporters coach, because on each of my last journeys (Darlington, Grimsby - F.A. Cup, Aston Villa - League Cup, Reading - Play-offs) I’d managed to get stuck sat next to some 40 year old virgin, still living with his mam, talking incessantly about Latics even though we’d just been stuffed (we always get stuffed when I go on the coach). Anyway, the trip down proceeded without a hiccup, apart from listening to Birmingham City v Liverpool on 5 live at about a billion decibels, causing my brain to vibrate, my eyes to roll up into the back of my head, and my throat to issue a gutteral moaning along the lines of “Unnnnnnnnnngh”. On arrival at the ground a couple of swift pints with the locals (who were very friendly, a friendliness not reciprocated by the travelling support with chants of “Going down” and “I sucked your knob and it didn’t taste very nice”), was followed by a professional performance, 2 well worked goals and a 3 point haul.

Ah! I thought, the journey home will be sweet, lots of jollity, and a nice relaxing piss at the services which I’d been holding in since the second pre-match pint. Not so. Upon boarding the coach, it soon became apparent that the on-board DVD player had been hijacked. The screen lit up, not with Wigan Athletic, nor even football nor sport related. Not with a humdinger of a thriller, political espionage nor high intrigue. Neither was it something more relaxed yet still absorbing, such as an Arnie film, which can sometimes be so low brow it’s hobbit-esque. No, this was worse, the screen sprang into life and we were subjected to Police Academy 3. I nearly choked on my croissant.

After suffering Bubba Smith or whatever the fuck his name was, cock up time and time again in the name of hilarity, the screen went dead, much like the brains of a Sun reader. I let out a long, slow, shuddering breath, and fought the urge to sob uncontrollably. I felt like someone who’d witnessed a horrific carnage and emerged alive. It was however, not the end of my ordeal, just as I thought ‘entertainment’ couldn’t become more mundane, the screen lit up again with a 6 episode DVD of Absolutely Fabulous, the most ironically titled programme ever to be inflicted upon the nation. I was seriously considering stabbing myself in the eyeballs as I slipped into a luvvie induced coma.

The coach driver must have considered dumping my limp body by the roadside, but fortunately for him, he never did stop at the services. My bladder gave out and I was awoken by the pleasantly spreading warm sensation of freshly soiled trolleys. I’m never going on the coach again.