A vile and odious piece of slime.

I had a dream the other night. I was a multi-millionaire and I was sat opposite Dave Whelan, offering to pump one million pounds into Wigan Athletic. He said “That would be fantastic” and then I delivered The Killer Blow:

“You must sack Maurice Lindsay” I said, “and you must state in the papers it was for gross incompetence”.

It was at this point I woke up and said “Yeah!”, but it got me thinking. I mean, what the fuck am I doing dreaming about fat Maurice for starters? Has his appointment affected me on such a deep and profound level? Or do I have a secret yearning for effeminate, fat bags of fucking excrement?

Upon learning of his appointment, all the old wounds opened up like maggot infested crevices of pus. And had he stepped into the road in front of my speeding vehicle, I wouldn’t have rushed to step on the brakes.

I for one, will never forget the anti-Latics sentiments voiced by this ‘man’, and I will never forget him and Wigan Rugby League refusing to help in our hour of need, even denying us the use of their ground for the League Cup tie against Liverpool in 1989. Now he is a long time fan and, to quote him, is “grown up enough to put these things behind”. Funny how you grow up when there’s something in it for you eh?

It’s a shame that the L.I.S.A. (Latics Independent Supporters Association) demonstration didn’t really take off, but it’s hardly surprising. Personally, I welcome all new fans to the JJB. Wigan Athletic are a completely new machine than the one from ten years ago (save for Brenda Spencer et al, but as we all know, however brand new and spangly the Porsche might get, there’s still a lingering, useless piece of kit that the men in charge seem to want to keep), and the new influx of fans is fantastic (remember when you never saw kids in Latics shirts? They’re everywhere these days). But the upshot is that there are only a few thousand who remember Lindsay’s comments through the years, and however hard the old timers might bang on about how much of a shitbag this man is, it really doesn’t affect the newer fan in the same way.

And anyway, can you imagine the media furore if the whole stadium had gone up in a massive chorus of “LINDSAY OUT!”? The trashy tabloids for the brain dead would have made a mockery of us. They don’t know the history, but they would make sure the rest of the country thought we were idiots for chanting for someone’s head when we’re in the top half of the Premiership.

So basically, we’re stuck with this vile and odious piece of slime on the board, but we can take solace in one thing. We’ve got to such wondrous heights without his input. If we start to plummet, there’s a target for our ire. Our old “friend” Alex Murphy and the Warriors fans are calling for his head, and though you might view the eggs as brain deficient, this man’s incompetence has finally sunk through their collective pie-soaked consciousness. If they want him out, why should we even want him in?

Caption Competition

In conjunction with PARALATIC, we'd like your submissions of a caption for this picture. Please put it in the comments and e-mail it to paralatic@hotmail.co.uk and the winner will win a season's subscription to the fanzine.

Bollywood Movie

After months of filming and lots of effort and hard sweat, my latest Bollywood offering can be found at this link entitled "A Latics Love Affair":

http://www.grapheine.com/bombaytv/play_uk.php?id=1429495

Brenda Spencer Kicks Racism out of Wigan Athletic

Wigan Athletic has an admirable policy on race equality and its charter states "we are committed to providing a football club that is truly accessible to supporters from all sections of the community as we strongly believe that there is no place for racism at the JJB Stadium".

Here is chief executive Brenda Spencer doing her anti-racism bit with a couple of the Black and White minstrels......



Al Jolson was unavailable for comment.

Predictable Maurice Jokes INC.

A real mans sport

Please note, I do not condone homophobia in any way, this comic strip is designed to irritate the macho sensibilities of your average rugby league thug, especially wigan warriors fans. Note the non-use of capitals for their name denoting their insignificance.

Latics Panic Buying? Surely Not!!

Latics today signed Fitz Hall from Crystal Palace for £3 Million. The link below leads to a Palace messageboard, and they seem to be keen to get rid of him.


http://www.holmesdale.net/page.php?id=106&tid=55005&page=1

I reckon Brenda Spencer should fill in a defensive position. She's so fucking ugly she'd scare off most centre forwards.

Rugby Girls

What's the difference between a Wigan Rugby Girl and a Walrus?

One's fat with whiskers and smells of fish, and the other lives in the sea.

Paul McCartney in relationship poser.

Is there anywhere a guy can go for a good time around here?

I am a complete tosser

Jimmy Bullard is a Bell End

You've seen this before, but it's worth another watch!

Watch him sniff Maurice Lindsay's Grundies!! Oh Yes!!!!

A Justified Moan

I’m writing this after the F.A. Cup tie against Leeds United and I feel, whilst this season has seen wonder after wonder and out-joyed (if there is such a word) anything that could possibly happen in my wildest dreams, that I am justified in having a moan about the crock of shite that this match was.

No word was given on the team selection before the match day, so I shelled out 34 quid for two tickets to find that the selected team was the second string. Even so, we were comfortable at 1-0, and though the standard of football was pitiful, this result would have kept me moanless. Paul Jewell however changed all that. Now, I normally stand up for him, he knows a good player when he sees one and when people complain if we play bad, I stick up for him, knowing the dross we’ve had to endure in the past.

So if he’s resting his first team, why bring them on? Like I said, we were comfortable at 1-0. If fresh impetus is needed, one or two subs will suffice. A manager making three substitutions is normally forced into it to salvage a game or through injuries. So on came three first teamers, supposedly being rested, and Ryan Taylor gets injured. We now have to play the last 18 minutes with ten men, two of whom, due to dropping back to form a 4-4-1 are out of position. This gives Leeds the impetus as everytime we win the ball, we have no outlet as Jason Roberts is up front on his own. The added pressure on the defence eventually tells and Leeds score.

Now I still might keep my gob shut and not complain, but Jewell doesn’t hold his hands up and admit a mistake, instead he says: “We are disappointed with the goal they scored, we gave cheap possession away”. I’m not going to have a go at the man’s bad grammar, but I AM going to have a go at the fact he (rightly) gave the players a bollocking after the Birmingham debacle, yet won’t hold his hands up when he makes a mistake himself. True, he might not make many, but a little humility wouldn’t hurt the big-headed bastard after he rambles on about how the players have got to stop believing the praise they’ve been receiving.

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.