Archive for January, 2011|Monthly archive page

Richard Keys In… The Devil Rides Out

In Football on January 28, 2011 at 10:33 am

Gareth Wood completes his hat-trick with his take on Richard Keys and his resignation


‘There are dark forces at work here…’


Richard Keys: Fearing the occult?


Some nights you just can’t keep the monster away.  You stroll the house aimlessly kicking stray objects against stained walls and ingesting substances to steady your mood.  I found myself in such a tumultuous funk only last night…


The walls were barbed with ugly remnants of previous outbursts; fist holes looked back at me from the feeble masonry like the gaping mouths of inflatable sex-dolls and I fingered them in the same way.  The cracked shards of bare brick felt good on my throbbing skin and my tension eased slightly.  I drank a pale ale and smoked two or three cones of strong weed…my mood eased even more, even to the point where my woman felt it was okay to take the bolt of the bathroom door and peer out into the ether to see whether my rampage had ceased…even my dog peeked from beneath our sofa with a humble, expectant concern seeping from his baleful gaze.  Things had alleviated…


We attempted to continue our evening in the normal way however, when I happened upon Jamie Oliver’s imperfect faux-Londoner jabbering on the television screen I once again began to transform into a werewolf and, for the love of my kin, decided it was time to go out.


In the cool vale of darkness I climbed the fence to a nearby park and resolved to do some pull-ups on the monkey-bars of a children’s playground.  The gates were sealed but I scaled them with my superhuman abilities.  The park was a tomb; no-one but dead memories stirred amidst the pining wind and blue flares of long-off strobe lights.  I began my exercise, pulling up and lowering with a rhythmic ease, my transformed muscles ripping and repairing, sending endorphins to my boggled mind and –to a degree- making me somewhat less murderous.


Having decided to stop for a rest I was immediately aware that I was being watched.  ‘Come out you fucking pig!’ I howled; the yelp of my voice sounding like a hundred burning infants.  An overcoat appeared from the cover of brush and slinked towards me, ‘dear god’ I thought, ‘I’m about to be raped; a twisted punishment for my equality piece’.  As the figure approached I recognised the unsettling stare, the pallid grill and the slithering shape…it was Richard Keys.


As he got within three feet of me I warned him, ‘Don’t come any closer Keys! I’m a werewolf! I will literally rip you to pieces with my teeth…none of this media punishment! My shit is real!’
He spoke; ‘I’m not here to hurt you’ he began, ‘I’m looking for a virgin…’ ‘Oh Richard’ I said wearily as though all the sadness in the world had just been ejaculated in my face, ‘Richard, Richard, your career is still salvageable, you don’t have to take the Gary Glitter route, why don’t you contact that human shit finger Max Clifford and see if he can get you embroiled in a scandal where you are the victim…pop on a few pounds maybe and the cunt can get you onto Celebrity Fit Club…’‘No!’ he protested, the fear in his eyes like frozen piss, ‘I’m no pervert…I need the child for a…ritual…’


As you can image, for several minutes there were no words spoken between us.  I was doing my level best to transform into a lycanthrope, for self-defence purposes, but all the straining just made my ass hurt.  Keys, meanwhile, was edgily looking around him, feverish with fright like a mouse eating a morsel in the open air.  As soon as he realised that we were truly alone he enlightened me…


‘It’s the dark forces…they are at work…they have come for Andy Gray and now they want me…I have a friend with a conservatory and we have 12 members ready to call…ready to call up…Satan.  We will bargain with him, proffer a sacrifice and in return he will see to it that I am reinstated on Sky Sports…’


I told him in no uncertain terms that he was misinformed.  ‘You need a circle of 13 in order to perform such a ritual and, whilst Satan will grant you an audience, it is only a possibility that he will repair your shattered life’.


‘It’s worth a fucking shot!’ he said desperately. ‘Will you be the 13th…Wolfman?’


I agreed.


The hunt for a child was a simple one.  There is a 24 hour Asian supermarket only a moment away, the owners small son usually sits on a chair near the counter eating sugary treats and playing with a Batman figure.  We walked in and I did the talking, ‘Hassan, I need to take your son.’ I had to be candid; I knew he’d appreciate my honesty.  He also knew of my being a werewolf and didn’t want his life and business risked by acquiring such a dangerous foe. ‘Please don’t hurt him’ he said.  I gave him my word as a liar that I would not kill him, however, Keys promised no such thing.


We arrived at the mansion and a hooded servant opened the door with a slow lingering motion not unlike a geriatric wiping his arse.  I could have sworn it was Paul Merson by the way a front tooth fell to the ground as he greeted us but, as Keys had explained, we’d all agreed a vow of anonymity.  Placing Hassan’s son in the centre of the pentagram we took our seats.  Keys began reading the incantation, wan shadows danced in the corners of the room, lights flickered in distant butcher shops and the moon itself juddered like a shimmering sea.  A cloud of ashen dust began to rise from the ground, Hassan’s son played with his toy utterly uninterested and totally unaware of the impending danger…


…the dusted smoke formed a figure and, as its features became apparent, it had an air of wretched familiarity that could not be denied.  The images below, almost too shocking to look upon, are the closest approximations to the terrifying and gruesome manifestation that we beheld…


…Yes! The demon had appeared…It looked upon us with a curious gaze; as though it was not quite sure why it had been summoned.  Keys immediately fell to his knees and said ‘Oh, Dark Lord! I have brought you a sacrifice soust thoust spare my career onst Sky…’


‘Why are you talking in that way?’ the creature asked in a booming Northern voice.


‘I…I thought that’s how you…’ Keys mumbled.


‘Nonsense!’ the creature protested.  ‘And what is this?’ he enquired, pointing to the young boy.


‘He’s the sacrifice oh Dark Lord oh…’ Keys whispered in an embarrassed tone.


‘Sacrifice?’ the beast snarled, ‘What about an ipod or a fucking guitar? I don’t want a boy.  I’ve got enough boys here from the Hitler Youth.’


Keys was understandably disappointed.  The beast began to leave.  ‘Wait!’ screamed Keys, ‘What about my career, my life, my future?!’


The beast turned, ran his fingers through his thick lacquered hair and said ‘You can’t expect me to save you; it’s not as though you murdered a man or ate a baby…you passed a slight remark against a female official you filthy deviant…you are finished Keys…finished…’


And with that he was gone.


I returned Hassan’s son as the light broke for dawn.  He asked no questions and I gave him no information; I imagine he was pleased enough to see his son again without any missing limbs, machete-carved insignias or scorched eyes.  What of Keys? You ask.  Well the last I saw of him he was attempting to persuade the other 11 at the ritual to help him find the arc of the covenant…or at least give him a lift to ESPN…they were struggling to understand him though; he was speaking in tongues.  A tragic turn really, but let’s face it; he was a smarmy snake-oiled pimp to begin with and perhaps the dark forces that he so feared have done us a solid…


As for me…I’m done with the occult.  The lycanthropy persists to a degree but I’ve managed to cover the rage holes in my living room with photographs of angels and, at least for the time being, that might be enough to keep my powder dry.  But, it’s a full-moon tonight, the sky is ablaze with a Hessian of smog and fire and I can feel the curvature of my bones altering to that of an animal…and somewhere, beneath the same canopy under which you lie, Richard Keys is wandering dark parks speaking in tongues and hoping his next leap will be the leap home…


Equality Is A Double Ended Dildo

In Football on January 26, 2011 at 6:14 pm

Guest writer Gareth Wood gives his views on the firing of Andy Gray


I was recently attacked by the equality bug…


…It’s really more of a slow-burning AIDS type infection, rather than one of those gruesome jungle mites that scramble the brains and flesh of hulking ebony tribesmen in the far-off landscapes of documentary-town; a brutal place where female castration and cannibalism run rife throughout.


My experience, if you can call it that, was initially brief; staccato, punchy even, but the ramifications of the initial move caused a transformation in me that no moral hypothesis could detect.  It was a week or so ago.  I was bored, ball-scratching, coffee-drinking, window-watching bored.  ‘How can I alleviate this turgid grey?’ I questioned as the day slunk into blue sheets like a doorway-dweller.  ‘Ah!’ It came to me with the velocity of a bullet, ‘I’ll commit a sex crime!’


It was as simple as that.  I planned my actions, went strolling the fall-away streets looking for a target.  There she was; a well-to-do housewife, overcoat wrapped tightly, weighted with Waitro’s bags and humming a joyful sonata.  Perfect.  I approached; offered to carry her bags.  She saw immediately through my charade; my feverish red-eyes and bulging tumescent groin were clear signs that I had designs on her cooch.  I was practically elliptical with arousal, my entire body swollen and blood-hungry.  She protested, of course, her husband and reading circle friends would expect nothing else, but BAM! I was in no mood for a discussion.  I forced her into a parked taxi, paid the driver £2 to look the other way and ravaged her whilst we drove laps of a Catholic school; a perfect ordeal.  Afterwards I thanked her with a thumbs-up and offered to carry her shopping, assuring her that I didn’t have the energy to jump her again.  She politely refused and we went our separate ways.


It was later that night that equality came calling.  I was reclining in my worn armchair and suddenly it came to me…why did you savage a woman!? Well, I thought, I’m a heterosexual male and…and…well, that was it.  It made sense but something was gnawing away at me like one of those filthy jungle-bugs.  I couldn’t properly relax.  I felt like I’d done something wrong but couldn’t put my finger on it.  For several days I brooded and then it really hit home.  ‘You should do a man’ I said to myself, ‘just to even the score’.  That would be the fairest way to proceed.  ‘Okay’ I thought with a heavy heart and limp dick, ‘I’ll do a guy, equality, just for you’.


So, following my earlier precedent, I set out.  The night was kind.  I followed a barrister from a silver City wine bar and quickly sodomized him against the window of a ‘Toni & Guy’ hair salon…Sure, the folks paying over the odds for a haircut looked at me askance, but I continued until I’d finished.  ‘Now, now’ I said to him, ‘it’s the only way to go; it’s equality brother…pure and simple’.  When it was all done I returned home and popped on the TV, catch some news with my cocoa.  To my surprise, equality was all over the screen like a multicoloured cumshot.


Andy Gray (Pictured below) had stepped in a mud-pile of controversy after casting aspersions on a female linesperson’s ability to judge whether a player was off-side.  Ridiculous! I stated, ‘The man’s always been a buffoon, he has a face like conjoined testees or a swollen thumb’ and, after years of watching his pointless analysis and general ignorance, I figured they would make their excuses and let Old Lego Head off with a slap on the penis…little did I know…


When I awoke yesterday morning the situation had worsened and, as the picture below confirms, so had Mr Gray’s condition…



Yes, this is how Andy Gray looks now.  A hideous, looming, malevolent despot, bent on the hellacious destruction of females everywhere! It will take more that Egon Spengler and his band of slightly out-of-shape colleagues to rid the world of this furrowed relic…


So, is Andy the Carpathian the creature that the media have now labelled him? It’s a Yes with a but, and a No with a maybe.


Lets make a couple of things clear in this opaque fog of sensationalist dribble.  To see the same media that flood their sullied pages with topless grinning women decry Gray for his admittedly sexist jibes is as ridiculous as a sex-attacker deciding that he has to even the score of his initial female rape with the rape of a ma…ahem…It‘s plain ridiculous.  The tabloid media and its gruesome radio cousins will on one hand belittle females and endorse wave after wave of sexist advertising without a second (or first) thought however, the minute they can climb on a rickety bandwagon to gain enough height to cover passers-by in shit, they will.  So ignore them, use your own mind to decide the severity of a crime and do not listen to the bawling jackals wailing from fleet-street rooftops.


Then the real issue; is what Gray said wrong? Yes, it is.  There is no ground to attack an official based on what they are packing in their smalls.  Cunt or Cock, Prick or Pussy, Club or Cunny, that should never affect our ability to decide.  However, if women want genuine equality in football they should consider this parting missive…


How man times in any given week are the decisions and ability of male officials called into question? I’ll tell you how many, as many times as there are games being played.  Not one football match goes by where a decision by a male linesman isn’t questioned by the players, the crowd, the pundits and the papers.  If a referee rules a player to have fouled there are outrages, complaints, boos and moans.  If a linesman rules an attacker off-side chants of ‘You don’t know what you’re doing’ rain down liker ticker-tape on John F Kennedy’s shattered skull.  Is it not equally offensive to question male officials learned ability and decision making? Equality, as I know it, essentially demands the same rules for all, male or female, black or white, Martian and Venusian…fuck one, fuck all.  Yes, Gray’s an archaic cretin who’s had this shit coming for years and Richard Keys, Yes you Wolfman! You will get your salad tossed soon enough my friend, but we are all ignoring the true trespasses of the matter…If you want equality then take it across the board, over and under punches, take the good with the bad, the thorns with the flowers.  That’s all.


As for me, my balls are itching as I drink this coffee and stare from my misted window.  I’m drawing crude sexual organs in the condensation that my heavy breath has created and, if I’m not still hallucinating, I think I see a well-to-do couple struggling down the street with their M&S shopping bags…perhaps they need a lesson…IN EQUALITY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bent Blue City

In Football on January 20, 2011 at 8:49 am

Guest writer Gareth Wood on the recent Darren Bent move to Aston Villa


I recently made the decision to give up playing football.  This was not owing to my physical fitness; in fact I’d argue that I’m in the best shape I have ever been. Nor, I might add, was it based on fading footballing ability…there was never much to begin with.  In fact, regarding aptitude and talent, the cupboard was as bare as the gaping mouth of a meth-addicted prostitute; her teeth like my skills fallen far away in a stream of drug-fuelled grins.  No, I gave up football because a foul and pestilent cloud was coming my way.  It was travelling at pace and –if I looked hard enough- I swear it was piloted by St. Nick himself.

There has been a growing sense in me that the game is sick.  I once wrote that ‘somewhere in an existential hospital ward the physical manifestation of football was hanging on…but then he’s been sick for a while’.  This was, at the time, clumsily aimed at the general greed and festering hideousness that the game was exhibiting.  But, like you pig-eyed drones, I am a fan so, with a cunt-shaped smile and a spastic refrain, I kept on supporting and watching and buying and sucking and swallowing and bleeding until…until I was as worn and tired as a spit-roasted faux-wag in a Sunday morning taxi; the spunk and spittle hanging off me like tassels from a strippers tits.

However, the worm won’t always burrow downwards.  If you tie a man to a chair and keep filling his mouth with faeces he will die.  It may be from poisoning or it may be because his stomach opens up and all the shit he’s ingested comes out like lice, his flesh unfurled like a dirty piñata.  I feel like I’ve eaten football’s shit for so long that I’ve come to enjoy the taste, and surely people, when you start to enjoy the taste of shit it’s time to change your diet?

Many things coursed through me when deciding to quit the game.  I mean, it’s not like I play to any particular standard.  I play in the inner City which, if you had been there, you would know is as inner City as any inner City could possibly be.  I play within high wire fences with ugly faces and swollen, bulbous limbs; some of muscle, most of fat.  I play with all creeds, races, orientations and species.  I play with extremists, pacifists, hedonists and robots, with mammals, vegetables, criminals and angels, with shit, piss, puke and semen.  I play with whatever…put a ball one the ground and I’ll want to kick it…with or without companions.  Shit, I once even played football on a low-lit Krakow street with three Englander friends and a Polish duo; the ball was an Xmas decoration cast to the cobbles and there were no words spoken between any of us, just magical spontaneity and understanding.  A rare and beautiful moment, made all the more haunting by the fact that it was the day the last pope died and all through that silent wild city the pavements were lined with burning candles, only inches between them.  We were, of course, careful not to knock them over as we launched into that most unlikely of matches.

This is what football means to me…and to others.  And perhaps it is this precious quality that allows me to be so alarmed by what I see in the media.  My love of the game is a private cipher torn apart by greed, rancour, savagery and cash.  I could discuss every last little tale that has blighted my love like a wave of cancers stains the creosote backs of sun-bathers; I could bemoan them all; the characters; their guilt, the foul trough of pay demands, managerial job-rapes and outrageous behaviour of national ‘heroes’ however, I’d like to focus on football’s most recent stain and, if you will, use it as a conduit for which to pass my barbed piss upon you.

Darren Bent: what are you? ‘A striker, Centre Forward, goal-getting fox-in-the-box stylin’ profilin’ wonderboy’.  Do you like football? ‘Sure, it’s what I’m all about…it’s such a privilege to play for Ipswich, Charlton, Spurs, Sunderland and Villa…all by the time I’m 26’. So, your most recent move (from 6th placed Sunderland to 17th placed Aston Villa…in January)? ‘Well, I’m so proud; Villa are in a false positionIt’s not about the money. And England? Do you like to play for your country? ‘Why, yes! I’m so proud to put on that shirt and I just want to get out there and do the best…’

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Honestly now Darren; tell it like it is…

Darren Bent: what are you? ‘A mercenary.  Simple as that.  I go where the money’s best, even if it means leaving a club I’ve only been with for just over a year; a club doing well, looking like contenders for a Europa League place, currently in 6th, a club on the up.  I’ll leave that club and head to a fading husk run by an equally saturated and empty manager who looks as though he is one re-animation away from expiration.’ Buy why would you do that Darren? ‘Well, because they are paying me a huge sum; way more than I was earning at the better club that I’ve just left and, at the end of the day, that’s what I want, money.  So much money that I can have everything I own covered in diamonds.  My car, my home, my phone and even my women; I want to eat pearls from their mouths as my jewel-encrusted 24 carat cock nudges their golden labia open before battering the space until I shoot rubies all up in them.’ But what about the game? Do you care about football? ‘More of an E-sports fan to be honest.  Me and the guys have a television the size of Uganda set up in one of my spare rooms.  I’m amazing at Pro Evolution Soccer 2011; my fucking Master League team has been unbeaten for three seasons…I’m Darren Fucking Bent, Baby! Darren Fucking Bent! Do you understand!? Go get one of my shirts from a club shop! Any’ll do! Villa! Spurs! Charlton! Ispwich! Sunderland! And, if you fancy, start waiting at Chelsea or United…That’s right bitches! As soon as I bang in another few penalties at Villa I’ll be on my way! I’m good business! Good BUSINESS! It’s not about the money! IT’S NOT ABOUT THE MONEY…’

Ladies and gentleman, Darren Bent.

So, am I so perfect, so pious, that I can attack someone for being so eager to attain wealth and abuse his position? Far from it; I’m a piece of shit.  People don’t wear shirts with my name on their back…however, if you’ve got on the wrong side of me out there in the neon, there’s probably a good chance that you have my spit on your back…possibly my piss If I really hate you.  It’s not about attacking a man because he has a crystal heart; it’s about telling people to see these crawling turds for what they are, it’s for hoping that people refuse to hold them up as saviours, paint their effigies on flags and wave them at the sun, line their egos with your songs and pave their walkways with your backs.  It’s about hoping that you make them know how feeble they are and turning away from them when you have the chance. They are not worth your coin, your time or your devotion.  You can tell the real players; see them grit their teeth in the tackle and blow their beans when the fans call their monikers in mantras sung in gruff tongues.  Praise them; the guys that carry your clubs and won’t walk unless they’re jabbed with the fat fingers of speculative owners eager to appear in charge.

Do what you will, but when you do it think of the Darren Bents laughing in stolid cacophony at your club, your loyalty and your coin.  Do what you will.

As for me… I’m heading off to a crusty, dust-embossed car park somewhere out where the rails end and the City is a distant lance of light.  I’m going out to kick a can around with a dying tramp; shoeless and bloody-mouthed.  He won’t make it through the game; he’ll perish after I take the can around him for the hundredth time and fire it fiercely into the top corner of his box/home/goal.  He won’t die in vain though; oh no…he’ll give me a chip big enough to crush the world.