Wednesday, 23 April 2014


I'm often asked by desperate people in these austere times, who I think should manage England?
And my reply is always "Kevin Keegan".

With the average weekly wage for a Premiership football player at around £30k + bonuses, it's easy to see why so many of them opt for a career in management, in order to provide at least one meal a day for their families.
In terms of revenue, the Premiership brings little to 'the economy'.
It's financial impact is akin to one of a small supermarket chain like Fine Fare or Gateways.

It's therefore essential that everyone in the UK (including immigrants and foreigny-looking students) get behind our national sport, and support at least two or three top flight teams.
Season tickets can be had for as little as £900;
but if the thought of hanging out with your boss or your local MP doesn't thrill you, a Sky TV package can be had for just a little bit more.
Replica shirts are essential at a little over £50, so it's easy to see why undergraduates would rather get a job than waste their valuable cash on tuition fees.
(More about getting a Ten Minute Job next month).

Bob Shankly once said that football was about believing in life after death, and as a neo-socialist like me, I think he deserves more praise than he gets.
We can't all be Antony Worrall Thompson, so here is my recipe for a short career in football management.

I call this quick-fix special 'Get Your Benefits Out For The Moyes'.

1. Don't let the poor salaries put you off.
Australians eat fruit and salary more than SEVEN times a day, and they are all rich, and very beautiful.
(see Tim Cahill).

2. Try to have a continental sounding name.
Ancelloti, Mourinho, Plopp and Salami are all very exotic, and make you sound a lot posher than you really are.
(David and Ron are quite boring).

3. Add lots of ginger, some oak-aged Fellaini and lashings of Irn Bru.

4. Wear shoes that don't fit you.
Simmer gently.

5. Serve, way above your means, but way below your potential.


Multi-Billion Dollar US Holding Corporation (essential in 'Soccer' recipes!)
Russian Oligarchs
Media Moguls
Sheep (lots of)
Under-ripe management skills (optional)
Over-ripe players (optional)
A huge dollop of arrogance to serve.

Monday, 21 April 2014


Late into Wimbledon Fortnight.
A storm imminent, and with several strawberries trampled into the carpet
Arnold shuffles to the sofa, clutching Rizla paper and lighter.
He prises open the sticky window before the inevitable body-slump,
and catches the faint whiff of an incoming storm.
The gusset-pong of a damp sandy swimsuit
atop dead cockles
and draped in fluorescent slime,
on the rope handles of a salty basket.
Fruit juice, rotting fish and a nagging desire for sleep.
He uncurls his gnarled fingers, and clutches at his stick.

"There's the fucker!" He shouts from his cushion.
Through the nicotine-stained curtains, and out into the empty streets.

But no-one is listening.


To get my stats up
I do concede
I have to tease with tags that lead
A desperate person
To click on this one
But only in their hour of need.

**When you've finished, perhaps you'd like to read my stuff about 'austerity chic' (YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE SUPPERS) or my insightful pieces into the way the BBC ignores its policies on advertising, in order to get better ratings (TOP NON-PREMIERSHIP ADVERTISING HOARDINGS).
Or my essays on why the modern pop festival has become more of a right-of-passage involving huge commercial interest, and less of an aesthetic cultural experience (VARIOUS), or my little vignettes on how Julian Assange put my home town on the map (VARIOUS).

***For those of you who prefer political satire, try YANNY MAC - DWILE FLONKER.
A hilarious spoof of those people who just don't get it!

**** Please enjoy the photo of a topless Ellie Harrison, but remember;
it's not real - none of this is real..............

Sunday, 20 April 2014


On long cold Bank Holiday Weekends, I often find it's very easy to forget that real people exist.

With the culling of the garden centres, the wanton expulsion of money-lenders such as Wonga and the pharisees, and the oh-so British obsession with disposable barbecues and gazebos, Baby Jesus has had to play second fiddle to our whims in recent times, in part, due to his inability to obtain a quick resurrection.
Had the cheeky little rebel risen up to Heaven within a 24hr period, the whole concept of a 4 day break for politicians, bankers and Her Majesty Clare Balding would be anathema.
Hot & cross bun dough rises with a good knead, not need.

The best way to gain temporary notoriety over the Easter Weekend is to mix a soupcon of peril, with a large dollop of ignorance.
I like to lock my children in a room full of bees.
Others like to ply their offspring with six bags of sugar and a bucket of unethically-sourced cocoa.
However, if you really want to usurp the headlines, and knock Ukraine or Louis Hamilton into a cocked hat, you should always use caged animals and carbon monoxide.


Take an unserviced car full of children to an over-populated, over-subscribed stately home in Wiltshire.
(I find you can get one adult & two teenagers into a safari park for little more than £94-50.
This leaves a fiver change from four ponies, guaranteeing a fun time for all in the gift shop).

Make sure the caged animals are unhappy.
(British weather and high fencing make great misery if you're running short of ideas).

Put the car nose-to-tail with several thousand other cars, and make sure they simmer gently.
(I prefer extra wide 4x4's for that dash of 'added sense of security').

Add a YouTube recorded telephone conversation from the car behind, some very grainy mobile phone footage, and a large measure of hyperbole.

Flambe' for several minutes.

And Noli Me Tangere!
The perfect ten minute Easter news story, for less than several hundred pounds!

Parental Desperation
One large disposable income.
Lashings of petrol.
Blind faith.

Gift shop merchandise (optional).

Wednesday, 2 April 2014


Once again, I find myself writing on behalf of a minority of the population, who feel excluded and unjustly ignored when it comes to national events or occurrences.

And once again, I can't help thinking that London, Manchester and Birmingham get all the fun stuff, whilst East Anglia pumps out the sugar beet for their lattes, the rapeseed oil for their humvees, and the second homes for their parties.
London has hipsters and the London Eye, Manchester has the BBC and all of the footballs, and Birmingham has The Archers; but not one of them has the beautiful white sands of Great Yarmouth.
And where else would you find a KFC adjacent to a McDonalds, and directly opposite a Wetherspoons?

As the wealthier parts of the UK bask in a glorious cloud of air pollution and exotic sands brought in from Samsara, I am going to show you how to make your own air pollution, in less than ten minutes, and at a cost that wouldn't even get you a replacement smart phone.

The main ingredients for air pollution are ozone and sand.

According to Wikipedia
"Air pollution is the introduction of chemicals, particulate matter, or biological materials that cause harm or discomfort to humans"
So this must be true.

I use builder's sand because most sand is the same.

For chemically biological matter, I have stuffed lots of baby wipes and sanitary products down the toilet in order to cause a back-up in my Victorian plumbing system, and the resulting funk is making my eyes water and the cats cough.

For presentation, I will listen to endless Radio4 interviews with people explaining why the planet is suffocating, why we are not just part of the problem, but why we are the actual problem, and what we can do about it, but let's be honest, we won't.
Garnish with plenty of apathy.

And Bingo!
A soupcon of air pollution that would look good hovering over an overpriced back garden in any major city south of Doncaster.

Polluted Air
Asthma (Optional)