don’t get mad


go west, young man


the anti-social network


this year’s snake oil


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not such a thinly veiled threat

Having competed in triathlon in the past you’ll often have found me sexily encased in black neoprene. To that, I’ll usually have added a swimming cap and, in particularly cold water, I’ve even been known to don thick waterproof socks. I can do that as it’s my choice, and so could you, unless you’re a Muslim woman on a French beach.

get outta the road!

Whilst waiting for the swimming pool to open, my conspiracy-theorist pal asked whether I had seen the helmet-cam-cycling footage of future national-treasure, Jeremy Vine? Obviously, not being part of today’s social media revolution I hadn’t, so he very kindly downloaded it onto his picture-phone. WTF.

he ain’t heavy

It was a pleasant surprise to find out that Sports Direct are NOT the worst employer in the UK. No, even though their long-suffering workforce will now receive back pay of a million quid (for knowingly being paid less than the minimum wage), that dubious accolade goes to the ever-benevolent, Wimbledon sited, San Lorenzo restaurant, which has had to cough-up over £3000 to each of their 30 employees. I hope the owner chokes on one of his dough balls.

grace bros closes its doors

Today is the last trading day for the final twenty-two BHS stores. And it’s not grabber Green’s fault, who cunningly saw the opportunity of asset-stripping and using its debt to his personal advantage. It’s not even Chappell-the-incompetent’s fault who was ignorantly hoodwinked by Sir Philip’s fancy footwork. It’s your fault. It’s my fault. And it’s their fault.

on your marks

At the risk of incurring the wrath of the great-unwashed, I have to admit the Olympics leave me a little cold. As a lifetime sports participant it frustrates me that precious little funding appears to filter down to either the young or those involved at grass-roots level, and believe me, I’ve tried & tried to unlock some of that national cash, but to no avail. Admittedly, it probably doesn’t help my mood that, as a squash player, our Olympic involvement has been poo-pooed by all manner of ‘sports’ including beach volleyball, Greco wrestling and wall-climbing.

brexit means brexit

Well, it may do to Theresa May. To the rest of us, the best thing about Brexit is that no matter what hassles we face in life, how deep our problems are or what disappointments we suffer, we now have a cast-iron excuse for all that befalls us.

bang the gong

With the leaking of his resignation honours list, what a dastardly cad Mr Cameron finally showed himself to be. From knighthoods for Remain-supporting cabinet members and cash-donating businessmen, all the way down the murky scale to OBEs for the ‘stylist’ who managed Sam Cam’s diary & wardrobe, and Gideon’s former aide most well-known for getting him to change his haircut to the current ‘Caesar’ coiffure.

bob’s your uncle

Well, no he’s not and he’s not quite our own Mother Teresa either. Just the other week in the pre-referendum hoo-ha, Bob Geldof was filmed ‘feffing & jeffing’ and showing his discourteous two-finger displeasure with those unwilling to go-along with his ‘remain’ views. This is perfectly fine, and I’ve no truck with it at all, in fact, if more of us were as open and communicative with our beliefs, and respected those in opposition, then maybe we’d all be in a better place. But poor Bob appears to be someone who’s more than able to hold a bit of a grudge.

Fakers, chancers, charlatans & blaggers

Who’d’ve thought that, following her hilarious plagiarising of Michelle Obama’s speech t’other week, the third Mrs Trump would go even further by telling a few porkies about her early academic life? Contrary to her vociferous claims, the lovely Melania did not in fact obtain a degree in architecture from the University of Ljubljana. Instead, she left after the first year to pursue a modelling career in Milan, and no-one can blame her for that.

if at first you don’t succeed

As a cyclist of sorts, doping scandals and the institutionalised acceptance of the bleedin’ obvious are nothing new to me. Yet even the actions of old disgraces pale into virtual insignificance beside the recent revelations of Russia’s state-sanctioned doping programme. Yes, we all knew that many of its athletes, across many sports, had illegally enhanced their performances but to find out the true extent of cheating is nothing short of mind-boggling: between 2012 and 2015, Russian sports officials covered up, or interfered with, 312 positive drugs tests in 28 different sports.

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