Me Dad has just been on the blower from Dublin. He's gutted to be in the only hotel in town where the bar shuts at half past eleven. He only got there at half ten too! Tit head. He says he can't make his mind up if they've all been inhaling helium or are just talking funny to take the piss. To be sure. He says he was reassured though to discover that all the taxi drivers in Dublin are foreign too. Bejapers.

The dirty cheating rabbit-faced Kopite hand-balling Uruguayan twat. He's as bent as an Arab's dagger that ugly greasy sweaty little bell end. He's handled more balls than Julian Clary that lad. What do we know about Uruguayans? They disallow perfectly good English goals that are miles over the line and they have to resort to cheating at poor little Mansfield Town to scrape a spawny 2-1 away win. They're worse than the Argies. An unpolished pooh on a plinth is on the way to Anfield. I haven't addressed it to anybody in particular, I reckon they'll know who it's for.