Happy Xmas (War is starting)

I'm signing off for Christmas. Won't be back in front of a pc, willing and able to write up blog rants and download porn until some point after the WBA game. It's what baby Jesus would have wanted.

Because it's a time for family gatherings and gifts and traditional dinner with turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings. For most that is. For me, its the conclusion of my community service thanks to the incident at the Spurs shop several months back.

I got into a scuffle with this one evil piece of shit SOB. Kept looking over, giving me looks. Evil looks. As if he could see right through me and into my heart of darkness. Made me shiver. It was almost like he could read my mind. That's how fucked up he made me feel, just by staring at me. It was unnerving, and considering the reasons behind my presence in the Spurs shop, it was a predicament I did not prepare for and could have done without.

This SOB. We have previous. You know, just a little bit of history. Like you do in life, you get characters who you'd cross the road to avoid because you don't trust what you might do if you stayed on course for them. But the way he kept looking, he was winding me up with his constant smug grin, like he's better than me. Like he's someone. Like I'm no-one. A nothing. A non-entity.

Yeah, keep looking over here at me, you with the face of an absolute bukkake.

I played it cool....to start off with. Obviously trouble is something I always make the utmost attempt to avoid. But this git was relentlessly staring. He may as well have held up a sign stating: "YOUR MOTHERS A WHORE". It was that fucking annoying.

So, my emotions got the better of me. I picked up a football from one of the shelves and kicked it hard in his direction. On the volley. With power. Smacked him straight in the face with it. Broke his nose. Knocked him flat out.

The police said there was no evidence of actual incitement or any other form or provocation from my perspective, as no one witnessed the Pacino/de Niro build-up to the incident. The judge (bless his goodwilled heart) decided it was nothing more than a misdemeanour, thanks to my plea of foolishness. I told the court I was trying to do kick-up tricks I saw on Soccer AM and sort of mis-hit the ball and I was apologetic that someone got hurt as part of my misadventure and lack of natural skill.

But due to the crying children and the protests from the jobsworth cashiers, assistants and manager in the Spurs Shop, the club wanted some form of retribution. Public disorder they called it. Can you believe that? What a world we live in where a person can be deemed a criminal for attempting to play football, in-doors. I mean seriously, get a grip. I got an ASBO for my troubles. And I'm now banned indefinitely from entering the shop. Whoop-de-do. Gutted about that I am. Because I really really really had intentions to spend my cash on Carling Cup memorabilia and DVD's of score-draws.

I guess I was a little tense at the time of the incident, but he got what he deserved. Let me be brutally honest. Even though I've already spent the best part of 50 hours dressed as an elf in an unnamed North London shopping centre, that doesn't mean this thing is over. It's not over. It's never over. No one stares me out like that. No one mugs me off the way he did. Nobody gets in the way of my game. And he did just that. I don't stand for no playa-hating when I'm the playa.

I had business in the Spurs Shop that day. I was going to make a stand. One that included nudity, handcuffs, an effigy of the chairman and a home-made Comolli mask (its actually a Halloween mask of George Bush, but I added Brillo to the hair and Specsavers glasses. Squint your eyes, and its passable as Damien).

It would have been a protest of near epic proportions, thanks mainly to the temporary tattoo(s) I had done on my chest and back, in stencil styled writing, that stated:





I had an additional tattoo that took 7 hours to complete. The pieces de resistance if you will. Daniels face, colourfully displayed on my arse (which I had to have shaved for the occasion). Guess what his mouth is? Well, nobody would have had to guess if I had the time to set my plan into motion, because I would have shown everyone present exactly what comes out of his lying propaganda-producing boatrace in full graphic detail. But no, that SOB had to give me the look from across the shop floor and psyche me out and ruin what would have been a perfect afternoon of re-educating the Spurs supporting public on all matters Levyiavellian.

I'll bide my time though. Complete my 50 hours. And move on. Because there is always a tomorrow. And where there is a tomorrow, there is a future. And our futures are there for us to strive for and make them into whatever we wish.

Tomorrow is coming. And I see my future. It's a nice wonderfully cooked roast with a side plate of vegetables. This isn't Christmas dinner. No sir. This is a dish best served cold. So it's not actually a normal Sunday roast either. It's a metaphor. I'm being metaphorical. Revenge, its revenge, I'm going to have my revenge.

You hear me Chirpy?

You interfering son of a bitch. I'll 'ave you son. Remember last time out you ended up needing a plastic surgeon. You still got his number? Best pray then that Santa brings you an extra set of eyes for the back of your head.

This is just getting started.