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CONSPIRACY OF CONFIDENCE 26-1-06
Official Health Warning: Read this article at your own risk and only if you are of sound sense of humour, with your sarcasm gland in perfect working order. It contains content of an extremely ironic nature with rudey bits normally censored by jobs worth plonkers.
Human nature, as I've discussed many times before on these electronic pages, is a very strange intangible indeed and we love nothing better, as a race, than a bloody good conspiracy theory led on by wide-eyed evangelical fruit-loops like me. We are all very gullible in this regard and somewhere along life's topsy-turvy journey we'll get stung, whether by some brick shithouse Nigerian 'get rich quick' salesman on the net or a golden gobbed spruiker at Stockton markets.
It's virtually inevitable, as inevitable as the delicious Kate Beckinsale causing extreme swelling of the crotch region of a few billion male movie aficionados in the next few months, shoehorned into that stretched leather cat suit in Underworld. Hot! My cold tinnie began boiling while I held it to my tockley area while watching it on a Bali DVD. You know the one, where that boofhead gets up for a pee right in front of the pirates video camera and there's lot's of coughing on the soundtrack.
One guy told me recently, that he 'acquired' a pirated DVD, which fell into his grubbies in the Philippines one holiday. While viewing, it was obviously videoed from a tripod at the rear of the theatre as at the end of the movie the pirate failed to turn off the camera and you then saw footage of people leaving their seats followed by various shuffling feet as the guy removed the tripod etc. Then every thing went black as the Sony got dropped into the backpack and he heard the pirate clump and jump on his Yammie 50 for an aural tour of Manila's mean streets backed by a two-stroke soundtrack.
Miss Beckinsale's elegant and classy beauty apart, sometimes events occur that start the obsessive amongst us on a course of compulsive action, using the truth and the fiction surrounding an event to start conspiracy theorising. Events, like this week's back and front page revelations of Sven Rubberballs, getting caught yet again with his Armani pants down, metaphorically speaking on this occasion, literally on the others. The Screws Of The World, than paragon of investigative journalism, as you all know carried out a very elaborate and professional sting to dangle the worm in front of the apparently naive and gullible Eriksson. Final result of the Fleet Street detective story is that we are finally going to be rid of that Svedish plonker, Sven, but only after the WC Finals, which says a lot for the mouth breathers in charge at FA headquarters who should make him depart now, immediately, yesterday, history.
Co-Incidentally, about the same time the normally stony faced professional Keith Lamb let his guard conveniently slip that England's love child, and a man touted to replace Sven, Ginger McClaren has only six months of his highly paid contract with Boro left to run. So, he hasn't really signed that new four year, even more lucrative contract as widely reported, or he used a B-pencil to sign up on the dotted line and some disgruntled smart bugger on the Boro cleaning staff rubbed the two crosses out and replaced it with a Donald Duck signature.
Now! Those of us with conspiratorial trains of thought, would surmise how coincidental that this revelation has been leaked to the press. All very convenient when the Swedish lurv God has made yet another glaring and, let's be honest here, stupid faux par to end his mega bucks lucrative contract, two years earlier than expected, and McClaren is in the frame for that very position. As an aside, hopefully all this furore will allow those under performing dorks at the FA to tie up PSV's Guus Hiddink for quite a few years, a man who will bring a proven pedigree, stability, dignity and the tactical brain of the world's finest coach to the job. That's the nearest you will get to a serious comment from me.
My theory, my conspiracy no less, is that Sven Rubberballs, who during his rough WC qualification period last year when useless Northern Ireland made us look like no hope nobbers, took drastic action. He rang Gibbo and asked him to send the Ginger one down to England training a mite early, then invited Ginger to his private home for war talks. Ginger turned up expecting an in depth tactical discussion with Sven and Tord, which is why he asked the black cab to "Wait I'll be back in a minute!'
But, the gruesome twosome drugged Ginger's dandelion and burdock and down went Ginger like a porn starlet on the casting director. The fiendish fellows attached Ginger to a contraption they'd concocted in Tord's garden shed, made up out of old valve TV's, a vacuum willie developer, an old garden hose and a few bottles of Dettol and some rope. They sucked all the tactical nouce and vim out of Ginger McClaren using the evil invention, a contraption they got the idea for after watching some old Frankenstein movies one weekend. Incidentally did you know, Sven is hooked on Frankie movies. He constantly views them, it's where he modelled his dour persona from and his hero is old green head Franklin Stein esquire! Anyway, this gave Sven and Tord Lad the albeit limited nouce to scrape Engurland into the finals in, don't mention the war, Germany.
Hence, the predicament our Beloved Boro are now in. Without his tactical Mojo, Ginger is castrated so to speak. Gibbo, jacked with Boro's burgeoning ineptitude, finally came to his senses and thought I'll get my sidekick Minty Lamb to reveal the non signature of that contract in the press. Rumours will then spread and abound like bushfire in the heat of summer, that McClaren is not committed to the club, which is the truth anyway, and Gibbo will ask for a spin statement from Ginger saying "I'd die for Boro and I want to father their babies!" Of course, Ginger will totally refuse and he'll get the dreaded backing of the chairman and the board, but certainly not the bored on the terraces.
Result will be achieved, out the door goes the Yorkshire pudding and in comes whoever, whenever, whatever. Get my gist? You don't believe me!?
Enough to get you paranoid?
I can tell you down here I've got some unimpeachable sources, I was talking to a bloke in the pub the other day who knows a bloke who's married to the sister of the woman who used to iron Gibbo's brothers smalls and she said......
Over the years though, the truth never got in the way of a bloody good yarn and conspiracies are just "Bigga Blacka Dog" stories with the addition of a bit of truth, a shitload of conjecture and loads of innuendo. Allegedly.
Now, I know where my tongue is at present. It's firmly planted in my cheek as usual. But you've got to wonder where the Sven's tongue is wandering as you've got to hand it to our randy little Mate as what exactly has the Svede got going for him? As from a straw pole of my family females (too many BTW!) they say he's not particularly handsome, devilish, charismatic (not like ErimusRed then!). In fact I think he's had the charisma bypass operation.
So, he must have some other more deeply hidden talents even though he could have say twelve inches of that intangible attraction which he doesn't use as a rule. Let's face it red bloods, he's allegedly done the wild thing with some tasty morsels of world spoontah like, Ulrika before she started barking, then allegedly the friendly celebrity BB evictee Faria Alam who is an exotic creature with penduloso's to be proud of. Then we have his on & off again squeeze Nancy Dell'Olio, who is very attractive and intelligent to boot, which helps because Sven comes over as a right plonker and a dopey sod to boot.
So what has he got that gets the Sheila's all moist while diving into his Ikea waterbed? Easy! It's the most attractive thing to any woman, forget about formulas for pheromones, sex appeal or a profile like Brad Pitt, just sign on the dotted line for bags full of cash and the fairer sex come sprinting to the bait.
You see, this is desire at it's most base and money makes the world go round, even when you look like a geeky widget salesman from Stockholm. The truth or was it conspiracy or coincidence? You decide.
Enough Said!
ErimusRed.
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