Thursday, May 15, 2008


Do you want a chicken supper Bobby Sands?
Do you want a chicken supper Bobby Sands?
Do you want a chicken supper
You dirty fenian fucker [ad nauseam...]

Well, that was fun: a dank basement round the corner from Smithfields Market, the stench of body odour, KFC farts, spilt lager, Superkings...watching the bluenose master race roar. Incidentally, I don't mean to diss all Gers fans - I met a couple of friendly blokes up for a beer and a chat last night and, I should stress, I'm completely anti-sectarian (personally, I wish all deities would tumble off their respective crosses and leave us the fuck alone -except for Lord Ganesh, obviously, but then he forces me to write this tosh at trunk-point anyway!) - but I also had the surreal experience of being interrogated at the bar by two huns, who took particular exception to my St Pauli T-shirt...

Hello! Hello! We are the Billy Boys
Hello! Hello! We are the Billy Boys
We're up to our knees in fenian blood
Surrender or you'll die
We all follow the Raain -gerzzz

Basically, some fat piece of German nazi trash (imagine sports pundit Danny Kelly with bigger breasts) and his, er, distinctly un-Aryan comrade (a half-black bloke who looked like the unlucky recipient of several centuries of inbreeding) decided it'd be a good hoot to corner me as I was ordering a round, and act all aggressive (with the backup of a few hundred pissed-up anti-paddies). All night I'd been quizzed by Gers fans and I dished up the same contrived story: "ST PAULI? WHAT, THEY'RE LINKED TO CELTIC? DUNNO MATE...WAS WORKING IN HAMBURG A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO AND WENT TO A LOCAL MATCH AND BOUGHT THE SHIRT..I'M SPURS ANYWAY..." Which satisfied a fair few of them. Well, what would you do if it was you and 250 of them?

But Fat Nazi Cunt decided to inflict severe GBH on my earhole. I neglected to inform the cretin that, were the Fuhrer still hauling his rancid carcass across the Fatherland, he and matey boy would be sizzling in a crematorium (and what a slow roast that'd be! I mean, I'm not the slimmest man on Earth, but this nazi slob probably had "HERR SCHEISSHUND'S KEBABHAUS" on his 'friends and family' call plan). "ST PAULI ARE...." he spat, and then swivelled his finger round his temple. "THEY ARE MENTALLY SICK, VERY LEFT WING QUEERS...ANTI-FASCISTS..REALLY BAD PEOPLE!"

"They are fascists?" I barked. "That's disgusting!"

"NO, THEY ARE AGAINST THE FASCISTS!" Fat Nazi Cunt retorted.

"Against Hitler?" (me). "Very good, yes?" (feigning outrage) "My grandfather fought against him, to keep Britain free!"*

(* a lie. My grandfather sat around Sligo in Ireland, wearing a cowboy hat and telling people he was American - complete bullshit, but hey, it beats working)

Get this - the prick was so outraged he actually spat a blob of phlegm over his own tits. Meanwhile, the mighty ZENIT ST PETERSBURG put a goal in. My Hun colleagues, who'd dragged me to the club, betting that I'd chicken out, looked rightly deflated. I walked over and elbowed them in the ribs. Ah, bliss - and all under a massive union jack, stretched out to cover a whole wall of the club -

And, 27 years after the event, they still can't stop banging on about Bobby Sands.

Zenit score a second. Hate gobbed at the plasma screen. Frowns and scowls. Rabid pride for the landmass where frigid Woolworths supervisors tell young employees, "don't say CHEERS to customers...this is a shop, not a pub!" I elbow and elbow and elbow and cackle into my pint of Kronenberg 1664. A Kronenberg for St Petersburg. St Petersburg, Leningrad, the glorious city where I got so drunk I pissed potatoes and had my heart torn open with a stanley knife. Kala was her name, she stuck me good and proper. The Gers are displeased. Rumours, conspiracies abound. A filthy fenian mafia ruins the beautiful game. Deals done with the referee, sinister Russian oligarchs exchange nods with the Catholic cabal. Jesus came down to save us all, brother and sister, hand in hand, but look at the fucking schism he left the Celts. 2046 AD, and you'll still hear songs about Bobby Sands starving to death in prison. Celtic fans enjoy the conspiracy yarns too. Disapproving growls about freemasonic linesmen, dirty lodges fixing results. Bluenose barristers making discreet phonecalls to the SFA. The Fat Nazi Cunt and his Belfast Flute Band shirt. Probably never even been there, the poser. Could have eaten his weight in Ulster Fry-ups, though.

Spilling out of the club, in a pub round the corner from Farringdon tube, I'm informed by my colleagues that I've got bigger bollocks than the pair of them - the prats - but that I shouldn't have elbowed their ribs so vigorously. Apparently I made it really obvious and some vexed Gers fans noticed me doing it, though 7 or 8 pints kinda obscured the fact. Anyway, here's a question - I vaguely remember a German punk song that had the chorus "NAZIS ARE NO FUN!" - can anyone recall who recorded it? I've had it in my head all morning. I'm going for a fag, I'll write something about music soon.
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