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Words & Phrases That Get On My Tit Pt 43

October 6, 2011

BANTER – Chisel cheeked mediocrity, James Milner has been using the dim-witted footballer’s favourite word today. When the likes of Rio n’ Roo n’ Lamps n’ Carra use the word ‘banter’ they don’t mean bawdy Jonsonian badinage or witty Wildean epigrams, they mean calling each other ‘baldy’ ‘dickhead’ and ‘you useless City cunt.’ Banter is the kind of word that BBC sports presenters like to use to give themselves an air of chummyness, an ‘all-lads-together’ piss-taking mentality that never really gets out of hand. Jokes about golf handicaps, clothing and hair styles, that level of juvenile playground insult. ‘Banter’ has escaped from the confines of the boot room however and is now infecting other sports, notably rugby and cricket, where it appears that to be one of the gang, to display that vein of True Brit self-deprecation and a GSOH, gently mocking your team mates and coaches is now part and parcel of the national male psyche. It’s like one of those shite lager ads come to life. Have you got a WKD side? Do you have two white pals and a token black one to watch the ‘footee’ with in sterilised alehouses where you can shout ‘Cooooome On Englaaaaaand’ at a big screen and then mope off uttering cliches like ‘it’s about time we had Harry in charge’ because that’s what you’ve read in the ‘footee’ columns of the tabloids, the type called ‘Banter’ no doubt.

‘BRAGGING RIGHTS’ – here’s another one for the banter brigade. Any local derby is now reduced to which set of supporters will have earned the so-called ‘bragging rights’ when they get back to ‘the office’ on Monday. In the world of the ‘footee’ presenter, yer Garys and yer Dans and yer Colins and yer Adrians, everyone has an office job and everyone likes to lord it over their equally desperate colleages by having ‘bragging rights.’ You can hear these people now, the bragging rights crew….

“Hey Jonty, you Gooner scumbag, 2-1 to the Yids dude!”

“Isright Oliver, the Mighty Redmen sure showed you terrible Toffees how to put the pigs bladder in the back of the onion bag on Saturday lid.”

This one’s gonna run and run – it’s this season’s cliche du jour (nous temps?) – whatever, expect to hear it all over 5Live phone ins like a dick rash for several years to come.

COMFORT ZONE – Where is the fucking ‘Comfort Zone?’ Somewhere near the Bermuda triangle or next to the Northern Quarter? No, the CZ is the place where X-Factor and celebrity travelogue presenters exist until they are moved out of their comfort zone by having to warble some dirge in a slightly different key or being bussed around an African slum on a charity mission. The Comfort Zone is a region of the earth that only very special people can visit, the type who take things ‘to the next level’ the one’s who feel ‘blessed’ and ‘humbled’ to be sharing the earth with Aids victims and dolphins and Inuits with hard ons. They go out of their comfort zone not for any selfish sense of empowerment or self-awareness no, they’re doing it for YOU, because they were ‘born to do this’ and they need to share this amaaaazing experience with civvies, with the little people, the viewers, the poor huddled masses. They ‘really owned the stage’ you know.

IT IS WHAT IT IS – Is it? Is it was it is or is it something else? The ‘Is What It Is’ mob are the kinda guys to give you a ‘reality check’ because y’know they’ve read some deep shit on like philosophy and economics right so they can claim to understand the cyclical nature of existence better than like anyone. Their existential mantra is meant to impart a kind of fatalism, a world weary Stoic acceptance of the brutal truth of our daily grind. We are powerless to change things because ‘it is what it is’ and ‘you are what you are.’ Popeye had this Jungian/Darwinian logic sussed years ago. I yam what I yam and it is what it is eh Olive yak yak yak. See also ‘ we are where we are’ – where are we? Is my satnav fucked or are we in a place that only third rate new reporters who emphasise each word with their manly Tom Bradby thumbs know about.

REALLY? – That’s ‘reeeeealllllyyy?’ like as in reeeeeaaalllllly annooooooooyyying! Where do these fuckers come from? Walking around Liverpool city centre, now the students are back is like visiting a different planet. Somehwere deep inside the bowels of the earth must be a giant moulding machine operated by an engineer of apathy who has taken DNA from every single T4 presenter and secretly replaced the nation’s children with these vacuous, tattooed, gobshite halfwit ‘scholars’ who walk around all day long wittering on their mobeys and to eachother in some mutant HollyOaks parallel language where every sentence is a question and every answer a theoretical cul de sac. It costs their mams and dads brewsters to send these cretins to ‘uni’ these days and if I was Cameron I’d raise tuition fees to 9 grand a week simply to weed these fuckers out of what passes for an education system. Reeeaaalllly? Yeah really!

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2 Comments
  1. fugate starkweather permalink

    I’m with you on “Banter” and “Bragging Rights”. I’d add “Passion” to that. ie sitting on a beanbag, eating a Domino’s pizza watching Sky Super Sunday means that you have “passion” for football.

  2. Fat Jeff permalink

    Yet we pay 40 odd quid a week to watch these whoppas.

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