Sunday, 25 April 2010

And When A Hero Comes Along.....

Disclaimer- This blog is going to be about football. Some of my lovely lady readers may find this about as interesting as a seminar on toenails, so in light of this, I aim to pepper this post with a few pictures of this cute kitten,  just so you can all make it through to the end. See, I’m always thinking of you.

A few posts ago, I discussed my views on religion in a hackneyed and pretty shit way. I basically summed up my position by saying I was a diehard atheist and believed more in tiny hobgoblins than the existence of an all seeing, omnipresent, and benevolently kind supreme being that watches over us.

I have now changed my views.

I now believe in god.

I am now a fully paid up member of the religion of Parker.

Scott Parker.

I’m a Parkerist, and to be frank, my god is the god to end all gods.

Who exactly is Scott Parker I hear you ask in a frankly bored and listless tone?

That's a good question.

Who is Scott Parker?

Scott Parker was made on the eighth day, after the holy deity rested on the seventh (because he/she needed to rest before completing the herculean task of making this superman in human form), and is made from steel, nuclear waste, fairy dust and moon juice.

Scot Parker plays for West Ham (my football team) and has singlehandedly kept us up in the Premier league for another season (Cue a mass sigh from the readers that sounds like a breeze whispering “I don’t care”- bear with me, please).

Being a West Ham fan, for most of the time, is not a very enjoyable experience. We aren’t very good. That's not to say we are terrible, just very, very mid-table. But occasionally we can pull something magical out of the bag, something so deep and profound that it can make up for all the years of stress, anxiety and nail biting tension that being a supporter of this great club provides. It’s kind of like having a rectal examination by an incompetent doctor with really fat fingers who suddenly pulls a £50 note from your arsehole with a grand flourish like a magician pulling a rabbit form a hat (Wow that was quite possibly my most bizarre metaphor ever. Go me.).

We have eons of deep seated history amongst the annuls of football lore. We won the World Cup for England in 1966 (the spine of the national team consisted of West Ham players and we tell everyone that. That’s why other supporters hate us. That and the fact that in the 70’s and 80’s our supporters used to go round beating all the other supporters up, the rascals). We have a reputation for playing football the right way, even though it never gets us anywhere or wins us anything. And most importantly, we produced the greatest captain of the England football team ever in St Bobby Moore.

So there is a lot of claret and blue blood running through the veins of English football history, but that still doesn’t disguise the fact that for most of the time, we are the perennial underachievers, promising so much, but always failing to deliver.

West Ham is also engrained on my family history as well. My dad and uncle were die in the wool Hammers, and every weekend, all it would be was West Ham this and West Ham that. I couldn’t escape it.

I was never into football as a kid though. Never really appealed to me. My dad tried to get me into West Ham from an early age, but I always resisted it. To his credit he never forced me, but let me made my own decisions. Plus there was always the fact that trying to get your young son to support West Ham can actually be construed as child abuse in some sectors of UK law.

After my dad died I started to try and seek some kind of connection with him, mainly because I felt as if I didn’t truly know him. We liked the same music, films, and books, so I had that, but there was one massive area of his life that I knew nothing about, West Ham. So I decided to take the plunge and immerse myself in that world to make a connection with him.

It started slowly at first, catching a few games on the TV here and there, but before i knew it, something ignited in me, like some huge flare going off in my head, and all that family history with West Ham was suddenly all I wanted.

I was hooked.

I started going to games regularly, eventually acquiring a season ticket. Every weekend would now be based around our games, every evening would be spent on the internet, reading forums and checking news about us. I even met Kates through West Ham.

All in all I’ve properly followed this team for about ten years now. I’ve seen some terrible lows, but also moments of pure sublime joy as well, sublime joy that has actually left me close to tears.

So, that's me and West Ham.

But what about Scott Parker, I hear you ask? (Still in that bored tone, but with an underlying edge of: Well, I’ve come this far, let’s see how the twat is going to end this).

This season has been awful. I won’t make you want to hang yourself by going into detail, but we have basically been lurking down the bottom of the table, wearing slutty makeup and flirting outrageously with relegation.

The team just hasn’t been at the races, and combined with a rookie manager and farcical boardroom antics, it seriously looked as though we would drop down a league and face financial Armageddon. Nearly every player has underperformed and let themselves down.

Well, apart from one.

Every game we have played this season, Scott Parker has put his body on the line to try and save us. While others wilted and faltered under the immense pressure of trying to stay up, he has stood tall, grabbed the team by the scruff of the neck, and virtually carried them on his broad and manly shoulders. Sliding into bone crunching tackles with all the grace of ballerina sweeping across a stage, he has fought harder than I have seen any West Ham player fight before. Every defeat etched onto his face, every rare win expressed with pure joy, he has pushed and harried, taking his body to breaking point to try and save us. 

If it sounds as if I have man crush on Scott Parker, then there may be some truth in that. I am actually comfortable in with that in fact. I like girls and boobies, but I also love Scott Parker as well. It’s a bit confusing to be honest, and has left me sitting awake at night wondering what is going on with me, but love him I do.

Scott’s dreamy.

So, yesterday was crunch time. We were playing Wigan and if we won the match, we were virtually guaranteed to stay up.

It didn’t start well. We were a goal down after a few minutes after one of our players put the ball into our own net.   

The West Ham way.

But we got back into the game, scoring two goals and looking like we were going to win the match.

And then it happened.

Wigan scored.


We were level on goals and the match was ticking down with only about 15 minutes to go.

But Scott Parker wasn’t having that.

Scott Parker wasn’t having that at all.

After a lovely little flick down from Franco, Scott had the ball at his feet and launched himself towards Wigan’s goal, pulling his strong and manly (and dreamy) leg back, he unleashed a thunderbolt of a shot that screamed past their hapless keeper and made it 3-2, saving the club from relegation, because he is Scott Parker, and that is what Scott Parker does.

When that goal went in, I shot of from my PC chair (as I was watching it on the computer) and screamed out “GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! GET FUCKING IN!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SCOTT PARKER I WANT YOUR BABIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” and then realised that my windows were open and all of my neighbours had heard what I had just yelled out.

But I was okay with that.

I mean, this is Scott Parker we are talking about here.  

This is what the goal meant to him.

And this is the goal itself. Look into the face of the god that is Scott Parker.

Scott Parker goal v Wigan
- Watch more Videos at Vodpod.

All over the land,, West Ham supporters were suddenly having a serious debate about their own sexual orientations. On my West Ham forum, posts like this were springing up:

There's not much to add, apart from that I love him more than any girlfriend I've ever had.
I would definitely let him bum me if he wanted to.

Just got home. At the moment, he could bum me, my wife, my cat, dog AND gerbils.

There was a lot of talk of bumming going on. Too much talk of bumming to be honest, but suddenly we were all debating whether you could actually have a womb implanted so we could carry Scott’s babies.

My West Ham supporting friends on Facebook have changed their status to variations of: Scott Parker Will You Marry Me?

Here is an excerpt of comments from a status update my friend Steve had.

Steve: wants to tickle Scott Parker’s dangly bits
Dan: You’re feeling the man love as well Steve?
Steve: I think the only word I can currently use to describe my utter respect and love for that man is: 'swollen'.

So there you have it, one man has turned us all in to a bunch of screaming queens.

But he is Scott Parker, so it’s totally, and believably, understandable.

Extra Disclaimer- Reading back to the disclaimer at the front of this piece, it could be construed as being a bit sexist saying that all my female readers would be happy if I just peppered this post with pictures of that cute kitten. I realise that not all of you lovely ladies are transfixed by kittens, so to balance that out; here are some shoes and handbags.

There, I feel we have all bases covered now.

Thursday, 8 April 2010

Love Letter To The One I Lost…..

Hello. I pray that somewhere, somehow, you are reading this.

This is not an easy thing for me to write. A bit like cornucopias, that's another hard thing for me to write. Along with filicide and cooptation. But I digress.

We started off happy, you and I. Free to laugh and smile and wonder what the future held for the both of us. Everything looked shiny and new when I had you beside me. The world was freshly unwrapped and sat there gleaming like a freshly shined coin. We had our whole lives together and I knew that I could make it with you by my side.

And then I woke up one day and you were gone.

I don’t know how it happened. I suppose I could reel out all the same old tired excuses. I never paid you enough attention. I was too tired from work to even look in your direction. The age old story told since man was birthed onto this little rock that we call home. But however you choose to dress it up; you were gone from my life, never to return.

Well, that sucks.

I suppose I have gone through the five stages of grief since I woke up one day and found out that instead of having 121 followers, I somehow have 120 since I lost you. I have been walking round in a daze, staring into mirrors and sneering at the looser that faced me. But if you really want to know how I feel, then let me describe it for you.

Denial: I had to check time and time again. Were you really gone or had I just misplaced you somewhere? Surely my eyes were wrong? We were good together, weren’t we? No, you weren’t really gone. This was all some kind of sick joke and the next time I looked you would be there, just like you always were. Everything was literally going to be alright now.

It wasn’t.

Anger: So, it was true! You had left me! And how long had you been planning this? Was it right from the start? Was I some kind of rebound blog? In fact, I had noticed that you seemed kind of distant, always as if you were five seconds out of my grasp. And to be honest, how sure am I that you weren’t making sexy eyes at other blogs while claiming to be a follower of mine. I feel so cheap.

Bargaining: I can change! I know I haven’t been the person that I was when we first started. I know I have been posting less, commenting sporadically, but it’s not my fault! I’m going to work every day trying to make people’s lives better. There is only so much of this man to go round! But come back, just come back! I’ll do anything if I could just see your chirpy little avatar sitting where it belongs, nestled like a tiny dormouse amongst my amazing followers.

Depression: This low I feel, like someone has pulled out all my insides and worn them for a novelty scarf, is horrible. I waited outside your blog last night, holding up a boom box playing Peter Gabriel's “In Your Eyes”  for about three hours. You never poked your head out once. That cut me deeper than any knife ever could. I tried calling out your name but it was lost over the laughter you made as you read your new blog, the blog that should have been me.

Acceptance: So, I guess it is true. You left me. I suppose I can understand why. I mean, why would you want to be in an electronic relationship with someone who paid you no attention. Who ignored every comment that you made. I don’t blame you for leaving, I really don’t. I won’t deny it hurts, but no more than I have probably hurt you.

If you do decide to come back, I can’t deny I can change, but I will promise you that I will always be here for you. Always.

Just thank god I have 120 friends to help me get through this.

You were the best.

Love Dan.