Walk like a complete pratt...

Slow news day in the Evening Nudes today.

Wes Hoolahan disrespected Norwich City fans with bizarre lack of celebration when he scored against Aston Villa

Now, y'all know how much I loathe the kickyball, but this takes the biscuit.

Which is handy, coz on this Adrenalize & Eating Plan malarky, I've already lost 7lb, so could do without the biccies anyway,

Anyhoo - as I understand kickyball, you swing a leg, kick a ball, it goes forward, and if lucky you score a goal. Job done.

So how is it "disrespectful" to not act like a twat after scoring a goal?

"Huzzah! I've kicked a ball into a huge fuck off size net, obfuscated slightly by a tiny human. Right, now to save my energy and do it all again..."

What's wrong with that? Disrespectful, apparently.

It seems putting a wee small ball into a ginormous hole much, much bigger that the foot-propelled sphere isn't enough. Oh no.

They want you to act like a right gobshite. Poncing about with a shirt over their face while dancing like a retarded gormster.

Acting like a total arse, just because you knocked a tiny object into a cavernous space.

Kickyballers and kickerballer fans. Never have, and never will, understand the appeal. Especially stories like this. 

"Disrespect" for a "bizzare lack of celebration" indeed!

It's like them fucktards on Britain's Allegedly Got Talent who get told they're through to the next round who can't simply say "Thank you" and walk away proudly, but have to scream and screech, fall to the floor, leap about like rabid kangaroos, and generally act like feral primates on speed.

If I have a job interview, and they say "Congratulations, you're hired", I wouldn't scream like a Baine Sidhé, pick up the interviewer, twirl them about, then do a celebratory jig around the room. If I did, I'd expect to be summarily fired!

Alan Sugar doesn't have to put up with this on The Apprentice. One tried after winning a task by screaming "Yes" whilst doing the universal symbol for fisting. Alan Sugar told him right off for being a cockpiece.

Bizzare lack of celebration! The mind doth boggle!

I doan like Cricket-ah (oh noes!), Inconti-nent (yeah)...

♪ Ashes to ashes

spunk to spunky
we know Graeme Swann spanks monkey...
Strung out on t'Oval's grass
Leaving a yellow stain ♫

Well, we all know kickyball men are fudgepacking  footballers - out on the pitch, hugging each other, snogging each others faces off, ticking balls, fisting each other, and dry humping their mates silk shorted arse because they've kicked a small ball into a giant, mahoosive 24ft x 8ft wide space, before heading off to toss each other off in the showers, and bumming pickers up of soap.

But you would never expect it of sedate, genteel, gentlemanly conducted cricket.

But gone are the days of taking a silly mid on a sticky wicket out for a googly duck, before retiring for a cup of Earl Grey Tea, Cucumber Scones and Cream & Jam sandwiches.

Now it's all 50 Shades Of Earl Grey. Getting all jugged up on Scrumpy Jack before widdling on the green.

That's right. Footballers hauk their phlegm all over the field, and now pissed crickets piss on the Jerusalamic lawns of our Green And Pleasant Village Greens.

See, If I whip my nob out at WombleBum and urinate all over Annabel Croft - I'd be done for unwarranted golden showering of Inteceptor presenting babes. But as usual, it's one rule for taking a slash on frizzy haired ex-tennis players and Treasure-Hunt rip-off presenters¹.

"We did go out to the middle of the pitch, all the lads, drinking beers, singing a few songs and enjoying each other's company," Swann said."It was midnight, a private celebration in the middle of the pitch and the ground was dark."

Bet it wasn't as dark after their 'private celebration enjoying each other's company'. Probably all ashine with snail trails of penile ejaculate. or something.

Disgusting. No doubt we'll soon be hearing tales of spit-roast rapey umpires, teabagging cricketing groupies by dunking their bails into their mouths as they "tap the bat on the grass" before getting the runs. 

Grass on the wicket? Let's play cricket!
Piss on the lawn? Fuck that, my son!

¹ AND WHEN IT COMES TO ANNABEL CROFT AND ANNEKA RICE, I'M PRETTY SURE YOU KNOW WHAT WE'D WANT TO RIP OFF TO GET AT THEIR XXX-MARKS-THE-SPOT "TREASURE HUNT". BUT NOT WINCEY WILLIS. OR KENNETH KENDALL, FOR THAT MATTER. 

Checkin' out my wiff waff...

6am - need to leave for work. Check the weather on the telly and the skies. Looks like a good day coming up!

30 mins later, halfway to work... DOWNPOUR!

And there's me in T-Shirt and light shirt with no brolly.

So I arrive like a drownded rat. Tired after last night revellry & knackered from an hour's trek in the deluge. Oh, well, won't be here long! it's only a small change I'm supporting!

Oh, soapy titwanking shitnadgers. Organisation-wide failure. Looks like I'm here for the long haul.

And when I'm finally released, I've missed the Grand Prix and Wombles invading the tennis courts.

Tennis!

Upper class wiff-waff with oversized paddles, more like!

Well, what a damp squib that was!

As opposed to a damp squid. Which would probably do a better job, what with having an octogany of tentacular appendages to beat their opponent with on the drizzle drenched court.

But, typicically, Britain's Finest, Pluckliest, Talented Sportsbloke ballsed it all up, and crashed out. So he's back to being a Scotch Scumbag, only fit for stuffing his sporting stomach with Scotch Eggs, Haggis, Quaker Oats, Shortbread and Whiskey. Shouting dunken loutish abuse at the referees in their high chairs.

High Chairs! It is some pre-requirement of poncified ping pong that to be a referee, you have to have a fetish for pretending to be a brattish child in a restaurant, for whom it's parents have inconvenienced everyone else by demanding the waiter cart a bloody awkward bit of furniture to the table, and stick it at the most inconvenient point of the table so it gets in everyone else's way, so the little cherub can smear it's greedy chops in chocolate cake?

Probably.

Anyhoo, in recognition of the useless sporter of sporrans, they've renamed "Henman Hill".

It's now "Murray's Minge"

Or something...