Good morning, dear readers.
It appears the atmosphere in Donegal last night was not so rosy.
For the avoida-
Actually, nah. We were going to do a parody intro in the style of Mad Phil but we can't even be bothered giving him that much importance. Nobody cares about this diddy anymore, although last night was amusing and is recorded in our roundup regardless. The time will soon come when we return from whence we came, and gub all and sundry with free-flowing, attacking football. Some of them will perhaps carry on until the day they die.
It's frightening thinking how much has been spent by some fans simply to try and maintain the delusion that we died and will die again, but the time's probably come now to just ignore it. Let the football do the talking, an aw that. At the moment it's just depressing to think these people exist. In a way, we're glad that they have donate buttons and rack up money from gullible idiots, because christ, imagine if they were doing it without even having the hustle as a reason to keep going. We can still just about hate them as a result, but the punters really do have to just be pitied at this point. Hopefully the next merciless thrashing we give them will finally make it sink in, for everybody's sake.
And while we're engaging in self-criticism, stop that "that'll be a red card then!!!!" patter every time somebody celebrates scoring a goal, too. It was only funny the first 50,000 times.
Anyway, here's the news.
It looks like we'll be signing the young English winger Mekhi Leacock-Macleod very soon. No, us neither.
Whether it's a transfer or a loan, we're not sure, but it looks like wee Airdy will be off to Vancouver before the window closes. Some team Canada must have.
Not an apology for Graham Spiers in general, unfortunately, but for another wee pack of lies he told in a column last month. We're not sure if they'll get around to all the other fibs, but if they did, they'd easily fill all their column inches in the paper up until the next referendum.
Evidentaly Boydy is still smarting at King's implication the he 'failed miserably', rather than shutting up and hoping fans remember the good times when they think of him, and just wishing that King, having not seen the team in a while, had just assumed he was an opposition defender from his performances. This makes the back pages of Wednesday's Mail and Metro, incredibly.
Donegal's finest last night posted a story about Nathan Oduwa being disappointed with the club because Rainjurs are pure deid and skint an aw that, which disappeared shortly after publication amid rumours that Spurs had demanded he take it down. In a totally unrelated incident, all of The Clumpany's tweets to Phil's account about the article were also deleted, although none of the replies from Phil were. Evidently Phil's never heard of the Streisand Effect. Instead of drawing attention to it by deleting it, he should've just neglected it to concentrate on his amateur dramatics and let it die. Down. Let it die down.
GTBFO has a very christian (don't ask us which denomination, we'll have to leave that up to wild speculation) sense of morality and thinks Friedrich Nietzsche was a bit of a dobber, and so very much approves of this sort of thing. We enjoyed the heartwarming story too, having now accepted that newspapers have just become your aunt's Facebook page and that's the way the world works now.
What did catch our eye, however, was this photo used to illustrate the recipient of the kindness. Now, if you're picking a Twitter avatar, or Facebook profile picture, you'll understandably want to be looking your best. So yeah, go for a night when you were dressed up. In a kilt even, why not, you look good in a kilt. With one hand resting on a guitar. When you're middle-aged. Ehh. You could just about get away with that.
But as a picture in a national newspaper to illustrate who you are? This story could have been anything. It could be reporting his tragic death in a road accident, or getting sent down for aggravated assault. We might save the kilt for important occasions, but that's just a weird trade-off where the entire country decided to pile its entire reserves of whimsy and extroversion into wearing a totally ridiculous item of clothing once or twice a year and refusing to see anything funny about it. Perhaps the greatest trick Scotland ever pulled off was convincing the rest of the world it was sexy, but there's no doubt it's still best left to the Willie Baxters of the country rather than this tragic photo. You don't want to be in the local paper looking like Yer Da at a fancy dress party alternately telling people he's come as Hugh MacDiarmaid and Harry Lauder.