So, England snagged a win on Italian turf for the first time since 1961. Along the way, both fullbacks were booked for timewasting, which made the crowd wonder whether Gareth Southgate was up for a lifetime achievement award.
Meanwhile, the Commons Standards Committee did their utmost to stepover past Boris and ended up going full Harry Maguire.
Thank God, nobody had draped a large wet paper bag over them, or we’d never have clapped our minces on the limp tyrekickers ever again.
The mere fact that borderline disinterested onlookers, such as ourselves, might marginally contemplate the former PM avoiding having his fat arse handed to him brings home just how beyond turd that itty bitty titty committee is.
They’d need a bus to get back to shambolically shite. Just don’t let that SNP geezer drive it. Jesus, he looked like the party whip had yanked him out of a bender 10 minutes before handing him his script of Nicola’s questions.
Which reminds me – I’d half expected Lord Y-Front of Grindr, Slurp Chris Bryant to rock up and boss the gig, but he was probably closeted away fingering his keyboard, which is how it generally goes these days.
Other pontificating, posturing MPs were doubtless too busy to attend the session – I didn’t recognise anybody in the audience – probably semi-conscious in cramped Commons offices mainlining jizz and naked ambition.
Just don’t inject spunk intravenously, kids – it’s dangerous, particularly when it’s been siphoned from female testes.
How Sir Chris got to define ‘standards’ kind of sums it up, just as how he became ‘Sir Chris’ is bewildering and enlightening in equal measure.
Help me, Rhondda, yeah…
I should add that ‘keyboard’ isn’t a euphemism here. Politicians don’t do politics in the Commons any more – that’s way too risky. It’s now all behind a screen – and the biggest tosspots can fall back on a formal complaint to the police if it gets too heated, which is another way of saying ‘if they start losing the argument’.
Yeh, that’ll show ’em. They don’t cry rape now – they cry ‘rape threat’.
But there’s little point in trashing the kangaroo cabal one by one, because they were all as nondescript and limp as each other when the ‘court’ was in session. Oh, alright, I’ll comment on just one more.
How Harriet Harperson became a top silk is anyone’s guess. During the questioning, if that’s what it was, she could hardly look fatsack in the eye – and that’s not just because he had probably once drilled her.
Sorry, derailed her.
After all, to get close to Hazza’s fetid queef gerbil, you’d have to elbow past the complete ensemble of the fanboys of the Paedophile Information Exchange and the pungent whiff of perm sperm.
Yes, she may have championed the Equality Act but that was while looking down the wrong end of the telescope.
Anyway, back to matter in hand, which is a favourite theme for several of the Committee apparently.
Such was the rank incompetence of this gang in case-building, they might have benefitted from drafting in some Met officers for a professional investigation. Lamentably, the latter were all too busy raping and murdering vulnerable women in London.
And the ones who weren’t were glued to their smartphones WhatsApping the photos.
Sorry, did I just associate the concept of ‘professionalism’ with the institution of British policing? How ambitious of me.
Still, I digress. The whole caper reflected more than the just stink of a corrupt and dishonest former PM.
We all know that he’s as guilty as Blair, as the saying goes. After all, you don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows.
All we saw yesterday was a bloke lying about lying about lying.
What was worse was the spectacle of the Committee floundering in the wake of an obvious charlatan – with an equally obviously hopeless defence – showing why this country is so far up the proverbial creek.
Now you know how the shitbag got away with it for so long because he can still run rings round the best committee that Parliament can muster. Timewasters, all of them.
On a wider scale, the nutty turd of recovery has a decade to go, arguably more, before it touches cloth.
Which is just as well – with inflation as it is, none of us can afford paper.