Tuesday 24th May

Okay, just want to clarify one thing right off the bat.

As far as I can gather, the Whiny-Giggs man’s ‘doing’ of the girl that none of us have heard of is, and I want to be absolutely crystal on this point, not of the remotest interest to anybody in this country.

Our fingers are inserted into our ears and we are all, with one refrain, singing la-la-la-la-la-la.

Blokes whose only claim to fame is that they can do ‘well-sick-keep-em-uppies’ with a football-ball are the very same kind of blokes who whistle and hoot at you from atop the scaffolding on the High Street.

This isn’t exactly fresh information.

I know that the football-ballers have traded in their white vans in favour of black Range Rover Sports but, bar their mode of transport and their relocation from an ordinary house to a ‘well-sick-crib’, the fact that their wives are resigned to following them around tucking their winkies back into their pull-ups is no big shocker.

No, what got us all riled up was that the press reported the story with a black outline of this anonymous-cheating-rat-bastard with a question-mark for a head.

Suddenly the search for a cure for cancer came to a shuddering halt as, with one accord, the nation did a handbrake-turn in favour of a good old fashioned witch-scumbag-done-it-hunt.

What happened next may, at first glance; appear to be the fault of Twitter and the malevolent influence of social-networky-ness.

 I just want to point out, before the writs start thumping through letter-boxes up and down the country, that social-networking has been a facet of human behaviour since we first crawled out of the swamp.

Pre-Microsoft, it used to go by the name of ‘gossip’.

Back in the day, people used to get together and spend many pleasant hours talking to each other face-to-face. They’d whisper and giggle and sentences would start with things like, “You’ll never guess what I heard”, or “Guess what so and so told me”.

When walking into any British boozer on a typical Thursday night, you’d be greeted by clusters of people all leaning together over their pints, muttering and whispering, with the phrase “No. Really?” doing a Mexican wave around the room.

Obviously, and in the spirit of encouraging a sense of community, all the pubs have closed down now, but the need to ‘Twitter’ is as strong as it ever was.

Nobody ever tried to sue the landlord of the Dog & Duck because all of his customers had figured out that it was the man with egg all over his face (from three villages down) that was the one on the rob at the chicken farm.

Privacy laws will not stop us ‘twittering’.

I don’t know how well Mr Giggs is liking his apples right now, but I think that anybody else who is attempting to hide their out of control todgers behind a piece of paper with some fine print on it, would be well served to grow up and consider their position on the tree.

Low growing fruit is quickly chomped up and forgotten. Everybody is after the big, red, juicy ones that are hiding themselves out of reach, right at the top.

And on that note, does anyone know which goalkeeper has a gagging order in place to prevent us knowing that he’s been texting piccys of his willy around and about.

Somebody get that boy a box of sticka-brix.