I was planning to write an article on the Hilton Ballroom Beano a.k.a. The West of Scotland Charity Press Lunch, but it was a rather lacklustre and somewhat anodyne affair. Those hoping to see Janette Tough in the guise of Wee Jimmy Crankie were palpably disappointed when Nicola Sturgeon stepped up to the lectern. Her speech had the impact of a coma-inducing Tweet by Darren BS Cooney who can comfortably be summed up using less than 140 characters. Laughs were as rare as facts in a Keith Jackass exclusive.
One must commend Kenny Miller for bouncing back from, as Jackass would have us believe, being assaulted by the Hibs supporters, to raise merry hell in a Bothwell Italian Restaurant. If Keith Jackass had been tasked with writing a join-the-dots article on this Bothwell Brouhaha, Kenny would have been sympathetically cast as a Venetian gondolier, singing O Sole Mio in a bucolic Bothwell lake, when he was unsuspectingly sabotaged by a lurking Hibs U-boat in a savage and totally unprovoked attack.
It only took fourteen days for the Bothwell Brouhaha to break. If Leigh Griffiths had engaged in a rousing ‘knees up mother Brown‘ after the Scottish Cup Final, Jackass would have been on it like a virus. As Jackass took pride of place in a table of ten from The Daily Record at the luncheon, at a cost to their recidivist readers of £600, he was blissfully unaware (as always) that the backdrop to Nicola’s speech was from a company called Viridor which specialises in Transforming Waste. When one thinks of Jackass’ copy, would it be apposite to suggest that The Daily Record’s Editor Murray Foote hires someone from Viridor as a sub-editor to transform the garbage written by his hapless hack?
The Jim Rogers Memorial award, and a banker’s draft for £1,000, went to an aspiring hack at the Scottish Sun. There were eight entries for this award, all of which were described by a seasoned attendee as Warburton-on-sea woeful. Chris Jack was mentioned in dispatches for a loving portrayal of his media mentor in his article: ” Derek Johnstone-Why are you so Good.” It would be inaccurate to suggest that Chris left empty-handed as he was later seen shaving with a rough towel that revealingly bore the Hilton crest.
Derek Johnstone has been flogging the dead horse of his Rangers credentials for twenty-five years. His output has been so bland and paradigm-shifting biased that he has been awarded his own category on The Glasgow Coma Scale – DJ Catatonia – which has been described as being so deficient of neural activity that an original thought is as likely as Darren Cooney’s/Keith Jackass’ three-legged race to the bottom of the journalistic barrel actually winning a Pulitzer Prize. On coming across the following photograph of DJ in his Rangers cheerleading pomp, Jackass, who was on a plagiarizing reconnaissance mission, asserted: ‘Nice Tits though.’ One was not expecting Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason from the bumped-up bagel boy, but is this the best he can do in praise of the leader of his cheerleading troupe?
Chris Sutton was a guest on Radio Snide yesterday evening. It took Sutton less than eight minutes to forensically deconstruct DJ. Some have suggested that Sutton ‘tore him a new asshole‘ but this broad brush would be unkind to all asses. DJ is suffering from a peculiar malaise where his alimentary canal works in reverse. To put it in a more crude vernacular, his faeces is redirected to his mouth.
Was Sutton aware of DJ’s unfortunate anatomical anomaly when he repeatedly described him as a media charlatan and a Rangers puppet? Was Sutton not sympathetic on how difficult it is for DJ to don his 25 years old cheerleading outfit? I’ve heard it said that it took one year’s supply of Atlantic Shelf herring bone to construct a corset to support DJ’s expanding girth. I’m the first to admit that the provenance of this information is less than sound as it came from Mangetout Traynor at The Ministry of Pishery. DJ’s addled ramblings in The Evening Times are redolent of someone suffering gout and irritable bowel syndrome in equal measure.
As Sutton accurately stated, DJ is:
“A party political broadcast for Rangers.”
Derek has grown fond of the two seats that he occupies in the Rangers directors box and he is not prepared to give them up. He has liked the cut of the jib of every carpetbagger and criminal that has been dragged into the Blue Room by the Ibrox house cat, ‘Souper-Ally.’ Since Derek and the house cat are both fond of a bowl of frothing blue broth, is it any surprise when the mewsings of both are practically indistinguishable?
Is it not high-time someone turned up DJ’s hearing aid to whisper: “You’re out of the loop Derek!”