I can’t say I’ve enjoyed reading the papers this week. While the continuing play of the chipper lads at Blackpool is a joy to behold and Gareth Bale’s performances are truly splendid, we once again are beset by more tedious filth overshadowing the beautiful game. The stench emanating from the North East is really quite overpowering. Even Terry Tappin, a devotee of all things tabloid couldn’t stomach some of the stories cascading across the tabloid media this week. ‘William’, he said to me the other day at the Old Chiseller Club, ‘somethings just put you right off your breakfast.’ For a lad with a fifty inch waistline, this came as quite a shock. Particularly, as Mary his cook makes wonderful porridge.

But I digress. What concerns me most about the recent turn of events is that it seems to be heralding a new age of twisted normality for professional footballers. If it wasn’t enough to have the England squad defiled with the cheating debauchery of Cashley Cole, John Terry and the Cubby Chav we now may have the prospect of them being joined by the sleazily soiled Andy Carroll.

Honestly, at this precise moment i’d almost rather be French. Their players might be a bunch of po-faced, self-centred, self-important, primadonnas but at least you can laugh at them. Our lot make it difficult for the nation to keep it’s collective breakfast down.

Yours, grumpily

W.R Howe (Chairman)