Reactionary anger coupled with humble apology in one foul swoop from Judge Marcus. An introduction laced with delusion, ignorance, denial and the truth about a packet of Haribo, a Sunday afternoon and 5,000 mystery Bradfordian's. But can you guess who we are talking about? You wouldn't need to if Mr Mitchell hadn't left his bloody phone on. Buzz, buzz bloody buzz...
"Take a boooow son" Yes, the royal ceremony of praise is heaped upon the Lancastrian Legend that is Andrew Flintoff. Enough said. Well, maybe a minute of praise doesn't do him justice, so why not talk about him twice.
"Take a diiiive son" Yes, the royal ceremony of rant is piled upon any fucktard cheating scumbag who dives, rolls about, falls over, or generally brings the fine upstanding ethics shown by 99% of modern footballers into disrepute.
More cricketing scandal when we discuss why even the promised afterlife is too good for Mohammed As-if and Salman Butt-head.
English top trump World Championship of Sportscasters throws a spanner in the form guide books when Stanley Matthews takes a shafting from Psycho Pearce, and natural justice is restored.
The Lucas Debate is settled once and for all, or is it?
And finally... 'Name that tune' takes on a new twist when George decides to name that tune, during the tune, when, in fact, he hasn't got a fucking clue. Normal custard pouring service is resumed then...
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