Aaaaah when all the alcohol in the world just won’t do it, reach for the glue. When the glue doesn’t make the pain go away try and inhale some calor gas. If that doesn’t work – and you can get it – go for something harder. LSD maybe. When they peel you off the ceiling and ask you what you saw, buzzing, high and tripping out of your nut you may will sit down at the nearest typewriter and put down your thoughts for posterity.
It will contain more sensible ideas than a Kris Boyd piece ever could.
It’s not a surprise that football players who go off the rails don’t end up lying in the gutter in a puddle of their own vomit, stuck to a bottle of Buckfast. They don’t need to go so down-market for their high. They can cruise towards oblivion on the finer things. You might find them passed out in a lounger next to a swimming pool with a litter of empty Jack Daniels bottles, or passed out on leather sofa, coming down from a cocaine bender, in a plush west end apartment … but you’ll never see them with their head in the toilet bowl down in the local boozer.
The thing is, if Kris Boyd hadn’t been a footballer – had he been a lottery winner or something – this is exactly the sort of end I think he’d be speeding towards. A hollowed out shell, in a bedsit, having drunk away the better part of his life.
I have no detailed knowledge about Boyd, by the way. I don’t even know if the guy drinks. But on the basis of his “journalistic output” lately it’s clear he’s on something strong, something you don’t find in Oddbins but which they do stock on low down supermarket shelves.
I know exactly what – who – he’s trying to be here. Someone once described him as “the poor man’s Henrik Larsson” – someone as wasted as the guy I described above probably – but now he’s aiming for glory elsewhere. He wants to be the idiot’s Joey Barton.
(Yes, that’s exactly as bad as it sounds. That’s what happen s when you scrape through the bottom of the barrel, hit groundwater, don a wetsuit and keep going, headed for China.)
It’s not enough that this clown has a column in a national newspaper. He’s now being asked for his thoughts on Sky? Yeah? Really? A blossoming media career beckons here, for someone so stupid that he probably thinks linguine is the language they speak in Italy and whose IQ barely scrapes the temperature of a room where all the windows are open. In the winter. In the Arctic. During a snow storm. Asking his opinion on anything makes as much sense as giving a baby a blowtorch.
One of the show-stoppers on Radio Clyde and elsewhere is when they tell you “it’s all about opinions”, as if every person’s view had the same weight. As if a brain surgeon discussing the finer aspects of his job would be forced to listen to a car mechanic lecture him on the same.
Boyd is the living proof of that, a man with opinions so ridiculous, so idiotic, that you’d be as well giving a child a set of crayons and basing points for debate on what he or she draws with them. He thinks the game where we destroyed Sevco 5-1 earlier in the season was “closer than it looked.” It pretty much has to be, because we outclassed them so profoundly they might as well have been playing a different sport on the day.
You all know I can’t take this guy seriously, but people in the media evidently do.
They, too, are on something harder than cough medicine, because this guy is a clown.