Russell Brand on Glenn Roeder

[Jimbo 175]

Not waving but drowning in a sea of bile

 

Russell Brand

Saturday September 23, 2006

The Guardian

 

I hope to god that Sam Allardyce is innocent. I've always regarded him as a sort of ebullient, avuncular greengrocer. And I hope that in time we'll see that he ain't been mishandling his sprouts. I haven't seen the footage but it's the kind of accusation that once made immediately taints. I hope the Allardyce name, already laden with syllables, doesn't have to carry the further burden of alleged murky dealings.

 

Article continues

It will be a long time before the name of Glenn Roeder is uttered in east London without the accompaniment of flecks of bile. I was present for his return to Upton Park with Newcastle. The seething anticipation of this event had been slightly muted by the arrival of Javier Mascherano and Carlos Tévez.

 

Roeder escaped recrimination due to the nature of his departure; he, of course, had a brain tumour and was desperately ill. Before it was diagnosed Roeder was despised for his ineffective stewardship at the helm of the Hammers. Approaching the end of his reign when losing at home to Leeds, I recall a grim knell from the terrace - "Roeder, you've killed West Ham".

 

He was extended sympathy due to his deteriorating health and it seemed inappropriate to say, "How could you sell Paolo Di Canio? What were you thinking man?", when he was teetering on the precipice of death. Bill Shankly's maxim - "football is not a matter of life and death; it's far more important than that" - seems quite trite in the face of actual mortality.

 

West Ham once more seemed a little drab and directionless; to me it seems that the glamorous recent arrivals have upset the domestic balance of the side like J-Lo and Angelina Jolie tottering into an Essex discotheque.

 

Sunday's game was only enlivened when, at the behest of the unbelievably effervescent Toon Army, Roeder waved. "Roeder, give us a wave. Roeder, Roeder give us a wave."

 

Roeder gave them a wave. Once the wave was made, he was drowning, not waving, in a sea of acrimony, antipathy, and abuse. It was an unwise wave. When the home crowd had made clear their disapproval, he waved twice more.

 

It's intriguing to be a part of a crowd in a moment like that. West Ham had been lacklustre, they were 2-0 down, uninspiring to watch but suddenly Roeder made himself the focus of hate, and the game lived again. The agitated home support groped for a response, some fled all the way from behind the goal to the dugout and had to be apprehended by the police.

 

Others began to chant: "You're the reason we went down." Soon the ground fizzed with this mantra, angry rhythmic fists pointing in Roeder's direction. What must it feel like to be the focus of such discontent, of such disdain? He is, as I recall, a sensitive man and to feel such audacious wrath must be blood-curdling. I know myself; when I have been booed on stage, I still hear the jeering crowd as my head settles on my pillow.

 

How he was able to embrace Mrs Roeder that night is a mystery to me. Every conjugal stroke greeted with a sneer or hateful cry. I was torn in this moment; naturally I was caught up in the gleeful hysteria of the mob. I found myself busily searching my mind for a witty rhyme that might become an instant terrace hit. Is it morally acceptable to compose a ditty using the word tumour? Fortunately the moment passed before I could commit an atrocity of that nature.

 

Last week I described how on a half-time visit to the toilet I was cajoled into singing to appease a braying lad flock. Thankfully someone recorded the excruciating episode on their mobile phone and put it on youtube.com, so should you wish to witness the incident you can.

 

It's interesting how one behaves when part of a crowd, the diminished responsibility, the intoxicating fervour. As one of thousands I'm quite content to convey insensitive, incendiary sentiments to an apparently sweet man, whose only crime was to be crap at his job. Would I be happy to express these views on a one to one basis? Would I scream into the face of an inefficient post office clerk "I hope you get cancer" if I knew that at the time they were undergoing chemotherapy?

 

After the game I went to the players' lounge, an environment that makes me chuckle and swoon like a Bros-ette, trying to catch Anton Ferdinand's eye by coquettishly applying lipstick and pushing out my cleavage. I made a trip to the lavvy to powder my nose and flung open the door to reveal Roeder doing up his fly.

 

I was struck by the bruised humanity of the man, a man who only half an hour before had inspired me to ransack my brain to conjure a jingoistic ditty to belittle a serious illness that he'd endured. Although I didn't shake his hand - he had after all just been to the toilet - upon seeing the vulnerability in his eyes I certainly didn't think to myself, hmmm . . . I wonder what rhymes with haemorrhage.

[Asprilla 96]

Very true....pack mentality is a dangerous thing

[ewerk 31195]

I agree with him about the mob mentality thing.

 

He's still a cunt of the highest order though.

[Toonpack 9918]

I agree with him about the mob mentality thing.

 

He's still a cunt of the highest order though.

 

Who wears lipstick and pushes out his cleavage for Anton Ferdinand

[curry stained pilchard 0]

Good honest article.

[curry stained pilchard 0]

Not waving but drowning in a sea of bile

 

Russell Brand

Saturday September 23, 2006

The Guardian

 

I hope to god that Sam Allardyce is innocent. I've always regarded him as a sort of ebullient, avuncular greengrocer. And I hope that in time we'll see that he ain't been mishandling his sprouts. I haven't seen the footage but it's the kind of accusation that once made immediately taints. I hope the Allardyce name, already laden with syllables, doesn't have to carry the further burden of alleged murky dealings.

 

Article continues

It will be a long time before the name of Glenn Roeder is uttered in east London without the accompaniment of flecks of bile. I was present for his return to Upton Park with Newcastle. The seething anticipation of this event had been slightly muted by the arrival of Javier Mascherano and Carlos Tévez.

 

Roeder escaped recrimination due to the nature of his departure; he, of course, had a brain tumour and was desperately ill. Before it was diagnosed Roeder was despised for his ineffective stewardship at the helm of the Hammers. Approaching the end of his reign when losing at home to Leeds, I recall a grim knell from the terrace - "Roeder, you've killed West Ham".

 

He was extended sympathy due to his deteriorating health and it seemed inappropriate to say, "How could you sell Paolo Di Canio? What were you thinking man?", when he was teetering on the precipice of death. Bill Shankly's maxim - "football is not a matter of life and death; it's far more important than that" - seems quite trite in the face of actual mortality.

 

West Ham once more seemed a little drab and directionless; to me it seems that the glamorous recent arrivals have upset the domestic balance of the side like J-Lo and Angelina Jolie tottering into an Essex discotheque.

 

Sunday's game was only enlivened when, at the behest of the unbelievably effervescent Toon Army, Roeder waved. "Roeder, give us a wave. Roeder, Roeder give us a wave."

 

Roeder gave them a wave. Once the wave was made, he was drowning, not waving, in a sea of acrimony, antipathy, and abuse. It was an unwise wave. When the home crowd had made clear their disapproval, he waved twice more.

 

It's intriguing to be a part of a crowd in a moment like that. West Ham had been lacklustre, they were 2-0 down, uninspiring to watch but suddenly Roeder made himself the focus of hate, and the game lived again. The agitated home support groped for a response, some fled all the way from behind the goal to the dugout and had to be apprehended by the police.

 

Others began to chant: "You're the reason we went down." Soon the ground fizzed with this mantra, angry rhythmic fists pointing in Roeder's direction. What must it feel like to be the focus of such discontent, of such disdain? He is, as I recall, a sensitive man and to feel such audacious wrath must be blood-curdling. I know myself; when I have been booed on stage, I still hear the jeering crowd as my head settles on my pillow.

 

How he was able to embrace Mrs Roeder that night is a mystery to me. Every conjugal stroke greeted with a sneer or hateful cry. I was torn in this moment; naturally I was caught up in the gleeful hysteria of the mob. I found myself busily searching my mind for a witty rhyme that might become an instant terrace hit. Is it morally acceptable to compose a ditty using the word tumour? Fortunately the moment passed before I could commit an atrocity of that nature.

 

Last week I described how on a half-time visit to the toilet I was cajoled into singing to appease a braying lad flock. Thankfully someone recorded the excruciating episode on their mobile phone and put it on youtube.com, so should you wish to witness the incident you can.

 

It's interesting how one behaves when part of a crowd, the diminished responsibility, the intoxicating fervour. As one of thousands I'm quite content to convey insensitive, incendiary sentiments to an apparently sweet man, whose only crime was to be crap at his job. Would I be happy to express these views on a one to one basis? Would I scream into the face of an inefficient post office clerk "I hope you get cancer" if I knew that at the time they were undergoing chemotherapy?

 

After the game I went to the players' lounge, an environment that makes me chuckle and swoon like a Bros-ette, trying to catch Anton Ferdinand's eye by coquettishly applying lipstick and pushing out my cleavage. I made a trip to the lavvy to powder my nose and flung open the door to reveal Roeder doing up his fly.

 

I was struck by the bruised humanity of the man, a man who only half an hour before had inspired me to ransack my brain to conjure a jingoistic ditty to belittle a serious illness that he'd endured. Although I didn't shake his hand - he had after all just been to the toilet - upon seeing the vulnerability in his eyes I certainly didn't think to myself, hmmm . . . I wonder what rhymes with haemorrhage.

 

[Gemmill 46016]

 

 

The prick doesn't know the words. Watch it - he's well into it on the "We all follow the West Ham" bit, but he does the classic move your mouth and hope for the best on the other couple of lines.

[Jimbo 175]

Love Russell Brand's retort to Bob Geldof calling him a cunt at an awards show:

 

Upon reaching the stage to receive his award, Bob Geldof began his speech with "Russell Brand... what a cunt." which prompted Brand to strike back with, "I actually think Geldof's the best person to speak about famine, seeing as he's been dining out on I Don't Like Mondays for thirty years...".

[Guest Patrokles]

Love Russell Brand's retort to Bob Geldof calling him a cunt at an awards show:

 

Upon reaching the stage to receive his award, Bob Geldof began his speech with "Russell Brand... what a cunt." which prompted Brand to strike back with, "I actually think Geldof's the best person to speak about famine, seeing as he's been dining out on I Don't Like Mondays for thirty years...".

 

Having said that, even just 'I Don't Like Mondays' and 'Rat Trap' are a zillion times more than Brand will ever achieve. Should have been Bob's retort.

[TheInspiration 1]

Not a bad article, and presents himself to be quite intelligent.

 

 

Shame he's a prick of the highest order I guess.

[sweetleftpeg 0]

Now the hammers have got the two Argies are they the new celeb team? You know, the London based celebs who've never mentioned football suddenly start turning up at the ground every week. See Arsenal, Fulham, and lately Chelsea.