Worst Blog Set To Coldplay

I am descending into a dangerous obsession with the way in which people stagger onto this site. Of course the more I discuss the squalid succession of search engine terms that have been typed in to arrive at this destination, such pearls as “sex Hazel Irvine snooker” and “Sue Barker discusses Serena Williams tits”, the more likely it is that these kind of internet bottom-feeders will find themselves here.

Today we had a visitor with the following query, “what is the worst hurdler set to Coldplay?” Well that certainly is a question that needs to be asked. I’m not a expert in the field of athletes performing to alternative rock music but if I was pushed for answer I would probably plump for Tony Jarrett. He seems like the type of hurdler who would struggle to run to the tunes of Coldplay.

Anyway, all this is just leading up to a plug for my latest piece for the Huffington Post. They don’t really accept articles about Hazel Irvine’s breasts so I’ve written about fat people instead. Here it is.

 

There Are No Tits Here. Hazel Irvine’s Or Otherwise.

A few weeks ago I reported that this blog had been laid siege to by a deviant of the worst order. Some diabolical pest has typed in “Hazel Irvine tits” into a search engine, one would have to presume to ogle at images of the diminutive Scottish sportscaster’s breasts.

I am sad to relay that affairs have darkened since. The fiend has visited again, three times. Firstly he or she landed following the query “Hazel Irvine sex tits”. I may be naive but I don’t know what a “sex tit” is. I’m pretty sure it’s bad though. And again today, two more hits: “snooker Hazel Irvine sex tits” and “snooker Hazel Irvine sex titss” reveals some sickening fetish for Hazel Irvine in sexy bar game situations. As well as negligent spelling.

I urge this person to reveal themselves, figuratively speaking obviously, and perhaps some kind of support can be sought. There are people who can treat you, injections they can give you. I know a good surgeon if necessary.

Huffing and Puffing

I’ve had my head turned again. This time by the Huffington Post, the American based newsite and blog-aggregator, which features the some of the sharpest minds polemicizing about the urgent issues of the moment.

I wrote about Liverpudlian scrubbers using a strained gerbil metaphor. Here it is. Any haphazard use of italics and single parentheses are the website’s and not my own.

If you’ve somehow clicked here from the article via my Twitter feed then best not to click on the link otherwise you’ll embark on an horrid circular journey of my brain-toot.

And to person who entered ‘Hazel Irvine tits’ into Google to land on my page today, we don’t have any of that kind of material here. And get some help.

 

 

 

LouisWatch

The Open Championship has developed a recent habit of throwing forward unheralded winners. Normally it is a faceless American who arrives late from the pack and steals off with the Claret Jug when no-one is looking.

But Louis Oosthuizen has led since Friday. And he has a four-shot lead. And his nearest challenger is English and therefore genetically programmed to fade away in the final round. I assumed that he’d blow it yesterday and we’d forget he was even playing until he slunk apologetically up the 18th fairway. Let’s see if he can carry on the good work today:

1st: Louis turns up in bright white trousers. This is a good start. Those are champion’s trousers alright. Paul Casey’s trousers appear to be the vaguest shade of off-white. He misses a little one for a birdie. Time to get a new washing machine. Lead 4 shots.

2nd: Casey drops one. Louis pars. His unshaven look is making him look a bit like Jimmy Anderson, which maybe explains why his birdie putt swings late away from the hole. Lead 5 shots.

3rd: No-one is scoring any birdies. Including Louis. He doesn’t need to. Still waiting for the collapse. Might go for a snooze. Lead 5 shots.

4th: This is becoming a procession. Hit it in the bunker, Louis. Hit it in a gorse bush. Hit it in the sea. Hit a small child. Make it interesting. Please. Lead 5 shots.

5th: Just once it would be funny if Louis Oosthuizen looked fretfully after his ball having teed off as opposed to fetching up his tee peg confidently. The man is a machine. A gap-toothed driving machine. But wait. He’s hit his second into something that looks like heather. Oh no, it’s just normal rough. If it was heather it might have been interesting. That’s the level of desperation we’re working at here. Lead 5 shots.

6th: Louis pars again. He’s a solid as a Robert Rock. At least Casey picks up his first birdie. Lead 4 shots.

7th: Ken Brown clutches at straws as Louis wallops another down the middle of the fairway. Bit close to the green? That’s right, Kenny. A bit close. Louis finds the centre of putting surface and another facile par. Lead 4 shots.

8th: At last, Oosthuizen smothers one off the tee at the short hole, and finally leaves himself a missable one for par. Which he duly misses! I just spat out my beans on toast. Lead 3 shots.

9th: Oosthuizen drains an eagle putt at the short-par four. Poirot is looking good over on ITV. Watching Poirot with bean juice down my shirt…..Lead 4 shots.

10th: Louis has picked up an annoying trait of letting go of his club as if he’s snap-hooked it into Dundee, when it’s actually sailing down the fairway. Just to tease us. It’s another par. Lead 4 shots.

11th: Oosthuizen looking shaky on the par-3 again. Pity it’s the last one. This is nothing personal against Louis. I’m just a bit underwhelmed. He still strokes in the par putt. Lead 4 shots.

12th: Casey hooks one into the gorse. The game is up. And Ken Brown knows it. Apparently Rory McIlroy is having a charge having hit two birdies. He’s nine shots back. Casey racks up a 7, triple-booger. Oosthuizen birdies. You have say to fair play, but I feel a bit empty inside. Lead 8 shots.

13th: Hazel Irvine forlornly attempting to ramp up the interest by proposing some records for Louis to break. Another parzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Lead 8 shots.

14th: Mark James claims hole-in-one as Oosthuizen knocks his drive into a sprinkler head in the middle of the fairway. It’s the most interesting thing thats happened in a while. The race for second is tightening up. It’s all about the runners-up spot. No-one cares who wins. Lead 8 shots.

15th: Dustin Johnson hits it into some souvenir shops at the side of the 18th. You don’t see that very often. Well done Dustin. There are boogers everywhere: Kaymer, Westwood and Casey. Lead 9 shots.

16th: Peter Oosterhuis pars. Lead 8 shots.

17th: Ooh the Road Hole. You can rack up a score here. Would have to be quite a big score. My mum hit a 27 at a single hole once, including 13 in the same bunker. Louis only manages a disappointing bogey. Poor effort. Lead 7 shots.

18th: Sam Torrance still commentating as if the result is in doubt. Get with the programme, Sam. Louis Oosthuizen has won. Nice work.

An Open Letter To Tiger Woods

Dear Tiger

Although the fact that you have a new putter is fascinating, mainly we are more interested that you enjoy throttling suspicious-looking women with lots of tattoos. Did you see that documentary on the telly the other day? You were probably busy. It was very enlightening.

Please be aware that the nubile female population of the university has long since left on their summer hols, there are now just depressed-looking men in cagoules. That nice lady with the soft Irish voice who keeps chasing you down the fairway is only interested in what club you might be taking for your next shot. She is off limits. If you do feel the urge, then I reckon Hazel Irvine might be up for it. Something in the eyes.

Good luck this weekend, Tiger. Keep your eye on the ball. Even if it’s wobbling around by your feet.

Love Harris Sportsthoughts

He’ll Be Back After The Break?

Gary Lineker has previously tasted the bitter ignominy of being substituted for a seemingly inferior replacement having been yanked off during his final England appearance for Alan Smith. And while Hazel Irvine is a sort of broadcasting version of Smudger, reliable if unspectacular, the howls of complaint for her promotion over Lineker for the BBC Masters coverage were far less raucous than those in Stockholm.

Not only because Lineker delivered his lines with the fretful confusion of man reading the text of a long-dead language, but also because Irvine is nice and safe, even out of her comfort zone of a lilac Berghaus, with that Scotch dependability reminiscent of Dougie Donnelly is his World Bowls pomp.

I had braced myself for a Gary-less Masters, having spotted him from my desert hotel helming Manchester United vs Bayern Munich for a Middle Eastern sports network, roaming in the wilderness like a jug-eared Jesus. It was a faintly discombobulating Frankenstein’s monster of a broadcast, as Lineker was plonked in a fair representation of the chrome Sky Champions League studio alongside Sky stalwarts Graeme Souness and Ruud Gullit and new ITV buck Teddy Sheringham.

Lineker was clearly more at ease even in these alien surroundings than at the Butler Cabin. Even if he did keep slipping over the words “we’ll be back after the break”.