Close but no cigar ...

Vince, Vince ... Vince. What the hell were you thinking? Eight freaking votes, and you could have been in like flynn. You could have been the independent supporters voice, the man in the pub, the man in the stand ... no political agenda, just doing it because you cared.

Eight votes, even I can't believe that. I know of at least 15 people who didnt vote, but would of voted for Vince if they could have been assed, or in fact if he could have been assed to ask them.

So it's another CASC person doing the job. Another two years of not rocking the boat, no news is good news, target 100,000. We could end up with 100,000 twats all sitting clapping in a line. And there was we dreaming of Haime Big Foot Henderson down at Welling United.

We've got "The Pool" tonight. I'm not in the mood, to watch Fowler come back and haunt us. Oh it will happen. A funny thing on Netaddicks was that we should sing "Chick, chick, chick, chick, chicken lay a lil' egg for me" tonight. I had to have a double take then I remember this. Oh how we laughed.

I'm sorry if you have seen this before, but for once the Daily Mail hits something fairly and squarely on the head and doesn't demand deportation. It's another one of them Danny Murphy articles ... sorry ...

WATCH OUT, DANNY, THE MISSUS IS IN THE PAPER AGAIN.

The peculiar phenomenon of the Footballer's Wife grows by the day. Not content with tipping off the paparazzi every time they go shopping, or writing glossy magazine 'style' columns explaining how to apply fake tan, they have now invaded sport. Yes, they are writing football columns. Well, I say ' writing', but it would be kinder to say that they talk and some words miraculously appear under pouting photographs, pushing back the cause of female emancipation in sports journalism by at least a decade in the process. The most amusing of these offerings appears in what used to be a broadsheet newspaper under the name of a former model called Joanna
Taylor. I am reliably informed that she was also in a television show called Hollyoaks, a younger, thicker version of Brookside, followed by Merseybeat, a younger, thicker version of The Bill. But in recent times, aside from some panto work, her chosen career has been chronicler of Danny Murphy's life and self-styled 'footballer's wife'. And so she writes about her spouse. Endlessly. 'I know my husband pretty well,' she says, which is a start, I suppose. Unfortunately, she has decided to share this information with the rest of us. Every week, Taylor explains his frame of mind, makes excuses on his behalf, ticks off managers and fans who don't appreciate him quite as much and regales us with insight like 'footballers are not as interesting as people think'. Well, we can see that. Recently Mrs Murphy complained that she had been invited to only one film premiere since Danny joined Charlton, and even then it was Phantom Of The Opera. Thankfully, this inconvenience was cleared away when Murphy departed for Spurs last week, leaving Charlton manager Alan Curbishley to observe acidly: 'I'd imagine that his social diary will be that much fuller now.' The
footballe's wife had to reply. 'Danny wouldn't want to say anything', she said,
not that it stopped her speaking on his behalf again. 'Curbishley obviously does
not read this column otherwise he would know we do not go out much,' she tutted.
Frankly, I'm not surprised. The way she goes on, the chap must be too
embarrassed to leave the house.

My tune of the day: I declare war - Double Exposure