Sanity through relativity.

Huzzahs are in order. After a rather long winded conversation in a pub the other night, I can now safely say that I am not mad. I can base this assumption on the fact that I have now met someone who is mad-er than I am, and given that they are not tied up in a padded room, or wearing their relative's skin as a face mask, it must be concluded that I am sane.

Huzzah!

The conversation itself began with (I can't quite remember exactly), a man by the name of Tudor (not his real name obviously), describing an image he had thought up the other night. The first was of the Manchester City team in a half time meeting with Stuart Pierce. A rather bland thing I hear you all cry, but his way of riling up the team is to jump out at them, naked as the day he was born, clutching handfuls of jam (I presumed strawberry), and screaming at his players.

What I should have asked (apart from if I could leave), was what the point of this would be? Would it scare the team into playing well? Perhaps this was all part of a clever satirical jape at Stuart Pierce's expense.

Stuart pierce as it turns out, is the son of Michael Pierce, who is CEO of Robinson's Jam. Robinson's Jam was sold out to Unilever at the end of 2006, leaving Michael Pierce rather out of pocket. He was, as a result, forced to declare himself bankrupt within 2 months of retiring as CEO and Stuart Pierce was forced to lend him a suit to appear in court in. The Daily Mirror did a 2 page spread on the fiasco.

Clearly that is all codswallop, but would have at least lent a certain level of acceptability to coming up with this idea of team motivation. Unfortunately, even if this was all true, and we could all laugh in that posh way philosophers do (where they kind of go "aaahh" whilst laughing), it would not justify the next colourful description.

It was of Ian Pasely with his hands covered in special fried rice.

Nothing else. Not some interesting political remark. Not some Chino-Celtic reference. Just Ian Pasely. With rice. On his hands. At least Stuart Pierce was doing something. You could imagine Stuart Pierce in mid scream. Face as red as the jam he crushed in his clenching fists. But Ian Pasely just stands there. Quietly, with a blank expression on his face, rice and cooked egg slowly dripping off of his fingertips and onto his nicely polished shoes. Its rather haunting now I think about it...