I know that’s not a song - rather, we can sing about “the b*stard in the black” or claim “the referee’s a w*nker” - but some recent procrastination resulted in discovering that the footballer Juan Carlos Pérez López - known as “Juankar” - has actually turned out in an all-black kit for Málaga in 2018-19. When I realised that wondrous fact, I was quick to poetically announce it to the brilliant Martin Le Roy, who, to his credit, chose sparing my blushes and feigning being impressed at my find over correcting my embarrassing error.

Generally, I’m not one to defend football referees against accusations of being b*stards or w*nkers. Their arrogance and self-importance has been a scourge on the game for decades, especially some of the most successful ones. Their abuse of their power has led to far too many miscarriages of justice in pivotal games, and aside from a temporary demotion to lower level matches, their crimes go unpunished.

I’ll show my working, of course.

Close to a decade ago, a shift in my circumstances led me to, after a long hiatus, return to soap operas. Not how I refer to the dramas of my existence, you’ll understand, but the long-running episodic drama series which are the mainstay staples of television programming.

In the light of YouTube, Netflix and podcasts, to name but three challengers traditional entertainment media faces, the likes of Coronation Street, Hollyoaks, Neighbours, Home and Away and EastEnders (I never really got on with Emmerdale) seem almost ridiculous in their dated approach to catering for our needs, but somehow they still demand my intention. Perhaps it is so I can keep an eye on what passes as normal human behaviour to the normal humans so alien to me that make up the viewership. No, not for the first time, I don’t have to be alerted to the irony.

I sometimes struggle with the storylines, and will abandon even my sporadic viewing until a specific plotline runs its course or, so I’m sure it can’t be resurrected, at least one of the characters involved is killed off. Largely, however, and to varying extents across examples, soaps are informative mirrors to society, and progressive. There’s the banal and the misrepresentative, sure, but soaps educate and enlighten as a matter of procedural policy.

Here we go again. Donald Trump, two years into his presidency, is due another (state) visit to the UK. Sickening, right? At one point, due to The Donald facing threat after threat to his position from inauguration to now, some said Angela Merkel had become, in effect, LotFW, but she ain’t the boss of me - God bless Brexit, eh? - and neither is Trump, thankfully. Oh, do monarchs have a claim to that? Anyway…

No one thought Trump would make it into the White House. Well, no one except me (listen in from 6m45s). But he made it in, and he’s lasting, to an extent. So what does this tell us about this planet? Well, assuming the majority of people reading this reside in the UK, imagine Alan “Lord” Sugar - to most media commentators a far more palatable human being than Trump - becoming UK Prime Minister. More palatable or not, Sugar is still an odious f*cking toad, so the idea remains entirely abhorrent, but the main parallelling point endures: Alan Sugar - like Trump, a businessman, a straight-talker, an a*sehole - sits in the faux-boardroom hotseat of The Apprentice, the BBC’s UK version of the show that propelled Trump to power.

This article’s in two parts. The first part involves this dual-national - UK and enduringly EU (French) whatever happens - bemoaning the leave vote. The second part, well, we’ll get there…

So what happened in 2016? A bus? Seriously? Who believes a politician at the best of times? And look at what politicians were for Brexit. Granted, David Cameron and George Osborne were on the remain side, and they’re utterly horrid, but the bus didn’t actually tell a lie, it just ignored the fact that the suggestion of funding the NHS with (some of) the £350million (gross) that goes to the EU each week could not be backed with any power to see it through. That’d have to be a policy decision and Cameron and Osborne were then in power, and singing from a different hymn sheet entirely.

Us girls are so magical
Soft skin, red lips, so kissable
Hard to resist, so touchable
Too good to deny it
Ain’t no big deal, it’s innocent

I’ve written before about fluid female sexuality, but you won’t - unless your internet stalking game is absolutely on point - have read my selfish, self-indulgent bemoaning of its implications for the human race. It’s a current imbalance - men do not yet demonstrate that fluidity to the same extent - and one I have constantly sought to square the circle of, to mix metaphors.

The lyrics above are from the Katy Perry song I Kissed a Girl. As you can imagine, that release had an impact on my life, despite virtually everyone I knew, of both (universally accepted) genders, shrugging in complete indifference. The song didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know, in terms of women, particularly younger women, having sexual experiences with other women, but it did bring it into the mainstream like never before.

Yesterday’s BBC News at Ten had a fun little segment on “fake news”. No, it wasn’t a crisis of contrite self-awareness, rather a comment on the dark potential of facial manipulation in post-production editing suites, so we can overdub people talking with a different audio, and enable them to say something different.

The example they used, which is particularly sh*tty for a news programme, was the possibility of the hit BBC drama, Luther, being overdubbed for foreign viewers, with Sexiest Man Alive™ Idris Elba’s mouth contorting to form words of a language he doesn’t speak.

It doesn’t take a genius to extrapolate that the BBC’s possible gain in selling their enhanced programmes abroad could be the truth’s loss in other areas of life. The hipster video editor questioned on the subject paid the dangers very casual lip service, appropriately, by suggesting safeguards to ensure the technology is not used for nefarious ends. Because if you’re willing to edit a video to say someone said something they didn’t, you’d surely sign up to a code of conduct first, and be sure to stick to it.

Do you need this? Really? With unanimity amongst the public and critics that A Star is Born is wonderful, do you you really need me to tell you what I think?

How about if I tell you that it’s dogsh*t?

Okay, so, I found myself at a bit of a loose end on Saturday afternoon, so decided I’d go to the cinema. I couldn’t put myself through what I expect to be a deep clean of the Queen story, as told by Brian May - though I will - so I went for a different music-centric film.

We'll be slayin' people hatin'
But it don't bother us
Cus it's lit up in this thing called
Millennial Love

Millennial Love. The name of a song by a YouTuber I don’t dare type the name of, and also a podcast from the former newspaper, now blog online newspaper, the Independent.

This podcast - my main focus herein - centres on - uh-huh - the dating scene for millennials. If you don’t know, a millennial is somewhat accepted to be someone who was born in the last twenty or so years of the 20th century, which, incredibly, just about includes me, although there’s significant debate about the range. And, really, it’s a jungle out there.

Okay, so, two things:

1) I’m not Irish, and don’t live in Ireland, so maybe I should shut the f*ck up.

2) Chances are, by the time you - the average visitor to Marceltipool.com - read this, voting will have taken place, and my assumption, from over here in Britain two days before, is that Ireland will have voted Yes in a big way.

Well, to deal with both of those points, I’m nailing my colours to the mast on this referendum because I see it as a vote to legalise, and further the legitimisation of, abortion, both in Ireland and globally. Should Ireland vote Yes, then this piece can act as one of many examples of a counterargument whenever someone campaigning for easier access to abortion says “Even Ireland’s with us now!”

So, the talk today is of Conor McGregor versus Khabib Nurmagomedov being a very real possibility, perhaps for a UFC Russia/Moscow event. A couple of weeks after Conor McGregor threw a sack barrow at a bus, smashing a window and injuring colleagues, the hype train is back on track - thanks to the Barclays Center incident of course - and the biggest fight in UFC history may well happen.

So was it real anger? Or self-promotion? (By McGregor? Or by the UFC and McGregor?)

In tonight's Europa League Final, have a look out for instances of what, for me, is the single most frustrating recurring moment in football viewing: the wrongly-called offside.

Let me explain what I mean. This is when the linesman raises his flag to indicate to the referee that a player receiving the ball, generally-speaking, has strayed into an offside position before the ball was played, despite not being sure that that is the case.

Because they do that, linesmen. They guess. This is the flaw in the way the rule is utilised by officials. It doesn't matter how often they're told not to make a call unless they're sure, to give the benefit of the doubt to the attacking player, they will continue to see their lives flash before their eyes and raise a flag when there might be a chance the player was "off".

Well guess what, guys, Sralex has long gone. You don't need to lose sleep over that man raging about a goal being given thanks to you not spotting that the thickness of Papiss Cissé's heat-transferred plastic Wonga logo was ahead of the last defender when the ball was played. It's over, we can move on.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with a friend. Said friend is black. I am white. Ordinarily, these facts would be entirely irrelevant, but for the reasons which follow, they are on this occasion pertinent.

In passing, I mentioned that when I had first moved to the area of the country which I currently reside in, I had initially struggled to find work. In fact, I had struggled to even make it to interview stage, and despite the obvious shortcomings in my character and employment history outlined in my CV, the lack of interest seemed odd. That was until a friend of a friend, back at the time I was going through this struggle, pointed out to me that "Mate, they think you're black."

As the area where I live is backward on so many levels - it truly is a sh*thole, it has to be said - I actually gave, and still do give, some credence to this theory. My legal first name is, generally speaking, one which is given to Afro-Caribbean people far more than it is given to white people, in this country at least, and many people around here are d*cks. The idea that they are racist d*cks is not much of a leap. The idea that they are so idiotic, and arrogant in their idiocy, that they would racially discriminate - erroneously, in my case - seems, sadly, to follow.

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