www.county4life.com

What an arse, seriously what sort of arsehole who is earning millions of pounds doing something most people could only dream of doing for a living would throw it all away by attacking and insulting a woman who rejected him, when he had a wife who was carrying his child,  he could get a lot of women so why on Earth would he make such a fuss over one girl who rejected him!

The thing that pretty much sealed such a massive sentence was the absolute lack of remorse he showed for his actions, a similar crime where the defendant showed remorse or even a sense of psuedo-guilt for his actions would've got maybe 12 months, meaning he would only miss a season, although his crime wasn't as devastating a Luke McCormick's crime, at least McCormick was clearly killing himself inside for what he did to the family and never once pleaded not guilty and although it wont repair the damage it least it shows a human quality in him which Marlon King is clearly lacking.

The 'Role Model' to many up and coming Jamaican footballers is an utter disgrace and in my opinion shouldn't be allowed to play professional football again and certainly not international football, although I agree the 18 months inside is his punishment but why should someone like him be allowed to walk back into a job earning millions of pounds playing a game that most people would love to play for a living.

I think he should join Lee Hughes in the never again pile and both should be given banning orders by the courts from any football that can earn him money and so much of their current earnings should be taken away and given to a charity that helps stop the kind of things they are responsible for such as abusing women and in Lee Hughes case drink-driving just to rub the irony in their faces a little more.

What do you think, leave a comment with your opinions, if you have something you would like to rant about please don't hestitate to get in touch with us.

All over the news all I have heard is about the tragic death of Stepen Gately which I agree is a tragedy for a young man to lose his life so suddenly but what really grinds my gears (to quote the legendary Peter Griffin) is that as soon as someone famous dies everyone goes on about how amazing they were.

Lets face it Boyzone were shite, any girl over the age of 12 who had grown out of pop tunes with edited singing on top would have been able to see this and it just really annoys me that the radio is full of Boyzone as are the music channels and people calling him a hero of Ireland!

It may have been nice to have a man who was incredibly successful and famous from Ireland but for him to be an Irish hero? A bit far for me personally, eventually when someone else famous dies then Boyzone will go back to being nobodies and a bunch of Road diggers who got lucky.

Unfortunately the Earth lost a young man in the prime of his life but it doesn't make Boyzone the best thing in the world, so please The editor of The Sun and MTV stop telling me they were, first Michael Jackson then this, pfft, grow up.

Work. Same old, same old. A warrior like me should not be caged. And definitely not as a Waste Management Support Co-ordinator in Lewisham Council. Phone rings. Pick it up.

"Ooo are ya? Ooo are ya? Ooo are ya?" I shout.

"Barry," says the voice. "It's Mr Stevens. Now what did we say about answering the phone in accordance with the guidelines laid down by HR in consultation with designated union representatives?"

"Sorry, Mr Stevens," I say.

"That's better Barry. Now can you please arrange for a member of the cleaning personnel team to go down to the lobby and change the waste paper basket on front desk?"

"Millwall! Millwall! Millwall!" I shout.

"No Barry. Waste paper management now. Millwall later," says Stevens. "Honestly Barry. A man of 48 really ought to be able to control himself."

"Yes Mr Stevens," I say. He's bricking it now, the mug. I hang up and email the cleaning personnel team, and then practice aggressive walking in my cubicle until lunch.

Lunchtime. Free. Outside. The Lion prowls. Trouble though. There's a gang of muppets on the corner. West Ham? They're only young 'uns, but they're probably tooled up, the scum. Two of them. I'm outnumbered. But these colours don't run.

"Come on then! Come on then!" I shout, flapping my arms up and down in a well aggressive way while walking away from them backwards.

The bigger one drops his ice cream. He starts to cry. Soon the other one is crying too.

"You slaaaaaaaaags," I shout. "Ooo are ya? Gertcha! Queen Mum! Ave a banana. Oi oi saveloy."

But hold up. It was a trap. There's another one. The top dog. Waiting in Boots. Clever.

"What the hell are you shouting at my kids for?" she says. "What is wrong with you? Scaring a five year-old in the street like that."

"I'm on your manor and I'm taking the piss," I say.

She's coming at me now. Hard. This is more than just a bit of handbags. She's tooled up: with an actual handbag. This is Luton 1985. This is Highbury 1988. This is Toys R Us 1995 when that Palace Young Team pushed me off the bouncy castle.

"Come on then! Do you want some?" I say, running in the other direction.

Course, I'm more built for raw power than speed, and after a few yards I'm wheezing, doubled up outside Dixons, lungs on fire.

They catch up to me, the three of them. The top dog's got that handbag. The small one looks mental, a proper psycho, covered in strawberry ice-cream like it's warpaint.

The littlest one's got a Dora The Explorer lunchbox. The clever, clever slags.

"Why is that fat old man dressed like a young person, mummy?" says ice cream.

Is this how it ends? On the cold pavement outside Dixons? I'm going out with my head held high. They'll talk about me in the Dog And Swastika for years to come. I'm a legend. I'm a bloody Lions legend. I wait for the blows.

I feel a hot, wet sensation spreading over me. The blood, the glory, the end. I'm going to the great New Den in the sky a hero, a fighter, a geezer who never took a backward step.

I hear a voice - is it God? Asking me to join His Firm, be a top boy?

"Mummy mummy, that silly fat man has done a wee in his trousers."

And then it all goes black.

I once read a book called 'Who Stole My Cheese?", I released after many sleepless nights it was all about change and who deals with it the best.

Matty will tell you about his reservations on the new Dr. Who, then it's this Swine Flu (cue Self Pitying Scousers and tales from the ghetto of coughs and splutters), Jim Gannon and his successor at County, and now this...! 

Have you heard the utter gash that is the The Bill's new makeover? Apparently, it will be something that slows you down and then prepares you for something a bit more emotional. Well according to some twat at ITV, that is. 

Fuck that...! I want coppers, cuffs and crims. No more, no less, all on a Sesame Seed Bun. Altogether now - Duh duh, duh duh...Duh nan nan naaa...!

Now that the media circus surrounding Michael Jackson's death has died down a bit, I would like to add my two pennorth.

I wasn't a particular fan of the King of Pop, but it has to be said that the man has certainly left an indelible legacy on the world of music.

For all his genius, Jackson was certainly a flawed talent but, in a world where the media has its own agenda, it is often hard to extricate the truth from the trash.

There is much of Jackson's life that we will never know about and, instead, I will remember him every time me and Matty throw some shapes on a night out.

Shamone (whatever that means). Goodnight and Godbless