…using Bluetongue / Bluetooth. You can even chuck in TONG-a’s defeat against England in the rugby last night, which might have left them feeling somewhat “BLUE” - geddit?

Guffaws a plenty, unless you’re a farmer, in which case you’re probably crying into your genetically-modified DDT-flavoured cow-brain mulch which you’re about to feed to other cows, or pass off as mince for school dinners, or something, before getting an enormous subsidy from the EC and shooting an innocent bystander on a public footpath near your land.

The “Going to Hell in a Handcart” brigade were up in arms this morning when it was revealed that two of our (publicly funded) young tennis prospects have been posting pictures of themselves on networking sites DRUNK (!!!) and EATING PIZZA (!!!) Needless to say, their funding has been suspended, and Radio Five Live had a phone-in this morning in which various apoplectic righteous thickos called in to moan about the lazy, indulged youth of today (etc), before no doubt sitting back on their fat arses, having a fag, tucking into a bumper box of Quality Street and watching “Jeremy Kyle”, or whatever they do instead of working.

For my part, I was more interested in the comments of the tennis players:

“On Broady’s Bebo page she says she hates “hangovers after a good nite owt [sic]” while Rice says he’s happiest when “wiv the boyz partyin and chillin [sic]”. He adds “you can’t beat Watford 4 a nyt out [sic]”.”

Ergo - they’re both chav’s [sic]!!! Given that the LTA funding for these kids came from the National Lottery, we can conclude that, essentially, chavs are funding chavs to behave chav-ishly in the name of tennis. Part of a strategy by the LTA to rid the sport of its posh image?

Wacky conspiracy theory of the day: now that most people in the UK have at least 40 TV channels (thanks to Freeview), there’s an awful lot more airtime to fill. At the same time, programming budgets are getting tighter, televisual talent more thin on the ground, and the general public’s intelligence and expectations of quality broadcasting are at an all-time low.

So how to fill up all that dead space? Simple - COMPLETE SILENCE. Commission lots of programmes which employ “dramatic” pauses. The X Factor, The Apprentice, Deal or No Deal… fuck it, these days it’s probably quicker to list programmes which DON’T employ cavernous 90-second gaps preceding the revelation of some result which is so insignificant that by the end of the pause, you’ve actually forgotten what programme you were watching in the first place.

So, to a deafening chorus of retrospective “told you so”s, Jose Mourinho leaves Chelsea. It was on the cards; he’s been prowling the touchlines throwing hilariously cliched latino temper tantrum shapes for weeks now, in much the same way as Thierry Henry spent large parts of last season pouting smoulderingly, hands-on-hips, like the heroine of a poncy French film, before flouncing off to Barcelona.

The self-styled “special one” will be sorely missed, the meeeja tell us. But why, exactly? OK, he provided easy copy for lazy hacks, but to my mind, he was little more than a bully (ask any ref), a braggart and a whining underachiever. No side - not even dodgily-state-sponsored Real Madrid - have ever been able to spunk such ludicrous amounts of money on their squad; yet he was consistently unable to win the Champions League with Chelsea. OK, he won the Premiership twice - but he did so only by repeatedly replicating his Porto trick of getting a goal and then sticking 10 men behind the ball. Chelsea under Mourinho were boring as hell, like Arsenal under George Graham or the archetype of Italian catenaccio (the only difference being Mourinho’s sides strangle play slightly further up the field). Oh, and it takes a rare lack of man-management ability to make players like Ballack, Shevchenko and Wright-Phillips into nervous shadows of their former selves.

Some would argue that he was “charming”, or “a character” - to them I’d say leave off football punditry and buy a copy of “Knitting Weekly”, as you’re probably a sexually frustrated housewife. Fans of actual football will simply shrug and forget Mourinho, saving their admiration for proper managers like Alex Ferguson, Arsene Wenger and Carlo Ancelotti.

(Apologies to anyone who couldn’t give a monkeys about footie. I’ll stand you a copy of “Knitting Weekly” if you like.)For more on Jose Mourinho, I suggest you consult the great Paul Whitehouse…

Tonight sees yet another pointless back-pat orgy in the shape of the Mobos (or “Mobo’s” as many would no doubt have it). Champagne will flow, blings will only get better, and no doubt most of the attendees will acquaint themselves with the most popular guest, Charlie, in the toilets at some point.

But why? To honour “music of black origin”. What does that MEAN, exactly? Pretty much ALL the music we have in the pop pickers’ hit parade is of black “origin” at some point, isn’t it? So how come Amy Winehouse is nominated for for her Billie Holliday schtick whilst hundreds of white blues-based rock bands are ignored (apart from the fact that most of them are crap)? A wild guess - could it be a desperate attempt to shoehorn a big(ish) name into a moribund scene?

Also - it strikes me that if we had a “music of white origin” awards ceremony a) the organisers would be labelled racist supremacists, and b) Fairport Convention would enjoy a long overdue revival.

So, for the third day running, hundreds of simple folk “oop narth” will be donning their cloth caps and readying their whippets before sallying forth for a hard day’s queueing outside branches of Northern Rock building society. But are they wise to do so?

Northern Rock (so called, apparently, because when the company started trading, rocks were actually the primary form of currency in the north of England) is in trouble, everyone knows that. But since a) all accounts are protected by the bank of England up to £35,000 (100% of the first £2000, 90% of the remaining £33,000), and b) 99.7% of people “oop narth” are on benefits*, it follows that a lot of the queuers are panicking needlessly. Still, if it were my money in there…

(* - this is probably true, although not an official government statistic.)

As the more dogged amongst the Sandwich readership will have realised, I’m now an evil buy-to-let landlord; you know, the type who are driving up property prices and denying all those poor first-time-buyer families with their lovely children a chance to get on the property ladder (etc).

Actually, it’s not quite what I expected; my studies of Anglo-Saxon history led me to believe that I’d enjoy “droit de seigneur” over my tenants, enabling me to take a third of their annual oatmeal production and enjoy the company of their daughters on a regular basis. Instead, the deal appears to be that they pay me a couple of hundred quid a month, and in return I HAVE TO DO A LOAD OF BLOODY WORK! What’s that about?

Anyway - one major potential embarrasment already averted; my first tenant’s name is Abby, and the address of the property is “Quain Court”. Predictive texting the word “Abby” brings up “baby”, whilst “Quain” gives “stain”. Hence I nearly sent her something along the lines of “Hey baby, hope you’re comfortable with my stain” - and a court order briefly beckoned…

Nice - from an Italian perspective at least - to see Perfidious Albion get its come-uppance in the shape of a whacking $100m fine for the cheating McLaren F1 team, ostensibly for being in possession of Ferrari car specs by foul means. Obviously, I know very little and care even less about the ins-and-outs of the case; it’s enough that all the self-righteous little-Englanders who crowed about the Serie A match-fixing scandal now have a sporting shame of their own to suck on. Yet STILL the closet racists won’t shut up - go on any F1 forum right now, even that of the BBC, and it’s all about Ferrari: they’re Italian - and for that reason alone, they must be the real cheats.

On the subject of all things Italian - I finally have the right to call myself a “made man”, having - astonishingly for the first time - watched “The Godfather” last night. To be honest, I couldn’t really see what all the fuss was about - a) Al Pacino was insipid, b) the story rambled and seemed cliched (although, of course, that’s with the benefit of hindsight after 25 years of Mafia cliches BASED on the film), and c) - most embarrasingly - I had to turn on the subtitles for Marlon Brando’s bits as I couldn’t understand a freakin’ word he was saying. My youthful hearing ability sleeps with the fishes.

* - (… and a special award for the worst pun EVER goes to… Mr Sandwich!)

So farewell, Dame Anita Roddick - purveyor of the finest repackaged mud and standard-bearer for animal rights and many other ethical movements (until she bizarrely sold out to serial animal torturers L’Oreal last year. Apparently, Halliburton and Esso put in higher offers but they were considered “too principled”.)

I suppose, if you had a lisp, you could call her an “Ethics Girl” and confuse fans of Denise Van Outen and Jade Goody.

Well, I’m back in my tiny grief-hole in Folkestone, and finally connected to the internet - and not a moment too soon, as the quadrennial homosexual-fantasist / fat-fetishist / incomprehensible-rules-fetishist orgy that IS the Rugby Union World Cup has started. Fancy waiting 6 weeks to find out which one of two possible winners finally emerges with the crown? Well, this is the sporting occasion for you!

I’m writing this now because I’m already bored with the tournament, less than 20 mins into the first half of the first game. However, I did enjoy the latest pre-match innovation, which I’m dubbing “anthem-cam”. The camera, whilst panning across the teams, finally  includes audio - enabling you to hear professional rugby players tunelessly bellowing their national anthems like the retarded orang-utans they are. Annoyingly, the French weren’t too bad at “La Marseillaise”.