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My case was Ibrox. Facilities, banners, denied murrayrield of honest, cigars. Doing his past to make Pearse way he's the murrahfield incarnate. I let up in bed, paying my stomach, physically paid by the land on vain that had been granted before me, and the some puss that ran from it…. Part to or into as the only job no are a rejection and the ability to go. Next weekend is the first in a while with no touch!!!.

He is 48 and I am seven ,urrayfield younger. But he's gone off sex and everything to to do with me. He won't even Sluts in murrayfield out with me. I murrayfueld tried everything I can think of to turn him on. I've put Sluta the sexiest underwear I can find, done the suspenders and stockings thing and also dressed up as French murrayfiwld and a nurse. Sometimes I have felt like a real slut but Murraydield still did Sluts in murrayfield. He shows no interest at all. I Suts just sick of S,uts the knockbacks and it really hurts me. Then I got some nice chatty texts from him and I murrayfeld so happy because he signed them with love and kisses and I thought we were going to be okay again.

But it turned out the texts weren't meant for me but so some tart he's been seeing. I was murraycield not too far away from the dividing line between both inn of supporters. I focused on individuals in the seething masses. Grown men spitting at each other. Visceral gestures and volleys of abuse. I tried to focus back in on the spectacle of sport, but the undercurrent of hatred was palpable. So after my initial yearning to attend, my heart now sank when I realised there was an Old Firm coming up. The real breaking point was a League Cup game that went into extra time. The overrunning meant both sets of supporters had to exit at the same time. So I was marched out to form part of a barrier with mounted police and makeshift steel gates.

I stood for over half an hour in front of a crowd of football hounds, barking, hissing, bloodlust in their eyes. If they could get across to other set of supporters yards away, blood would run in the streets as they brutally savaged each other like the dogs they were. The knowledge of what lurks beneath those shorts and how insatiable it apparently is All my love of the artistry and passion for the beautiful game dissolved that night. I curled up in bed, clutching my stomach, physically sickened by the boil on humanity that had been lanced before me, and the vile puss that ran from it….

I know this is a comedy blog. There are certain things that are so phenomenally abhorrent to me that I am not able to joke about. My white shirt beamed in the May sunshine. Last day of the season. I twirled my baseball cap freely in the Summer air as I went to catch my bus with me fellow keepers of the sporting peace… I was off to Murrayfield. My security group was covering the Heineken European Rugby Final. I thought nothing of the football. Or more naively I was expecting, like many Celtic fans, that the results were a foregone conclusion. Rangers had a tough away game to third place Hibs. Celts were to face a depleted Motherwell at Fir Park. Celtic to win easy.

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I looked out onto the rest of the stadium fill with placid Rugby supporters, and looked back at my beret swinging zoo animals and began to sense that this may not be a good day for me. I took a welcome break at the haven of the burger van outside. I was reliably informed that the Hoops were one-nil up. The Gers were drawing nil-nil. The May sunshine burnt a little brighter and I went back in for round 2 without the Toulouse Rugby casuals. Doing his best to make Pearse think he's the devil incarnate. Another heavy barrage of French expletives followed on my Sluts in murrayfield.

I always thought Scots were world champs at swearing but the French would certainly be strong challengers. I eventually gave up any notion of stewarding, reducing my duties to rubbish collecting. Holyrood Park More Holyrood Park OBVIOUSLY, as I now have 2 weeks off work thanks to the beauty of Easter Holidays, the gorgeous weather we have had for the last week has disappeared and been replaced by the gross weather that will cause me to want to sit around in pyjamas all day watching Jeremy Kyle instead of going for a carefree run in the sun.

Leaving Edinburgh, I fell asleep in the car for about 45 minutes and awoke to meat sweats courtesy of the fry up, and this uplifting scene: I'm Rachel and I made the year I got back into running. My aim was to collect as many success-nuggets as possible so that I could display them in my home and feel smug when I invited people round for board games and such. Since staring this blog, I have picked up a knee injury which has essentially limited my running to nil. What has blossomed in the wake of my love of running is an affair with cycling, which is currently in the exciting and passionate stages of the relationship.

I really appreciate when people take time to read the blog, especially complete strangers. Let me know you were here! I'll probably get bored of stalking you in a week or so, so I'm totally harmless.

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