Russell Brand’s stuck in L.A. (though undoubtedly, there are locals who’d love to send him home), and as such, is reduced to watching his beloved West Ham United via tape delay. “It’s difficult enough to watch West Ham live, when the possibility of victory theoretically exists;” moans Brand in Saturday’s Guardian. “Remove that and all that remains is masochistic snuff soccer.” This afternoon’s 2-1 home defeat of Blackburn excepted, you can presume.

It’s my optimism that prevents me from watching a game which I know the Irons have squandered; in spite of irrefutable proof that the result has been decided I sit pointlessly willing alternative results with my brain.

It’s stupid enough doing that at a live game, like trying to will Frank Lampard into being sent off or Jermain Defoe into missing a penalty – both of which have happened this season, but surely (surely?) that’s not as a result of my mental dexterity and villainous telepathy? I’m pretty sure that once, on acid, I was able to make a weather girl stutter just by staring at her on GMTV thinking “Stutter, stutter!” but my testimony is perhaps marred by the LSD.

A consequence of my reluctance to torture myself with West Ham’s inefficiency and my cynicism has been that I’ve not seen West Ham play for ages, they seem only capable of humiliating defeats at present and if I know they’ve lost 4-0 to Spurs I don’t see why I should subject myself to 90 minutes of doomed cock-eyed optimism.

Julian Dicks (above), perhaps the most popular left-back in human history (Roberto Carlos? Kenny Sansom?) has berated West Ham for “not trying” in recent games, as well he might, for when he played for West Ham it were as if what were at stake was not the abstract idea of three points but the safety of his own sex organs – which were never in jeopardy, it would be a foolhardy pervert who targeted the genitalia of the terminator, I imagine his sperm was a caustic liqueur that would devour the deviant’s hand.

Dicks spared Alan Curbishley in his venomous ejaculation saying he wasn’t to blame. Curbishley was also offered support from the board and it comes to something when a vote of confidence is universally accepted as a tacit admission that the manager’s days are numbered.

Where else would such loopy double-speak be de rigueur? Maybe in mob culture where the thoughtful and delicious delivery of a bit of fish means one of your mates has been murdered. I suppose at least you’ve got the fish to cheer you up afterwards – a bit of salmon would take the sting out of all but the most sudden bereavement.