In 1705, an Irish woman named Marjorie McCall fell gravely ill with a fever in Lurgan, Ireland. Believing she had died, her family hastily buried her to prevent the spread of contagion. Her husband, John McCall, a local physician, had been unable to remove her valuable ring because her finger was badly swollen โ a detail that soon attracted the attention of grave robbers.
That same night, body snatchers dug up the fresh grave. Unable to pull the ring from her finger, they began cutting it off. The sudden flow of blood shocked the still-living Marjorie out of her deep coma. She sat upright in the coffin and screamed, terrifying the robbers, who fled and reportedly never returned to their grim trade.
Covered in dirt and still wearing her burial clothes, Marjorie climbed out of the grave and walked home. When she knocked on the door, her husband John, still in mourning, jokingly remarked that if his wife were alive, he would swear it was her at the door. Upon opening it and seeing Marjorie standing before him โ alive, bleeding, and in her shroud โ he collapsed from shock and died on the spot.
John McCall was later buried in the grave originally dug for his wife.
Marjorie survived the ordeal, eventually remarried, and had several children. When she died many years later, she was laid to rest in Shankill Cemetery in Lurgan. Her headstone famously reads:
โLived Once, Buried Twice.โ
This is incredible.
This machine is capable of cleaning up 100 million kg of plastic ocean waste, and as of 2025, it has already collected about 500,000 kg of plastic.
It aims to remove 90% of ocean plastic by 2040.
At a pub quiz in Glasgow, the final question to win ยฃ1000 pounds is, "Take That's first Album had a four word title. The first two words were, 'Take That', what were the second two?"
After a lengthy silence a wee Glesga man stands up & says, "Was it, ya bastard?"
Iโve lived through some absolutely piss poor teams, endured some piss poor managers, and watched us throw money at genuinely piss poor players. And most of the time, I never expected much. Hope, yes. Miracles, no.
But this season is different. This is easily the most disappointing I can remember.
We are supposed to be Premier League champions. We have spent ยฃ400m. And for that, we are served up the most boring, lifeless brand of football I have ever had the misfortune of sitting through. No intensity. No swagger. No fear factor. Just sideways passing and players who look scared to take responsibility.
To be 15 points off the top when we are only halfway through the season is not just poor, it is embarrassing. There are no excuses at this level. Not with that budget. Not with that squad. Not with those expectations.
Slot has sucked the life out of this team. Whatever philosophy he is trying to implement has stripped away everything that made us dangerous. We look coached to death, cautious, predictable, and miles away from a side that once overwhelmed teams. If this is control, it is control without threat, and it is painful to watch.
And Hughes deserves just as much scrutiny. Spending that amount of money and ending up with a squad that looks unbalanced, slow, and devoid of personality is unacceptable. Recruitment was meant to push us forward, not leave us standing still while everyone else flies past.
What makes it worse is the complete lack of identity and accountability. You cannot tell what we are trying to be, and nobody seems to be held responsible when it goes wrong. That hurts more than any single defeat.
This is not a rebuild. It is a regression. And watching it unfold week after week is honestly grim. Disgusting, even.