I used to think begrudgery was just an Irish thing.

It’s like a really bad tradition we’re born into that means you’d rather eat the scabs from a leper’s sock than be happy for others doing well for themselves.

My boyfriend thinks Newcastle will finish in the top ten next season. I think he’s a lunatic. And I’ll happily take fifty quid from him next May after he loses that bet.

If you’ve followed Celtic at all this season – and not given in to weeping in the foetal position between match days – then that’s not really a difficult question, is it? It’s sort of like asking “Does getting hit on the head with hammer actually hurt?”

There are times in life when it seems like the whole world is against you and everything that could go wrong has gone wrong.

It’s a well know fact that the world is divided into two types of people – those who eat McDonalds and those who prefer Burger King.

I myself fall into what I consider to be the better of the two groups. I’m a “McDonald’s only” girl of course.

I never really had much of a chance to play football when I was in school.

This was partly because I sucked but mainly due to the fact the team was made up of the kind of girls you know secretly have a scrotum and ate little things like me for breakfast. And OK fair enough, when it came to picking a team that would simply bulldoze its way across the pitch and scare the shite out of the other keeper, Team Armpit Hair did it well enough without me.

Apparently it takes balls to ref in the Premier League.

And by this I mean Daddy bags and man tonsils – the treasured crown jewels about only half the world population possess. Not the ones you kick about or bring home under your arm to your ma.

If John Terry is doing the lotto then he might like to avoid the number 12.

Not because he might lose, but judging by the luck he’s had with that number in the past week, he’d probably end up being done for fraud.