Cole Moreton: What do you think you're looking at? Eh?

Our columnists sides with Joe Kinnear and enjoys letting off steam
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The Independent Online

Right! That's it! You waltz over here with your peculiar ways, trying to get some sort of information or entertainment out of the paper? How dare you. How. Very. Dare you! And that dressing gown, it's got marmalade all down the front, look! And those slippers? Come on, get a grip, Garfield went out years ago. For heaven's sake!

Thank you. That feels so much better. No offence. It's just that having a proper rant is a damn good thing, all right... are you starting? What are you looking at? Want some?

Sorry. Rants. They're brilliant. Cathartic. Destructive, yes, sometimes, but who cares as long as you feel exhilarated and alive after letting rip? Joe Kinnear must have done, the other day. The stand-in manager of Newcastle United laid in to reporters in a spectacular way. A bleeped-out version of it, played on the Today programme, was described as sounding "just like Morse code". There is no way to recreate its full glory here, on the dignified pages, except through the careful use of rhyming slang.

So, Joe asks which reporter is from the Daily Mirror and the man says: "Me." And Joe says: "You're a James Blunt." The reporter, marvellously, says: "Thank you." Identifying the man from the Daily Express, who had written (correctly) that players were absent on Kinnear's first day in charge, Joe loses it: "You are out of order. Absolutely Donald Ducking out of order. If you do it again, I am telling you, you can Donald Duck off... I will not stand for that Donald Ducking crap. No Donald Ducking way, lies. Donald Duck, you're saying I turned up and they Donald Ducked off?"

And so it goes Donald Ducking on, like a Saturday morning Disney special. All on the record, unusually. These things happen now and then with managers, apparently, but they are not usually printed.

What was the result this time? Three-nil to Joe, I'd say. The supporters, partial to a little fruity language themselves, had a glimpse of how difficult it must be to coach at a club in meltdown. The cosy little agreement that some reporters have with managers – exclusives in return for discretion – was exposed a little.

But best of all, the rest of us were reminded of what fabulous, soul-purging fun it is to really let rip when something or somebody gets right up your Donald Ducking nose.

The patron saint of ranters, Basil Fawlty, knew it when he started flailing about with the branch of a tree in Fawlty Towers' finest moment. "Right! That's it! You've tried it on just once too often." It was a stalled car, remember. "Right! Well – this is it! I'm going to give you a damn good thrashing!"

And he did. The car still wouldn't start. Basil was still a bundle of rage. But nobody was hurt. And everyone watching knew that for one glorious moment, he had felt so much better for it. What? You don't agree? Come over here right now and say that, you total Huey, Dewey and Louie...