When he's not attacking teammates or being jailed for assault or trying to put his cigar out on somebody's jelly-filled seeing sack--that'd be an eyeball to you and me--or maybe just trying to snap Xabi Alonso's shins from his legs from his ankles.
Well, when he's not doing all of that.
Or something like that.
When he's not doing something like that, Joey Barton looks to broaden his horizons, expand his mind, and generally become the worldly and well-rounded individual he swore to cell-mate Duke Chavington III he would become after finding god for a couple of minutes back during his fifth incarceration. Or his seventh. Honestly, it's all a bit of a blur. Regardless, some habits are hard to break. Like a love for home-brew facial reconstruction surgery. But at least it might be an outlet for his demons that won't make the front pages of the tabloids quite so often.
Why, just last international break, Barton flew to Victoria, Australia and changed a lightbulb.
Which is against the law in Victoria, Australia, where only licensed and certified electricians are legally allowed to change lightbulbs. It wasn't quite up there with getting into a drunken brawl or hitting somebody with his car, but a rush is a rush is a rush and sometimes you take what you can get. At least that's what he told himself before stealing a pillow off the airplane he flew home on.
That wasn't very satisfying, though. He even rather suspected the airline didn't mind overmuch that he'd walked out of the fist class cabin with a pillow. I mean, he'd been holding it right there out in the open and they'd just smiled and wished him a pleasant time in England anyhow. Not a lot of thrill in that, when you came right down to it.
So, heading to the post office, he decided to commit a bit of light treason and went to mail the pillow back to British Airways, asking for thirty-seven stamps from the post office lady to pay for the postage and affixing each one with the Queen's head upside-down on the box.
Now that was more satisfying. Though he supposed when you came right down to it, it was hard to beat treason if you were going to break the law. Of course, he didn't expect to be hanged for it or anything, but it was the principle that mattered.
|There's always football violence to fall back on.|
On a bit of a treason high, he then loudly insisted to the post-office lady that the Queen--and at this he jabbed violently at the treasonously-affixed postage stamps bearing her likeness--personally killed Princess Diana by materialising her TARDIS immediately in front of the car she was riding in. The post-office lady mostly just looked at him askance, perhaps cringing away a little. But still, treason was treason, and his eyes were going a little glazed from the high of breaking yet another law as he wiped the spittle from his mouth and stumbled out of the post office.
By the time the break was over, Barton's binge had seen him start a car in Denmark without checking to see if any children were underneath it, carry an ice cream cone in his pocket in Kentucky, fly to France and call a pig Napoleon, masturbate in Indonesia, buy a gondola in Venice and paint it white, step on a banknote in Thailand, stand up to urinate after ten at night in Switzerland, and impersonate a Chelsea pensioner.
He had never before felt so alive. His hands shook and his head pounded from the thrill of the myriad illegalities he had committed, and he vowed to expand his horizons further still at the soonest opportunity. Though with football back on the agenda, he might just have to resort to trying to break a leg or three if his urges became unbearable before then. His mouth twitched. The wait seemed unbearable already.