Bunky's Musings

Like bees round a honey-pot...

2011-06-16T17:43:00.000+01:00

During a visit to a homes and garden fair last weekend – it was at the instigation of my beloved I assure you – I learned that a medium-sized hive on display, held as many as 60,000 honey bees.

These industrious creatures swarm around non-stop to create just a small amount of honey. Indeed, in its lifetime the average honey bee makes just 1/12th of a teaspoon of the stuff. That’s an awful lot of effort for very little reward.

And that endeavour is also put into perspective when you consider that not even the mighty Queen bee has achieved the commercial nous required to set up a method of decanting and taking to market.

The concept of a plethora of flair-less industrious automatons came back to me while watching England’s Under-21 side struggling to earn two draws against Spain and Ukraine in the European Championships.

England seem to have a surfeit of midfielders who can run around a lot, earning yellow cards, and playing long balls into the channels, but no Queen bee, to put a foot on the ball, be creative and do something out of the ordinary.

We got back in the game against the Spanish because, unlike the senior senors, their arrogance did not have sufficient cutting edge. Technically and creatively, we were poles apart … and come to think of it the Poles probably have better players.

It’s certainly my belief that all of the hype which surrounds our domestic league can make young players victims of their own publicity.

Jordan Henderson, for example, was a really good player until the papers starting saying he was a really good player. Now, one suspects Kenny Dalglish may have bought a £20m pup.

As somebody on Twitter said yesterday: “The Spanish are amazing – it’s like they’ve had thousands of good coaches teaching their kids how to control a ball from an early age.”

And I bet Spanish honey bottles itself too.

A street party? Not in my name...

2011-04-26T13:40:00.000+01:00

It has been said that at the time of national depression the thing guaranteed to lift the spirits of the British is either a war or a royal celebration.

I’m not a big fan of war – it robbed me of a Grandfather I never had the pleasure to meet. And – prepare for a shock – I’m no great fan of the Royal Family either. In fact I’m a staunch republican. There I’ve said it.

This causes great consternation in our household as my wife, my mother and my parents-in-law are big monarchists. That’s not to say they all favour Henry VIII just that they are supporters of the monarchy.

So when the royal wedding comes around – I’m sorry but I will not afford it the capital letters to which the event is not justified – I will be searching for like-minded individuals who wish to avoid all semblance of it. I will probably be propped up in a bar somewhere, teetering on a stool while singing along with the ‘The Red Flag’ as played by some hairy and unkempt folk band.

Unlike, I’m led to believe in the USA, where they are lapping up every mention of the big day. They can’t, apparently, understand the ambivalence many of us this side of the pond display towards our monarchy – because they don’t have their own obviously.

If the US wishes to invade and force a regime change to secure the rights to what’s left of the North Sea oil reserves, I, for one, wouldn’t be throwing any shoes.

Looking at it objectively – and not through the eyes of somebody whose main cause of upset on the day of Diana’s funeral was that most of the pubs were shut – Friday will be a big day for Her Madge.

She, at least, is a traditional monarch, in that she’s of German extraction and appreciates the role she has inherited. Sadly for her, the children she gave life too – with one possible exception – have largely been an embarrassment to her, rather like their father.

Her eldest discusses the merits of modern architecture with flora and lost any remaining credibility he had with his infidelity. The second son mixes with all the wrong people and is possibly more of a drain on the national resource that the rest of the family combined, while the youngest is quite simply a serial failure and buffoon whom you wouldn’t invite to the opening of a crisp packet.

If these people had emerged from a four-bedroomed detached in your local environs we wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Sadly, they’re meant to be national icons and represent us abroad.

The one redeeming feature about her offspring is Princess Anne, but sadly, despite her phenomenal charity work she has a personality as prickly as a porcupine and her public image has suffered accordingly.

While there are those who would wave their Union Flags patriotically if there were a corgi on the throne there are others whose view of the Royal Family – while not as rock bottom as mine – has stuttered and will need some bolstering.

This is why a lot of responsibility sits on the shoulders of 28-year-old William Arthur Philip Louis Windsor. His paternal grandmother possibly sees him as the natural heir to the throne. Even allowing for a mother’s endearing love she wouldn’t want to pass the baton on to Moe, Larry or Curly.

William seems a decent chap. He certainly appears to have his feet on the ground and it’s fair to say his mother may have instilled in him some humility – and even a little contempt at the way other members of the royal entourage misuse their privilege.

I wish him well, not just in his marriage but in his future role as heir expectant. He’s certainly landed on his feet with Miss Middleton, for a start. She’s every little girl’s idea of a how a princess should look: beautiful, with longish hair, a nice smile and a decent figure.

To misquote Caroline Aherne’s Mrs Merton: “Tell me Kate, what first attracted you to the prematurely balding, multi-millionaire future King of England?”

Hopefully her answer might also suggest that in a largely dysfunctional, high-profile family he has emerged as a decent chap and an honourable human being. The signs are good so far.

On the side of the media

2011-04-21T14:05:00.001+01:00

As a journalist I heard two items of news this morning which particularly saddened me.

Two award-winning photographers, Chris Hondros and Tim Hetherington, were killed while covering the Libyan conflict in Misrata, where the general population is fighting to the death to rid itself of people like Gaddafi, who are rich enough to behave with impunity.

They were covering the human tragedy side of the story and became the story themselves. A very sad situation.

Here in the UK I found myself agreeing with The Sun – and, as you will understand, that is very disconcerting in itself.

Following the issue yesterday of an unprecedented gagging order by Mr Justice Eady, in an attempt to prevent details of a television star’s private life being published, The Sun actually spoke some sense for once.

It said: “Hypocritical showbiz stars, sports idols and high-profile public figures lap up positive publicity. And they often cash in on their popularity and wholesome image with mega salaries and huge fees from companies whose products they endorse. But when they misbehave and things turn sour, they go for the gag in order to protect false impressions - and their massive incomes.”

There is of course a difference between what the public wants to know and what is in the public interest. But as the newspaper points out, many of those high-profile figures rely on their wholesome image and derive a large amount of cash from subsequent endorsements. The kind of sums of cash, in fact, which allow one to take out an injunction.

Does the public not have a right to know when it’s being duped? Or when its idols have feet of clay? And let’s not forget High Court judges themselves have not been exempt from the odd character flaw which could easily lead to blackmail or worse. The circle is tightening.

Kelvin MacKenzie, a columnist in The Sun, told readers today that while he and “most media folk” know the names of the public figures protected by privacy injunctions the public don’t.

He added: “There is currently a dangerous two track-society. There are those that know and I’m one of them. And there are those that are denied knowing and that’s you, dear reader.”

More importantly Kelvin, you’re right that we’re in danger of a two-track society, but moreover, it’s one that allows the rich and powerful to behave with a degree of impunity while the rest of us have to live on a diet of what we’re allowed to be fed.

Tell me again why they’re fighting in Misrata?

A heroic vision: A postscript

2011-03-07T15:27:00.000Z

The "son I never wanted" has taken issue with me over my last blog entry.

Lee insists I should point out that we never discussed the possibility of a fox with a sub-machine gun.

"That's a ludicrous concept," he chided. "It was a fox with a handgun - and we decided that each weapon would be specially adapted because the animals concerned did not possess opposable thumbs. You should make these things clear."

He was, however, delighted to acknowledge that he was becoming something of a regular in the blog. A sort of Ando to my Hiro, I observed with another Heroes' reference.

He did not approve of that either...

A heroic vision

2011-03-04T18:00:00.001Z

I’ve had BT Vision for 10 days now – and it has worked more than it hasn’t, which I’m reliably informed is probably as good as it gets with BT Vision.

I have managed, via its on-demand service, to watch the entire series three of Heroes, with which I have become obsessed.

So obsessed in fact that every day when I come into work my young colleague Lee – remember him? The son I never wanted? – asks me where I’m up to. He saw the series when it was broadcast on BBC2 and is, therefore, familiar with the story.

We were having a discussion during lunch the other day about super-powers and I – completely lost in the world of fiction – claimed I felt I had a super-power.

“I realised last night,” I said, in an earnest tone which might well have sent him scurrying for the exit calling for men in white coats, “that my super-power is the ability to eat lots without actually suffering a heart attack.”

“That’s not really a super-power,” countered Lee, shaking his head contemptuously, “it just means you’re a fat bastard with a death wish.”

“But just look at it. It COULD be a super-power…” I insisted optimistically.

“How would it be useful? It’s hardly likely to help you save the world. If anything it’s going to necessitate a whole new wardrobe. You’re no Hero; just a greedy, idle git…”

In print this may seem quite harsh. True, but harsh. In fact the whole conversation was carried out in an atmosphere of jocularity, as are many of our discussions. In the past we have discussed such obscure subjects as the potential outcome of a fight between a badger with a flick-knife and a fox with a sub-machine gun.

We hardly rank alongside the great philosophers, but our stream-of-consciousness conversations have passed many a slow hour on the road to an exhibition or other, or a lunchtime when our planned walk around the nearby heath (yeah right!) has been rained off.

What’s more, this time something really positive came out of the discussion. Having realised that I would not give up until I became acknowledged as a genuine super-hero, my young sidekick suggested a name - having dismissed my attempt of Pieman as too obvious. He came up with 'Calorifo'.

At this point I realised my other super-power was to laugh so much I can almost wet myself…

Times have changed - and me with them

2011-02-21T18:00:00.001Z

My love for football was engendered by watching some very poor Pompey sides from 1969 onwards.

The fact that I now like to think of myself as a football purist, however, sits a little incongruously with that background.

For most of the 70s, Fratton Park was home to a series of has-beens and ne’er would-bes. All we asked as Pompey fans was that they gave 100 per cent – or 110 per cent if you’re a football pundit – week in, week out. We knew the majority of them weren’t very talented; the redolent ‘tippy-tappy’ football of Barcelona in 2011 was some years off – even if the players had the ability, the pitches would have seen to that; and effort and commitment were the only prerequisites for a Pompey player.

When I compare the players I admire now to those I admired back then – even those from the top level – there is a stark difference between their styles.

Effort and commitment were still the two bywords of Alan Ball’s first spell at Pompey in the mid-late 80s. Yes, his team could play entertaining football, but not in the way Arsenal or Barca do today.

Triangles in those days generally meant the formation of a pointed elbow jabbing into the ribs of an opponent courtesy of Billy Gilbert, Kevin Dillon or skipper Mick Kennedy, a midfielder who saw more suspensions than Isambard Kingdom Brunel and Albert Pierrepoint combined.

I loved Scully; he was my sort of player. Committed to the point of being borderline filthy he could also play a bit as well: in other words, an ideal Alan Ball player. He would never have made a career in the 21st century. The scissor-tackle – first leg takes the ball while the second follows through in a scything motion – was his speciality. The ball ended up in row F while the player writhed in agony on the cinder track – or was it the other way around?

Scully: my hero (Sadly the only image I could find of him on the net...

That tackle is now frowned upon, and, as reluctant as I am to admit it, rightly so. Football has moved on in style and in spirit. I’d much rather see my team now demonstrate their superiority by getting the ball down and knocking it around than winning a 22-man brawl which almost inevitably kicked off whenever one of the aforementioned trio were involved.

As I alluded to previously, Ball’s team could play decent football. It would generally adhere to the following pattern: kick somebody and win ball; pass to somebody else; pass wide to wingers; sprint down the flanks; cross ball to create either a) havoc; b) a goalscoring opportunity; or c) a melee resulting in a 22-man punch-up.

They were great times. We were promoted to the first division – then the country’s top flight – at the end of the 86/87 season, and although we went back down again after just one season, the likes of Kennedy, Dillon, Gilbert, Mick Tait, Noel Blake and Paul Hardyman left their mark on the division and many of its so-called superstars.

They may have been better footballers but our lads could hold their own in any 22-man brawl – you can see there’s a theme here.

This progression of mine from idolising Mick Kennedy to eulogising over Xavi, Iniesta et al, comes, I suppose, from maturity as well as an exposure to high-quality football on TV every night of the week. In the mid-eighties I was still a testosterone-fuelled young man who was happy to see aggression triumph providing my team was the aggressor.

Now I’m a Horlicks-fuelled middle-aged man who wants his nights in on the sofa to be as fulfilling as possible – at least when it comes to football. I demand to be entertained – and with the possible exceptions of El Hadji Duouf, Marc van Bommel, Joey Barton and John Terry – I don’t wish to see people get lumps kicked out of them. Yes, including those wearing the red and white of Southampton – it’s all part of the mellowing process.

This transition has been so gradual that I had not really noticed it until two things happened in the space of 48 hours. First I had a Facebook friend invitation from somebody with whom I would stand on Fratton’s north terrace back in the 80s, when I was a member of the self-titled ‘boater boys’.

We prided ourselves on our ‘witty banter’ – it was all relative – and this particular fella would always keep our feet on the ground with his heartfelt and erudite catchphrase: “Break ’is ****ing leg!” It was symbolic of the times. He would admit he was no Noel Coward.

Like me I imagine he will have moved on and is not quite so free with his invitation to violence in 2011.

The second instance happened when my young colleague, Lee – 20 years my junior and treated as the son I never wanted – commented that all the attributes I praised Kennedy for in conversation, were just the sort of things I despise now in opponents when I fawn over Arsenal and Barcelona’s football.

He has a point. But given Pompey’s current plight I might well be tempted to eschew the ‘tippy-tappy’ stuff in favour of some good old brawn if it brought sufficient points to keep us in the Championship. I’m nothing if not fickle…

Laugh? I nearly hit a pedestrian...

2011-02-15T13:00:00.000Z

I had a quirky - yet amusing - experience while driving at the weekend.

I was listening to a Rolling Stones CD in the car while the lady on my sat-nav was directing me. The track was the 1976 classic Fool to Cry. I was happy mouthing along with the lyrics as I was driving only to hear the combined voice talents of Mick Jagger and Mrs Garmin produce an incongruous duet.

I heard: "You know what she says? She says..." "In point four miles exit left..."

The timing was immaculate. As Harry Hill might say: "What are the chances of that happening?"

One for a wet and boring lunch-hour

2011-02-10T14:04:00.000Z

If you've got half-an-hour to kill try typing your name into Google (other search engines are available). Unless you're called something like Freemantle Hawkstrangler, you'd be amazed at how you find 'you' described on the net.

Dave Bowers, for example:

... is becoming widely recognised as one of Australia's leading contemporary pop artists
... is among the best-known and most noteworthy numismatic authors of the last 50 years
... is a Digital Marketing Manager with interests in Amazon Reviewing, Photography, Social Media, Animation, Web Design and Management
... graduated from Monash University (Caulfield) in 1986 with a Diploma in Graphic Design
... is an independent consultant to his former employer, Zurich Financial Services Group (I too used to work for Zurich!)
... is a gourmand born in Monterrey, Mexico, who is rumoured to make the best Enchiladas Suizas in Maine
... is the mayor of Roanoke, Virginia
... is a plumbing and heating engineer in Hollidaysburg
... is a painter and decorator in Kingston-upon-Thames (though the useless people at HotFrog have allocated my website to him - that would be a shock to potential clients!)
... is vice-chairman of the board (!!!)
... has his own refridgeration company in Florida
... works for Allen Tate Real Estate
... is a fitness enthusiast and a member of our fitness social network in Mountain View, CA (I nearly wet myself laughing at this one... fitness! LOL!)
... says the WA Fire Service needs greater funding
... has an extensive background in production accounting, finance and taxes with a specialty in the television industry
... is dead
... appeared in Star Wars (definitely my favourite this one!)
... is the former lead singer with a band called Trik Turner
... is an animator who worked on Shark Tale and the Oscar-winning Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit (OK, maybe this one's my favourite now... a real talent!)
... is a Hampshire-based journalist, writer and grumpy old man (guess who?)

Which just goes to show what many of you had already sussed out: Dave Bowers is bloody common ...

Sky caves in on football's mysogynists

2011-01-24T13:39:00.000Z

It's easy to see why somebody as hairy as Richard Keys should harbour neanderthal views about women in the 21st century - but I'm shocked about the normally liberal and open-minded Andy Gray*.

Maybe they've forgotten, but Margaret Thatcher came to power in this country in 1979 - 32 years ago. Surely that is the ultimate bastion of male dominance overthrown there? Why do men persist with such misogynistic 19th century views?

What reason is there to suggest women can't understand the laws of football as well as a man? I admit that the level of football played by women is not as good as that played by men but that is down as much to physical factors as anything else.

The argument that women have 'never played the game' is specious as many men choose to go into officiating simply because they know they'll never be able to play the game at a decent level. And it's easy to pick them out even in the Premier League.

Regular readers of this blog - those in prison or who have to read Bunky's Musings as part of a community pay-back scheme - will know I spend most of my live-football-watching time at non-league level now. And the best refereeing performance I've seen so far this season was by a woman - and this in front of an assessor who had previously been heard to say there was 'no place for women in football'.

Sian Massey - proved 100 per cent correct

What seems to have been largely overlooked in Linogate - as it has been dubbed on Twitter - is that Sian Massey gor a very tight call absolutely spot on in the Wolves v Liverpool match. I didn't see the Sky coverage but I'm pretty sure that the commentary team's initial reaction - like mine while watching Match of the Day - would have been that it was 'miles offside'.

That it wasn't and that Massey correctly kept her flag down allowing Liverpool to score is all credit to her as an official, in the same way that we should have applauded had it been World Cup Final linesman Phil Sharp.

So let's be realistic about it. Men of a certain generation may not like it but women are here to stay in our national game. Let's face it, they surely can't be any worse than Lee Probert...

*I was being sarcastic...

Royal obsession just a passing fad

2011-01-24T13:12:00.000Z

I'd just like to point out that the suggestion that writing about Wills and Kate would drive extra traffic to one's blog - see previous post - is erroneous ... or at least it was in the case of this site.

Perhaps the obsession with the Royals is merely a passing fad. Or maybe people simply refuse to read crap even if it's about Wills and Kate.

Personally I've chosen to believe that people can no longer remember the Blankety Blank theme tune.

William and Kate to help common bloggers

2011-01-19T18:00:00.002Z

Apparently writing about Prince William and Kate Middleton is a great way of increasing your web traffic currently. Er...

Try this: To the Blankety Blank theme tune - William and Kate, William and Kate, dum dum, William and Kate, William and Kate, dum dum, William and Kate, William and Kate ... William and Kate. WILLIAM AND KATE.

I will report back on the success, or otherwise, tomorrow.

We lost - but I'm delighted for Brighton fans

2011-01-10T13:29:00.000Z

Withdean - I was sat behind the goal at the far end

I ventured to a professional football match on Saturday - I say 'professional' as I assume the players did get paid. There was certainly very little professionalism shown by my team.

I had won tickets to see Pompey take on Brighton & Hove Albion at the Withdean, a stadium I had not visited previously, and, as luck would have it, will probably never need to again.

Suffice to say Pompey - in a first-half display of petulance which would have rivalled a five-year-old who'd had its Christmas presents away for not eating its Brussells - proved incapable of resisting the Seagulls' threat and crashed to a 'giant-killing'.

Well that's how it was widely reported. In truth, there are but six places separating the two teams within the league structure - and that gap is likely to diminish if Pompey's current plight is allowed to continue. Therefore the success was not unexpected - least of all by the Pompey fans I spoke to pre-match.

There are no complaints about the result either; Brighton were far and away the better team. The reason I choose to highlight the fact I was engaged in an experiment to see if frostbite really could be contracted on the south coast of England, is to praise the home fans.

They move to a new £95m stadium next season and good luck to them. The move to Withdean was meant to be temporary. They've been there since 1999. The fact that so many of their supporters have remained loyal while watching football in such an environment should be lauded.

It has all the hallmarks of a non-league ground - which you would think given my passion for grass-roots football would be appreciated by me. The difference being that at non-league level the crowds are smaller so tend to congregate in the one area - that with the best view and, consequently, the best atmosphere. And that is the problem at Withdean.

The view from the West Stand was poor - we were so far back from the pitch that it was hard to determine what was happening at 'our end' let alone up the other end where, after 15 minutes Pompey's Dave Kitson was sent off for ... well, we've no idea.

The home fans stoicism manifests itself in self-deprecation - they mock each stand in turn. What atmosphere the little pockets of vocal fans could muster was lost to the skies as most of the 'stadium' is uncovered. Better men than I would have given up and taken up a different hobby in the last decade rather than be forced to watch their team in such an environment.

And it's not like they've put up with it because the club has been successful - the last 10 or so years have been tortuous for Brighton. Thankfully they now seem to be heading for bigger and better things - and I'm delighted for them. Their younger fans seemed to think they'd turned over a 'big club'. If that's how they feel, great - that's what the FA Cup is all about.

In truth, in a couple of years we Pompey fans may see a game against our south-coast rivals as a chance to turn over a team higher up in the league structure. And if, under Gus Poyet, Brighton succeed in enjoying success in their new stadium I, for one, won't begrudge their fans a moment of it: everything should come to those who wait.

Getting fruity on my 'diet'

2011-01-06T12:45:00.001Z

My first week of attempted weightloss has largely been based around eating the right things – and much smaller portions.

For example my lunch this week has consisted simply of two satsumas. This has already had an effect and I have had to tighten my belt, literally.

When I passed this information about my “satsuma diet” on to my work colleagues, the young frivolous one commented to anybody within earshot: “When he first heard of this he thought they said ‘Sumo diet’ and thought ‘Great, those blokes must eat loads!’”

If I hadn't been laughing so much I would have thumped him.

New year: same old story

2011-01-04T13:37:00.000Z

I imagine many thousands of people will, like me, have resolved to lose weight in 2011.

This is not an unusual occurrence for me. As far back as I can remember each new year has seen me resolve to lose weight. And generally I do. Initially. Sometimes I even keep it going until April/May time.

Then the wheels come off – well they would under all this weight.

My wife tells me regularly that I should lose weight for the benefit of my heath and, while I find it a compelling argument, I have to remind her that there are several obstacles to this solution.

Firstly, I was not built for exercise. Not just now that I “have ballooned to the size of a large, round ball” (courtesy Mrs J Bowers), but always. I was reminded of this fact when I bumped into an old schoolmate during the post-Christmas shopping frenzy that seems to engulf as all between December 26 and 31.

I admitted my weight now fluctuated between 20 and 23 stone, to which he replied “To be fair mate, you never were built for stealth." It was the second time in a few months that an unexpected meeting with a former schoolmate had witnessed a similar comment. The previous one went “Well, you never were sylph-like.”

A lesser man might have taken these comments personally but I have a thick skin. A very thick skin apparently and getting thicker year on year since I was a schoolboy.

The second reason for my travails is that I find it hard to give up food. I like food. I don’t have many vices. I don’t smoke; I don’t do drugs; I’m no philanderer; I don’t have a gambling habit; and I don’t clamp cars for a living.

I do like the occasional drink, but more than that I’m a sucker for fresh bread and cheese. And nice desserts. And taramasalata. And curry. And other stuff. OK, I admit I have been known to blaspheme and I own up to coveting my neighbour’s cheeseboard, but everybody should have some fun.

A bad shoulder prevents me from playing golf. I can’t afford to go to watch my favourite football team any more – though some might say that is a blessing in disguise currently. And nor can I afford more than one night out per calendar month with either the lads or my wife. I’m also subjected by said wife to hours of soap operas and sundry TV programmes that even the East German Stasi would have considered inhumane to show prisoners.

On top of that I now have to cut down my daily calorie intake to four figures and spend at least half-an-hour per day on the Wii Fit. As a great believer in the merits of team sports I find that particularly galling as there may be no I in ‘team’ but there are three of the bloody things in Wii Fit.

But perhaps it was the reaction of this wonder of the technological age that put the lid on my bodily expansion. In creating my Wii Me (give me strength) I discovered I couldn’t create a little character with a waistline that was truly representative. And then when it measured my weight I was actually off the scale which finished at ‘obese’.

So to misquote Lewis Carroll – who I believe did not have a weight problem – the time has come, the walrus said, to digest other things. No cheese, no beer, no bread, no fun, just cabbages and things…

■ Weight at January 4, 2011: a lot

A new year's message

2011-01-04T12:51:00.002Z

Welcome to 2011. This year I will mostly be buying food, books and children's clothes. Cheers George.

Bye Sam!

2010-12-13T16:59:00.002Z

Oh dear. I do hope it was nothing I said...

http://www.rovers.co.uk/page/NewsDetail/0,,10303~2243513,00.html

Hurrah for Coyle's Bolton!

2010-12-13T13:00:00.002Z

Even Bolton's pre-match stretches prove entertaining to watch

As somebody who has never lived further north than 25 miles from the south coast my interest in Lancashire derbies has never been more than fleeting.

Yet I took more than a passing interest in yesterday's Premier League clash between Bolton Wanderers and Blackeye Rovers, simply because it resulted in Owen Coyle's football beliefs winning out over those of 'Big' Sam Allardyce - I'm sure the prefix was self-generated given the Rovers' boss' high opinion of his talents.

Allardyce, of course, is a former Bolton manager. He took his style of football - which basically consists of half-a-dozen nasty herberts mixed with a few footballers - from the Reebok to Ewood Park. The air is apparently thinner there so the ball flies higher and longer.

Coyle took over from Gary Megson at the Reebok and has brought a more cultivated style to bear on his Bolton squad - despite the presence of Zat Knight. Which is why for somebody who likes to think of himself, somewhat pretentiously, as a 'football purist' it was good to see the 'up-and-under-and-flatten-the-keeper' merchants turned over - particulalry as Wanderers' late winner came from a long ball expertly nodded down by the immensely likeable (despite his Saints' past) Kevin Davies.

Bolton have become quite an entertaining side in the past year if Match of the Day highlights are anything to go by. And to beat Allardyce's bullies while playing with only 10 men is both creditable and, for the neutral, great to see.

A further reason for taking more notice in Bolton's future matches is the pitchside advertisement for The Nipple Shop! Sadly the truth is much more prosaic than we might wish...

Selling out is no laughing matter

2010-12-10T13:00:00.002Z

When I was a teenager I had a couple of mates who were ‘music snobs’.

They knew a lot about the indie scene and would eulogise about bands of which the rest of us had never heard.

Then, when they’d made it big and we had heard of them my mates would drop them like a copy of the Daily Mail from the hands of a socialist.

“They’ve sold out,” they always said. I always had mixed views on that stance. On the one hand I admired them for liking the music in its raw state before producers got hold of it; while on the other I thought the band members wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it now they were raking in the royalties.

I now know – in a strange way – what my mates were going through. I’ve realised I’ve become a ‘comedy snob’.

Down the years I’ve seen and heard many up-and-coming stand-ups at small clubs and pubs or on obscure radio shows; some were never seen again. Others impressed me so much I would follow them to further smaller venues and delight in their burgeoning reputation.

Yet last night, as three such comedians – Miranda Hart, Marcus Brigstocke and Paul Merton – came together on Have I Got News For You, I felt a tinge of envy that others could now share in the joy they had brought me.

There had been some kudos in knowing that, how ever many years ago it was, if I had said their names to my nearest and dearest they would have shrugged and said “never ‘eard of ‘em”. I suppose there’s an element of one-upmanship involved.

But, with the advantage of maturity – and the knowledge that I could do bugger all about it – the envy passed quickly and I realised that who am I to even subconsciously deny anybody else the joy these people can bring into our lives.

There have been others whose name I noted when they were on the bottom rung of the comedy ladder – but I’m now glad to say they’ve made it big and are delighting millions of people through radio, comedy and DVDs (yes, they’ve ‘sold out!’).

People like Mark Watson, Frank Skinner, Punt & Dennis, Jim Tavare, Patrick Kielty, Milton Jones, John Oliver and Rufus Hound, all had an immediate effect on me when I first heard them. And yes, I’m glad they’ve made it to the top of the tree.

And I hope that the likes of Tony Cowards and Patrick Monahan are soon just as well known. It’ll be great to be able to tell people that I think they’ve ‘sold out’…

It's a generation thing...

2010-12-07T13:29:00.000Z

It took Margaret Thatcher several years to disenfranchise an entire generation - the current coalition has achieved it in just a few months.

First we had students protesting the rise in tuition fees. Today schoolchildren are up in arms about the proposed cuts for funding school sports.

Every week the group railing against the Con-Dems gets younger. What next? Toddlers objecting to the loss of nursery school vouchers?

Or maybe embryos protesting the planned closures of birthing units such as the one at my local hospital in Petersfield?

I'm 47, so it will be some time before the protests go full circle and the Government upsets my generation. But rest assured, once they start putting up car-parking charges at National Trust properties and increasing the tax on Horlicks I shall be out there manning the barricades.

Only up until about 9pm you understand. I can't stay out too late.

Comedy's breath of fresh air

2010-12-06T13:30:00.001Z

Miranda Hart - such fun!

If you know me well – and I can only assume you must do if you’re prepared to read this tripe – then you will know I love my comedy.

Whether it’s the slapstick antics of Laurel and Hardy, the unforgettable vintage radio half-hours of Hancock, The Goons and Round the Horne, the stand-up of Max Miller or Mark Watson, or the TV comedy from Dad’s Army through to Scrubs, I have a passion for the stuff that makes us laugh.

So last night it was with childish glee that my beloved and I queued up in freezing temperatures outside BBC TV Centre in Wood Lane, to be members of the audience for the Christmas episode of the wonderful Miranda.

Wonderful? Yes, wonderful. It might not be the critics’ favourite but that’s because it’s a throwback to more gentle times. The eponymous Ms Hart is a breath of fresh air in the current comedic climate.

Unpretentious, self-deprecating and a master – or should that be mistress? – of the slapstick turn, she exudes a feel-good factor which evidently rubs off on fellow cast members who appear to enjoy making the show as much as we enjoy watching it.

No bad language, few sexual references, just a rich panoply of embarrassing scenarios, misfortunes and neuroses to which many of us – male or female – can relate.

It is what I call very funny. Such fun…

■ If you’ve yet to discover the joy of Miranda, watch BBC2 8.30pm today. You won’t regret it. Oh, and she's from Petersfield. Hurrah!

■ Check out a recent interview with Miranda Hart here.

Football is all about 'intent'

2010-10-19T15:00:00.002+01:00

in•ten•tion [in-ten-shuhn]

– noun

1. an act or instance of determining mentally upon some action or result.
2. the end or object intended; purpose.

I’ve checked. You can see I have. I wanted to see if there was any ambiguity. There isn’t.

I wanted to see, for example, if in a court of law there would be any precedent for interpretation. I can’t imagine there is.

So why is football a different case? I watched the highlights of Saturday’s Fulham v Spurs match with incredulity. And not just because when the camera panned on to Harry Redknapp he didn’t twitch as if somebody had just poured a jug of ice down the back of his neck.

No, it was because the outcome of the game was determined not by the skills of the individuals involved but by the laws of the game and how the Football Association – those who butcher the laws – are allowed to interpret them.

In the first half, Spurs full-back Cordeiro Sandro was cautioned by referee Mike Dean after a challenge on Simon Davies. Davies had whipped over a cross as Sandro slid in. The Welshman avoided the challenge and no contact was made. But the intention was there, so Dean – correctly under the current laws – brandished a yellow card.

In the second half Tom Huddlestone fired in a shot from outside the box on which William Gallas, standing in an offside tried to get a touch. He failed. Because he failed the goal was allowed to stand. However, the INTENTION was there. He intended to get a touch and therefore was seeking to gain an advantage.

If intention is good enough to warrant a caution, surely that sets the precedent?

Spurs’ goal counted because Gallas wasn’t good enough to get the touch on the ball he intended. If a better player had been involved the touch would have happened and the goal would have been ruled out. Surely that’s not right? Since when has ability determined intention?

Where does it stop? A hypothetical scenario: Dimitar Berbatov gets hauled down by the last defender and the referee issues a red card. The same thing happens with Wayne Rooney yet the official issues only a yellow card.

The reason, he says, is “because Berbatov’s in form and Rooney isn’t, therefore it’s my view that only the former was a definite goalscoring opportunity…” Don’t mock – we’re not that far away from it.

The bunglers at the FA defend rule changes on the basis that they are looking to make the game more entertaining … presumably more entertaining for us, the fans. Yet all that happens is an increase in controversy and more fans’ frustrations.

Why don’t they stop meddling? If they insist on making the offside law easier to apply let’s take a lesson from rugby.

If a player is standing in an offside position but walking back against the direction of play, 'he is not considered offside if he acknowledges the fact by raising both arms in the air. He can not participate until the next phase of play'. That way he can be seen to be not seeing to gain an advantage and it’s not putting extra pressure on the match officials.

If the FA would like to discuss it further I’m free all next week. It’s about time they had somebody without a blazer at Soho Square…

What's that you say Skip? Bunky's in trouble?

2010-09-17T13:02:00.000+01:00

When you’re 47-years-old unique experiences are few and far between.

If you find one it tends to be expensive, borderline illegal, morally dubious or even all three.

That’s where working with youngsters 20 years your junior can help. Yesterday, I was afforded a unique experience by my colleagues. It was not one I would ever have gone out of my way to undertake, nor would I have even considered it.

Succinctly, I was shut in a skip. It’s not exactly on a par with the trauma of Natascha Kampusch but for somebody whose bad ankle wouldn’t take the drop from a yard up, it might have proved emotionally distressing – at least until the next cup of coffee arrived.

In short, I foolishly offered to help my colleague Lee – on whom there is now a fatwa – move a tired old filing cabinet into the skip, which, being of an old manufacture, has the advantage of a drop-down end.

While Lee walked around the outside of the skip holding up his end of the tired old cabinet, this tired old hack walked into the skip with the other end to facilitate a correct positioning of the superfluous jetsam.

No sooner had the young rapscallion dropped his end than he had run around to the back of the skip and raised the ‘drawbridge’ thingy leaving yours truly standing in a skip, and facing the daunting prospect of a leap from a yard up on to fragile ankles and a dodgy Achilles.

As I toiled in vain to work out the highly sophisticated locking system on such a working-class implement, my other young colleague Henry Alliss emerged and took a picture of me in the midst of my suffering.

And, as both guys knew I was currently working my way through a box set of the teenage angst comedy The Inbetweeners, Alliss turned on his heels while quipping “Ha! Skip-w***er!”

I expect better from somebody whose father and grandfather graced the Ryder Cup…

Note the sophisticated locking mechanism on the skip - it wholly defeated me

(pic courtesy of Henry "Is that your printing finished or mine?" Alliss)

I even earned a temporary new nickname: Skippy. What’s more, young Alliss then produced a colour copy of the picture for the office wall, the only redeeming feature being that it gave me the air of a confident Special Forces commander about to leap from a landing craft on to Omaha beach.

Whereas the reality is, unlike those brave souls, I would never have had the courage to even get in a landing craft, let alone jump out of one while under a barrage of fire from an enemy intent on turning me into a colander.

Particularly not on these ankles…

Running Man's still got talent...

2010-09-14T13:00:00.001+01:00

Because my wife is away for a few days and having stumbled across my old VHS copy, I watched Arnold Schwarzenegger’s The Running Man last night.

Despite the cheesy acting and the incongruity of some of the scenarios, it remains an enjoyable watch 23 years after it was made – and Maria Conchita Alonso is still hot.

And Dickie “Richard” Dawson, who plays vile gameshow host Damon Killian, was a friend of my mother’s when they were growing up together in Gosport in the 1930s.

But something struck me: the film is based in 2017, seven years from now, at a time when a communications company effectively rules the planet.

"Tonight Simon, I'm going to sing I Dreamed a Dream..."

And it centres around a TV show in which members of the public are put on display to be ritually ripped apart – literally in this case – by show regulars, all at the whim of an autocratic, ratings-driven, ego-maniac who wears the waistband of his trousers just a little too high (I may have added the last item for verisimilitude).

Does it sound familiar? Mind you the chirpy dwarf characters didn’t appear until Arnie made Total Recall, three years later.

I'm not funny and I'm not doing myself any favours

2010-09-06T14:24:00.000+01:00

I've been really quiet on the blogging front and I'm truly sorry. My head has been turned by another.

We're all tempted at some stage in our lives but I succumbed ... to Twitter. I always used to say to my wife that occasionally I'd get these one-liners come into my head and I had no outlet for them.

Well Twitter has provided that outlet. With only 140 characters a one-liner is exactly that. It has to be pithy. And it has shown me - by the number of re-tweets - that what I think are funny one-liners aren't always funny to anybody else.

This comes as something of a disappointment but not necessarily something of a surprise. It's self-indulgence really - and I suppose I've always been self-indulgent. I thought I was funnier than I am. Making your friends laugh - maybe, it now transpires, out of politeness - in the pub is not actually the same as being able to provide material to Sean Lock or Marcus Brigstocke. Though Michael McIntyre probably would have used it...

Years ago, with a couple of mates - Steve Woodhead and Steve Wemyss (they more than deserve a namecheck) - I launched Frattonise, the Pompey fanzine. And I'm glad to see it has resurfaced on-line recently (e-frattonise) with new contributors. People used to tell us that it was funny. And some of the things they told us were funny came from my pen ... not many looking back, but some.

I went into journalism and won some plaudits for my "humorous" columns and features - I was even nominated for regional feature writer of the year early in my career. But that, it would seem, was the zenith of my comedic flight of fancy. That and being invited to do stand-up at Jongleurs after impressing during an open mic event I was press-ganged into doing by my editor a few years later.

None of the nationals came calling: they preferred the light-hearted banter of Richard Littlejohn or Jan Moir. Sure I penned the odd column for a mate who edits a local newspaper, but it's done because of friendship not 'readies'.

The odd bit of contibution to satirical websites aside, I have now, in my late 40s fallen into Grumpy Old Man mode. Twitter has shown me the error of my ways - I'm not funny any more. I won't achieve my ambitions of writing a comedy script for Radio 4, contributing to the Now Show, or penning that comic novel.

I have ended up, as all failed would-be humorous writers will end up in the 21st century: Tweeting and/or writing a blog. I will file the buff file labelled 'ambitions' in the same box that contains my 40"-waist trousers, my curriculam vitae, all my polo shirts and the audio tape from 1983 which saw me fronting - albeit briefly - a band. The box will be labelled "Do Not Open until my death or my first published novel - whichever is the sooner".

Save for a full head of hair, I am, to all intents and purposes Wally from Scott Adams' superb series of Dilbert cartoons: an office worker existing on large doses of caffeine and cynicism in equal measure.

I will continue to blog (occasionally) and Tweet (pointlessly) but don't expect to laugh. I will simply be chronicling my slow demise into retirement and a wicker coffin at the East Hampshire Sustainability Centre.

*But if you do want to laugh, check me/Wally out here.

The World Cup's Webb of lies and intrigue

2010-07-12T17:45:00.000+01:00

Midfielder Mark van Bommel responds to criticism of the Dutch style of play

English ref Howard Webb has been lambasted by the Dutch coach, Bert van Marwijk, following Spain’s 1-0 victory in the World Cup final.

Van Marwijk was critical of Webb’s handling of the game which saw a record number of yellow cards issued.

The Dutch boss said: “The Englishman ruined the game. At no stage did he attempt to stop the Spanish players from hitting my players’ studs with their chest, hitting their boots with the backs of their calves, or using their shinpads to rake the soles of my players’ boots.

“It was outrageous to allow a team that passed a ball that quickly to win.”

Webb was not intimidated by the finger-wagging he received afterwards from van Marwijk, saying: “I’m a policeman from Rotherham so being confronted by an angry bloke called Bert is not a unique experience.”

A FIFA spokesman said: “His name’s Bert? We thought he was a Dick!”

Ole! It's Spain for me

2010-07-10T10:49:00.000+01:00

I'd like to say this has been the best World Cup in living memory, but obviously I can't.

Not simply because England were inept - it just never seemed to engender the same excitement as previous competitions.

However, tomorrow's final does have the potential to go down as a classic, featuring two teams with a reputation for good football - classic football in the Spanish case.

And it's the Spaniards I want to win because I consider myself - maybe pretentiously - a football purist.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching them play keep-ball against the Germans even though, like many others, I was urging them to show more of a killer instinct in and around the box.

I have nothing against the Dutch per se - indeed in 1974 and 1978, as a kid, I was heartbroken when they failed to win the World Cup. Like many of my generation I was enthralled by the likes of Cruyff, Neeskins, Krol, Rensenbrink and Rep. Superb players allowed a freedom the like of which we may not see again.

And that's the crux. That golden generation failed to win the World Cup - and it would be wrong for this Dutch team to succeed where they failed. They pale in comparison.In the same way that it would have been wrong for John Terry and Wayne Rooney to have been elevated to the stature of Sirs Bobby Moore and Geoff Hurst. Unimagineable.

Robben, for all his undoubted ability, is a big girl's blouse, or a cheat if you prefer. Van Bommel and de Jong are quite simply thugs. Both should have received straight red cards at some stage in this tournament, yet both will probably feature tomorrow night.

No, the Spanish are the natural torch-bearers for Cruyff and Rinus Michels' Total Football generation - just look at how offensive are the full-backs.

Nailing colours to the mast: I want Spain to win. Apart from anything else, I've got money on them...

Crosby stills gnashing teeth (Tenuous pun!)

2010-07-02T14:12:00.000+01:00

Not that I plan on watching GM:tv in the future - not now I've converted Mrs B to the delights of BBC Breakfast - but I'm delighted to hear my one-man campaign for the removal of the vacuous Emma Crosby has succeeded.

Reports today indicate the airhead has been axed from the show aimed at vacuous airheads. Watching her trying to conduct a serious interview was akin to watching Wayne Rooney discussing the merits of dark matter with Stephen Hawking.

The Chiles/Bleakley partnership might even lure me over to GM:tv, if there are no serious issues to be addressed. But even the delightful Christine looks out of place when dealing with difficult topics. I suppose that's what comes from knocking around with over-paid, overweight footballers*.

*Yes I know I am overweight too, but I don't pretend to be a talented, professional athlete. Or just an athlete. Or talented. Or even professional...

Why do we demand club success for our national boss?

2010-06-28T18:00:00.001+01:00

So if not Fabio Capello, who?

Harry Redknapp? Don’t make me laugh. His wheeler-dealing is hardly appropriate to international football and any Pompey fan will tell you his tactical acumen could be engraved on a pin-head with a pneumatic drill.

Roy Hodgson? Maybe. But why would a sensible man in his 60s take on the England job in preference to rejuvenating the sleeping giant at Anfield.

Jose Mourinho? Probably the ideal choice, but the suits at the Football Association are no more likely to appoint him than they were Brian Clough in the mid-70s. And we all know he was the right man then.

But why does an international manager need to be proven at club level? It seems only UK teams are fixated on that ideal.

I’ve looked at the careers of World Cup-winning managers in my years watching football and club success does not appear to be a priority.

Franz Beckenbauer had no real managerial experience before taking over the German national side in 1984 and six years later won the World Cup.

In the six years after he left the job he managed Olympique Marseille and Bayern Munich, collecting domestic titles along the way. But that was it. He’s had more marriages than club management jobs.

Carlos Bilardo won the World Cup in 1986 – and although he had Maradona in the side, which isn’t a bad position to be in, his club experience was limited to two spells at Estudiantes and brief stints at Deportivo Cali and San Lorenzo. And he didn’t pull up any trees there.

Italy’s Enzo Bearzot spent six years as coach to his country’s under-23 side before moving up and ultimately winning the World Cup in 1982. Before that he’d been manager for one season at Prato – no me neither, Prato having last reached the heights of Serie B in 1964.

César Luis Menotti (Argentina 78)? One league title in four seasons with Newell’s Old Boys and Huracán before being given the job.

Helmut Schön (West Germany 74)? A brief spell as manager of unfancied Wiesbaden, before spending four years as manager of a then-independent Saarland side, before becoming assistant to Sepp Herberger for the West German national team and succeeding him in 1964.

Four largely uneventful years as manager of Botafogo was all Mario Zagalo had on his managerial CV before taking over the Brazilian national side and taking them to glory in 1970 despite the much discussed personality issues within the camp.

Carlos Alberto Parreira had won nothing as a club manager before leading Brazil to glory in 1990. Instead it was his achievement in getting Kuwait into the World Cup finals which raised his stock. Subsequently he has, in total, taken five nations to the World Cup finals. He didn’t even play the game at a particularly high level.

Big Phil Scolari’s club management experience was extensive but much of it was spent outside of the mainstream football nations, in Kuwait and Japan, for example; though he did win titles in Brazil. But we know how successful he was at Chelsea and it is Premiership success that we – and particularly our knee-jerk football media – demand.

Frenchman Aimé Jacquet (1998) had a successful club career and obviously Marcello Lippi (Italy 2006) had an exceptional club career, but they are the exceptions. And we only have to look back a few days to see where Lippi is now.

So the next time somebody calls for David Beckham, Alan Shearer or Stuart Pearce to be given the job don’t automatically dismiss the suggestion out of hand.

Goodbye and good riddance

2010-06-28T16:00:00.000+01:00

I was going to blog about England players' World Cup capitulation but I thought they couldn't be arsed, so why should I?

A lazy blogger - and a very sad tale

2010-06-21T13:18:00.000+01:00

Just to confirm I'm an incompetent pillock, this is my first blog for nearly three weeks and I'm going to have written less than five per cent of it ... but with good reason.

I have chosen to pass on an email I received from a very good mate which tells - in words and pictures - a very sad tale. And illustrates perfectly, in my humble opinion, where we get things wrong in this country.

Surely some of the many millions of lottery handouts could have been directed to this very worthy cause.

Please pass on the tale to anybody you know. We can't let this pass without comment.

The email below was sent to me by leading photographer, ale critic and cocktail bar raconteur Steve Bailey (www.stevebaileyphotography.co.uk).

I headed over to Lasham on Sunday where there is the Second World War Aircraft Preservation Society (SWWAPS) ... or should I say was...

They have had to fold due to lack of funding and have sold off nearly all their aircraft. I was met at the perimiter fence by a diminutive old lady who had clearly been involved with SWWAPS for quite some time.

She told me about all the aircraft they used to have on display, how they had at one time hoped to renovate some of them, as well as how and why they were closing. They have already sold off most of their aircraft and only the dismantled remnants of a few remain. A very sad tale indeed.

The woman was standing next to the de Havilland Australia Drover Mk 2, the main fuselage of which lays on its belly beside the crumbling hut that for the time being remains the SWWAPS Headquarters.

She patted it and told me: "There are only a couple of aircraft left, including the flying doctor here."

This DHA-3 Drover Mk.2 became a part of QANTAS (Qantas Empire Airways) in 1952 and never actually served in the Royal Flying Doctors Service flight (registrations VH-EAZ and VH-EAS. After seven years service, it was shipped to the UK and reregistered G-APXX in December 1959, but would never fly again.

The aircraft was put on show in Southend in 1967 painted up in RFDS livery, carrying RFDS registration VH-FDT, that of a sister aircraft. That museum shut down in 1987 and the aircraft was donated to SWWAPS.

Behind the old lady, loaded on to a flat bed truck stood a once great Gloster Meteor (NF.13) now in pieces. She told me this was heading for Poland and was due to be picked up tomorrow.

The Gloster Meteor Mk. I made its first flight on 15th May, 1941. It had a maximum speed of 415 mph (667 km) and had a range of 1,340 miles. It was just over 41 ft long with a wingspan of 43 ft and armed with four 20 mm cannons.

The first 20 Meteors were delivered to the Royal Air Force in June 1944. The Mk. I saw action for the first time on 27th July, 1944 used as a defence against the German V1 Flying Bomb.

Armstrong Whitworth built Gloster Meteor NF.13, a version of the NF.11 designed for use in tropical climate in 1953. This particular aircraft serial WM366 (39 Squadron RAF), was sold to the Israeli Defence Force – Air Force in 1956 and became serial 4X-FNA. It was reclaimed from a desert graveyard before being brought to Lasham.

I'm not sure I should have been, but I was ushered through a barbed wire fence and told I could take a look around and as many photos as I wanted. The poor woman who I would imagine has dedicated many years to the Society seemed close to tears.

There remain a Royal Danish Air Force Hawker Hunter F51 (E-423), A Royal Air Force Gloster Meteor F8 (WH291) the last Meteor to see service with the RAF and the wings of another Royal Air Force F8 (VZ530). lashed to a tree and marked as "sold".

In the woods beside the SWWAPS offices and a little beyond the sold wings of the Meteor are some shell cases. Positioned in the woods and looking like a manifestation of spring, they rise from the ground as if they were meant to be there.

One further shell stands beside the SWWAPS HQ, it looks perfectly natural here among the flowers. I wonder if it will see through the summer.

Steve

A mountain out of a DIY molehill

2010-06-01T13:18:00.000+01:00

I can't believe it's been more than a month since I last blogged. It's very remiss of me and I apologise.

But I have news: I am a DIY God!

Over the bank holiday weekend I managed to change a light fitting (electrical), fix a leaking cistern (plumbing), and oil a squeaking door (general maintenance).

OK, to the gifted DIY-er that may not seem much, but to somebody with my dextrous skills it's equivalent to climbing Everest. Maybe even more of an achievement, for I'm sure Lady Hillary didn't say to Sir Edmund, as an aside while re-potting some courgettes in the garden, "I know dear, why don't you go and climb Everest while I'm doing this?"

Hillary had some successful experience in mountaineering; I have myriad unsuccessful experiences in DIY. The house is testament to that. There are shelves off which books slip at regular intervals; a towel rail remains connected to the bathroom wall merely by virtue of the strength of a Rawplug; and numerous pieces of flat-pack furniture don't function correctly.

So while Lady Hillary's suggestion to her spouse might have received a "Right-ho darling!" and a "couldn't see him for dust" moment, my wife's demand - as opposed to 'suggestion' - was met by bemusement and panic in equal measure. And not only by me. Two teenage boys and two cats also appeared shocked by the prospect.

But I shocked everybody, myself included, by fulfilling each brief. Admittedly the light fitting needed a bit of improvisation, or bodging as it's known in certain circles, because the necessary replacement items did not appear to be available in the public domain.

But the light works. It occasionally sends a line of sparks shooting around the bathroom like a fairy wall-of-death rider, but so far the bathroom users have escaped serious injury.

And as a follow-up to my three-fold success over the weekend I have also managed a fourth DIY achievement in the field of construction. Having completed three tasks with no raised voices or hospital treatment I appear to have made a rod for my own back.

Mrs B now appears to have a list of further tasks all ready prepared for the next time she has to re-pot her home-grown veg.

A soap opera

2010-04-19T14:23:00.001+01:00

I've been on holiday. And the bad news is I returned at midnight on Wednesday which means I avoided the flightpath shutdown and am able to return to blogging in my lunch-hour.

Maybe it's the cynic in me but after the debacle with the Icelandic banks my first reaction to hearing that one of the country's volcanos had erupted was that it was done for the insurance money.

I have spent much of the last two weeks pondering the subject of toiletries - so relaxed was I in Turkey that this was the only thing which could tax my mind.

Just before departing this sceptered isle for our annual break I had cause to feel that manufacturing standards in soap had dropped.

In all the years I have used Imperial Leather soap I have always marvelled at the technical excellence which allows that little foil label in the centre to remain attached right to the death. The soap is actually smaller than the label by the time it is necessary to peel it off.

It is something of which the British should be rightly proud. At least that's what I thought until the morning of my departure from these shores when, scrubbing away 24 hours of grime from my corpulent flesh, I realised the little metallic foil label had slipped off my day-old bar of Imperial Leather.

If ever there was a microcosm of the effect of the economic downturn on the British manufacturing industry, surely this was it. Thirty-odd years of soapy awe was washed away in that instant, and subsequently disposed off in a handful of plughole hair and other washroom detritus.

Fur coat and no knickers - that's the state of the toiletries industry currently. Fresh on the (admittedly clean, soft and fragrant) heels of my anionic surfactant-based epiphany came a brush with my en-suite nemesis: shower gel.

I'm not a big fan of shower gel as it never seems to have all washed off. I'm always left with the feeling that I just need to rinse off one more time - making it seven or eight in total.

But for convenience I decided to take on holiday a brand of shower gel bought for me as a gift by my son. I shouldn't advertise so let's just say this particular brand is named after a big cat and apparently makes women go wild with desire - it didn't have that effect on the air stewardesses on the flight back, however, though the chief steward kept winking at me.

It contained - according to its particular 'flavour' - various exotic fruits from far-off lands. It smelt wonderful but it had a grainy texture which, if you weren't careful, could have unpleasant effects. There are, as a man, one or two areas into which grainy bits should not be allowed.

While on the face of it, the shower gel looked and smelt wonderful it did leave its mark as an irritant with its wholegrain mustard texture. There is no cause to have 'bits' in toiletries unless you really are including the bark of the paw-paw tree in the ingredients.

Labels sliding off my Imperial Leather and bits of pine nut in my shower gel? Whatever next? I might as well scrub myself down with a scouring pad but I suppose the current laissez-faire attitude towards the manufacture of British cleansing products would suggest that would have the longevity of a soggy Shredded Wheat...

Go west young man - and freeze to death

2010-04-19T13:43:00.000+01:00

For the benefit of Mr Kite and others who don't take the Petersfield Post, here's my feature on the recent trip west with Petersfield Town Juniors under-15s...

It would not come as too much of a surprise to learn that scientists gather annually in a holiday park in Aberystwyth to unearth the reasons behind why it is unique on earth in having caravans colder on the inside than the atmosphere outside.

It may be of course that the caravan we stayed in over the Bank Holiday weekend contains an anomaly in the space-time continuum and that it contains, in some small parts, pieces of the planet Jupiter. Certainly, its use as a time-travelling vehicle would not come as a surprise to the seven of us forced to endure it. It dated from the 80s and probably hadn’t been cleaned since just after.

When Howard Carter broke through into Tutankhamun’s tomb there was less dust than there was in our toilet. And there were homeless winos in Aberystwyth shop doorways who could dribble with more velocity than our shower provided.

I wouldn’t blame you if you shrugged and said “Well it’s your fault for going to Aberystwyth…”

But we had little choice. That was where the Welsh International Football Festival was being played and Petersfield Town Juniors under-15s were flying the flag for England. Or so we thought. When we de-camped to the bar on the opening night we found that Purbrook Youth under-16s were also taking part. But the English were not there in force other than a few stragglers.

I believe we drew the short straw with the caravan. And not just because we had to share with Nurse Gladys (Andy, the team physio). To be fair to Gladys, he did superbly as chef, earning himself the nickname of Hiroshima, after the condition of the kitchen when he’d finished every day.

He even managed to work out how to light the gas fire, which entailed taking it apart and rebuilding it from scratch every time you wanted some heat.

Others, however, seemed reasonably happy with their accommodation.

Ours was more damp than an otter’s pocket. My brand new paperback had curled and crumpled after only a day in the bedroom. At least it was called a twin bedroom. What it actually contained was a set of parallel bars with some padding on them. Beds aren’t naturally that narrow. And neither am I. I’m sure in a previous occupancy they may have doubled as bookshelves.

The discomfort of my first night balancing precariously on this ‘bed’ - though I prefer to think of it as a razor blade - was exacerbated by having a sleeping bag that was a) broken; and b) a child’s version.

My step-son Ben was apparently aware of both these facts when he helped me pack it into the car but didn’t deem it worth passing on the information.

And the bar didn’t sell pear cider. So I was not in the best of moods when the football started on Saturday. It was cold and windy. Naturally, it was Wales. But at least it wasn’t raining - no wonder the principality’s residents aren’t too concerned about global warming.

“Poor old Dave,” said trip organiser Maria. “You don’t look very pleased to be here.” A very shrewd woman is Maria.

On the plus side, my third and final night in our temporary gulag could be spent on a double bed as the previous night’s occupants planned to travel home a day early, on Sunday evening, after the cessation of footballing hostilities.

But wouldn’t you know it - never trust teenage boys - they only went and won the thing. Everybody was so delighted that we planned to spend the evening celebrating, so the early departure plans were scrapped.

It meant Ben and I had to return to the parallel bars for one more night. Belatedly I discovered that a night celebrating - albeit without pear cider - is a panacea for bed problems.

Not such good news for Ben though, who complained next morning that I snored like a burglar alarm in a fog-horn factory and that he’d got very little sleep.

Serves him right. If he hadn’t scored in the final I might have been spread out on a double bed.

Why I can't give them my vote

2010-03-30T12:55:00.001+01:00

From left: Captain Cock-up, The Cable Guy and la-di-da Boy Scout Graham

For as long as I can remember, my wife and I have had differing political views.

She is a lifelong Conservative, while I - a trade union member since the age of 14!* - was either SDP, Lib-Dem or Labour depending on where my vote would damage the Tories most.

But this year we have at least agreed on one thing: that neither of us feel comfortable voting for either of the major parties.

That came home to us while watching Channel 4's I'm a Potential Chancellor ... Yes It's Hard to Believe Isn't it? last night. Actually she watched all of it, I just enjoyed edited highlights.

Just looking at the three of them up there - Alistair Darling, George Osborne and Vince Cable - was enough to turn me off.

One looks, admittedly, like a politician, though he's unlikely to get the opportunity to be chancellor even in a hung parliament. Of the others one looks like he should be the nemesis of children's TV legend Captain Scarlet, while the second looks like a boy scout who's having to face the music after being caught in a compromising position with his troop leader.

Bizarrely they all speak like that as well...

The Tories apparently - according to political commentators - regarded Osborne's appearance as a 'success' on the basis he did not make any gaffes. They can't do much about their concern that he is 'very posh'. Cripes Bunter! That gives us a great deal of confidence.

It should be of grave concern to the Tories that after 13 years of Labour rule, David Cameron is not way ahead in the polls. The fact that he is not Gordon Brown, is now, apparently, not seen as sufficient to drive people to vote Conservative.

How inadequate must the Tories be? I voted for Blair and even I've had enough of Labour after 13 years!

It was the former French leader Georges Clemenceau - not Winston Churchill incidentally - who said "Not to be a socialist at 20 is proof of want of heart; to be one at 30 is proof of want of head."

I'm now 46 and must be wanting in the head because I'm still left-leaning and have a social conscience. But I'm a lot closer to the centre than I was previously. And many of my contemporaries are, indeed, now right of centre.

But is it a change of social awareness or just the fact we get more cyncial as we get older? I certainly feel it's the latter. I'm much more cynical about everything to do with politics than I was 25 years ago. And I no longer have the motivation nor the inclination to protest strongly or to write a letter of ill-informed complaint to my local newspaper about whatever gets my goat.

I'm sure the urge to write the letters will resurface when I get to about 60 though.

The crux of the matter for me is that I simply don't trust people in high office. I don't believe what they say and always feel there is an ulterior motive in everything they do that I agree with. I would not be surprised if other people of my generation were similarly inclined.

Which is why at 46 rather than wanting of head, many of my ilk just say "I don't really give a 4X, just cut my taxes and go ahead and sell arms to oppressive regimes and stamp on the minorities."

So, come the end of May George Osborne will be our Chancellor of the Exchequer and everybody will be fondly remembering Harry Enfield's Tim 'Nice-But-Dim' character.

Me? I'm voting Green. Tax cuts simply can't help our budget deficit and poor old Vince Cable hasn't got a hope. At least I know the Greens will do my protesting for me while I stir my Horlicks.

*If you must know I started with the National Union of School Students ... and never looked back

That's yer lot you slag!

2010-03-26T13:52:00.000Z

I see ITV is to axe The Bill after 27 years - and about time too in my opinion.

They should have called a halt to it in the mid-to-late 90s when Frank Burnside moved on. It used to be must-watch TV but in the 90s it became apparent there were more psychotics and criminals working FOR the police in Sun Hill than on the streets of Canley.

Instead of giving us an idea of what was it like to be pounding the streets it turned into Emmerdale for Plod. It was yet another sad indictment of the way TV was heading, pandering constantly to the lowest common denominator.

I bet you didn't realise that The Bill was partially responsible for the rise in popularity of rubbish like I'm Desperate for Publicity Look at Me. But that's the sort of inside info you get when you read this blog...

PS My The Bill claim to fame is that I went to school with the guy who played PC Able (Mark Haddigan) and that one of my mates went to school with Jim Carver (Mark Wingett) who broke my mate's ankle while playing football. Tenuous or what?

An extra topping of menu please...

2010-03-25T13:20:00.001Z

Tucked in among the office post this morning were three envelopes marked for ‘The Pizza Connoisseur’ The Azalea Group, etc, etc.

Not surprisingly they landed on my desk. I can’t argue for, in the past, I have been known to order a delivery pizza for my lunch when I have been feeling extremely stressed.

What was more surprising, however, was that each of the envelopes – which all carried a second-class stamp – contained an identical Papa John’s menu.

Three of them. On the same day.

Papa John’s menus are the commonest form of junk mail in Petersfield. On average each household receives 1.4 metric tonnes of Papa John’s menus per annum. To counteract this, the local council has upped its recycling collection while allowing Domino’s Pizza to open nearby and set about doubling the tally.

But previously, they were just shoved through the letterbox by kids who were already delivering free papers – thus there was an automatic QA traceable route from letterbox straight to recycling bin.

But now they’re posting them to us, three at a time, teasingly addressed to the Pizza Connoisseur. It’s a subtle marketing ploy. And it may just work.

Ooooh!! Buy one get one free… Mmmmm!

Don't, don't, don't believe the hype...

2010-03-24T14:00:00.006Z

I'm at a loss to understand how people think Pompey being allowed to 'sell' players outisde of the transfer window gives the Fratton club an 'advantage'.

If they were buying players, yes, I could understand it then. But knowing they are to lose their star players in a couple of months is hardly going to improve the strength of the current squad.

And let's be clear, on the face of it, the only exceptional thing about this 'special permission' is that the money will change hands.

Pre-contract deals between clubs and between clubs and players are often signed 'outside' of the transfer window. They're just not made public.

Look at the conditions which are being applied.

1. Players may be sold to other Premier League Clubs but may not play first team football for the new club before the end of the season.

2. Players may be sold to a Football League or foreign club, subject to Fifa's approval .

3. Portsmouth FC may enter into an agreement with another Premier League, Football League or foreign club that a player will be transferred to that other club in the summer.

So, effectively, unless the players are allowed to play for their new clubs immediately under 2 - and that should not be permitted - the only difference is that money will change hands. Money which will go a long way towards preserving a grand old football club for future generations.

I am, however, puzzled as to how any players 'bought' by another Premier League club might be 'loaned' back to us for the remainder of the season. Do we not already have the maximum number of allowable loans?

Don't buy into the media hype. This isn't that unusual and it certainly doesn't give us an advantage. If we were looking to gain an advantage we should have sold one or two of them in bloody August! South Africa's captain my a***!

Whatever happened to frivolous youngsters?

2010-03-24T13:29:00.001Z

Every day, my life is brightened up slightly when the email from Petersfield Newswire arrives with that day's 'story'.

I know the guys involved and we share the same sense of humour, so we all appreciate the same things about our little market town of Petersfield.

However, it would appear not everybody thinks the same. When I had a look at the site a few minutes ago I was amazed by the reaction - and subsequent comment - of a reader to yesterday's post about mephedrone.

Teenagers are accused of many things but I certainly didn't think being humourless would be one of them.

Press A and F1 together for failure

2010-03-23T16:30:00.002Z

When England fail to qualify for the 2022 World Cup finals – and they will – the finger of culpability should not be pointed at the manager.

The blame will rest squarely with Sony, Microsoft and Nintendo.

Instead of being outside playing football or watching Match of the Day and learning how things should be done, today’s teenage boys are beating each other over the net on FIFA 2010 or killing each other on Call of Duty – on their choice of Playstation3, Xbox, or Wii.

When I was 11 and watching every possible second of the 1974 World Cup finals from Germany, the great Johann Cruyff produced THAT turn in one of the games. Within minutes dozens of kids from our neighbourhood were out in the street attempting it.

One or two managed to perfect it – modesty prevents me from naming names – and it became part of their armoury (although as a keeper I seldom had a chance to use it).

When Jimmy Hill started to produce tactical match analysis on MotD I took it all in; I couldn’t get enough. I had a voracious appetite – and those who know me will confirm I still do, though more for onion bhajis than tactics nowadays.

Listening to people like Hill, the great Don Howe and Brian Clough pontificating on TV as to why team A failed to match team B’s formation, or how the central defensive partnership of team C was let down by its midfield, fascinated me.

I didn’t get to play at a particularly high level so this – and reading about it – was how I grasped the concept of tactics, positional play and the infamous Position Of Maximum Opportunity, as espoused by the equally infamous Charles Hughes – look him up kids!

I understood how John Beck’s theory worked and marvelled at the ‘Total Football’ – or tactical naïveté, the choice is yours – of the Dutch masters of the mid-70s.

But today, kids don’t give a glance to the analysis of Messrs Hansen and Lawrenson and then wonder on a Sunday morning why they’re being asked why they were drawn out of position or failed to pick up the midfield runner.

However, if you asked them ‘which combination of buttons do you need to press to assign man-marking duties to a player on the Xbox version of FIFA?’ they’d know in a flash.

Somehow I think their sporting priorities are wrong.

A predictable Cheltenham quip

2010-03-18T09:04:00.001Z

Cheltenham 2.40 - the Ryanair Chase, a grade one race registered as The Festival Trophy Chase.

A full field of 13 runners because the entry to the race is so cheap, but they have to pay extra for every fence they wish to jump...

Nope to Pope Hope

2010-03-17T13:00:00.002Z

I notice the National Secular Society (NSS) is protesting the visit of Pope Benedict.

It seems remarkably narrow minded of a group so keen on freedom of choice and thought to object to such a trip, after all they claim to "...defend scientific rationalism, freedom of speech and Human Rights, standing for equality for all regardless of religious conviction or non-belief".

Isn't freedom of speech applicable to everybody?

I don’t agree with what the fella espouses either but he has the right to look daft surely?

Such intransigence does the cause of the NSS few favours … maybe I should protest their protest.

Wanted: a return to the spirit of the venture

2010-03-16T13:15:00.000Z

Some time ago one of my colleagues suggested I join up to Freecycle (http://www.uk.freecycle.org/) – a website designed to reduce the amount going into landfill sites.

The idea behind the laudable scheme is (and I quote from the site) “… a grassroots movement of people who are giving (and getting) stuff for free in their own towns. Freecycle groups match people who have things they want to get rid of with people who can use them. Our goal is to keep usable items out of landfills.”

As I said, highly laudable. At the time of writing there are, apparently, 1,722,575 members signed up in the UK.

And, for the first few months I really felt they’d hit on something. I picked up a computer keyboard and speakers, which I needed, and the person 15 miles away didn’t.

I also managed to pass on our old IKEA TV and video cabinet, to a delighted chap from just up the road and pick up a few Dilbert books from a pleasant chap near the station.

However – you knew that was coming didn’t you? – in the last week or so I’m beginning to think the spirit of the thing is being lost; people are just looking to get stuff on the cheap rather than adhere to the ‘less waste principle’.

Increasingly the emails coming through are of the ‘wanted’ variety. Over the past few days I’ve seen requests for ‘X-Box or similar games console’; ‘mobile phone’; ‘double bed’; ‘shelter for small horse(!)’; ‘DVD’s’ (sic); ‘iPod – must be over 16GB(!)’; ‘laptop’; ‘golf clubs’; ‘sat-nav’; and ‘fridge and washing machine’.

In other words, stuff that people would, under any other circumstances, sell.

My favourite – although I had no need to enquire whether or not they were still available – was the offer of “10 bras, sizes 34 - 36 D & DD. I have a bag of 10 larger size bras all in very good condition in fact some I only ever wore once or twice. I didn't stay this size for long…”

The mind boggles.

I’m considering putting a wanted ad in myself: WANTED: winning lottery ticket. Must be worth more than £10,000. Would accept holiday in Maldives as an alternative.

Time to clamp down

2010-03-11T13:00:00.001Z

One of the major news stories of the day is the chief inspector of constabulary's criticism of the way police deal with complaints of anti-social behaviour.

Our family has fallen victim to both anti-social behaviour and criminal activity in recent years, despite living in what might be considered a low-crime area.

On both occasions the perpetrators failed to be punished to any real extent. We hardly felt justice was done. Even when the police were 100 per cent supportive the courts failed to dish out what we - and the police - deemed a suitable punishment.

Indeed, one police officer involved expressed surprise that we hadn't taken the matter into our hands and dished out some personal retribution: "I would have done by now," he admitted.

Our problem is that in our post-war desire to ensure a liberal and caring society - a laudable aim it has to be said - we have gone way too far. Consecutive Governments and the EU have brought in so much legislation that the punishment seldom deters the crime.

The fact that Peter Sutcliffe is even contemplating asking for parole is an indication of that. He should know that for his crimes there never should be a chance of parole.

Whenever you read or see anything about the Kray twins there's always some old East-ender who's prepared to stand up and say "but it was much safer to walk the streets in those days".

In no way am I advocating a return to the days of mobster rule, but it can not be denied that the punishments meted out by the twins and their entourage were deemed sufficient to persuade those of an unpleasant disposition to keep themselves to themselves: step out of line and you know what will happen!

It wasn't a case of the punishment fitting the crime, for that is an arbitary level determined by somebody in an Ivory Tower, and is liable to be changed at a whim. It was a case of the punishment being sufficient to PREVENT the crime.

And this is surely what's missing these days. It's a gamble; you might get caught and if you do what's the worst that can happen? A few hours' community service? A fine which you can probably pay weekly over a period of a few years?

That's hardly likely to act as a deterrent. However, a guaranteed loss of liberty and privileges might make them think twice. We should not be too concerned with their 'human rights', but concentrate more on the human rights of the victims. Like people's basic rights to live in their house, on their street, without gangs of rampaging yobs making their lives a misery, as was reported on Radio4 this morning.

Clamping down on criminal or anti-social behaviour should not be regarded as fascism, any more than liberalism should be seen as defending the right of a thief to go about his business without fear of being struck by a home-owner's golf club.

I count myself as a liberal; I like the idea of a free society, but that society should be one in which we can live without fear of becoming a victim. I am at a loss to understand why so many victims are suddenly pariahs because they fight back.

If the country's Government and law courts supported their 'rights', the need to fight back would be reduced. It's about time the balance on our much-heralded scales of justice was corrected.

I hate my colleagues

2010-03-10T14:00:00.000Z

Apparently I am prone to making rash generalisations and have let my diet slip because I had yoghurt and fresh fruit for breakfast.

This comes from a man who has to move around in the shower to get wet and who thinks anybody who doesn't exist on a diet of two bananas and a packet of Wotsits is a fat bastard. No generalisation there then.

He knows who he is and he's first up against the wall come the revolution ... the revolution led by people who buy their clothes at 'special' shops.

Av' it!

2010-03-08T18:00:00.001Z

Sorry to go on about football again – but if, like me, you’re a Pompey fan, there hasn’t been a great deal to shout about this season.

Reaching the FA Cup semi-final is a hell of an achievement for a club in our situation. But what may mean more to the club in the long-term is the attitude and mentality of the players and manager.

Harry Redknapp may have won us promotion and an FA Cup, but he never truly ‘got’ what it is to be Pompey. In his few months at the club, Avram Grant certainly has.

In last week’s Observer, one Pompey fan, Mick Dunford, said Grant was already more popular than Redknapp had been even in his pomp.

Several people of my acquaintance scoffed at that statement – but they may have to eat their words now. Grant is achieving Alan Ball-like status among the supporters – and that’s saying something.

Ballie was a God. He knew about the lifeblood of the club – he understood what it meant to have an island mentality (remember Pompey are the only professional football club in England based on an island).

That ‘siege mentality’ – call it what you will – is back – and Avram Grant, gets it, believes in it and has bought into it. And it seems he has instilled it in his players.

Even if we go out of the FA Cup at the next stage and get relegated, it is that inherent spirit which will keep the club alive in the Championship and beyond – wherever that might be.

And for that reason alone Avram Grant can hold his head higher than Redknapp ever could…

One off the wrist

2010-03-04T13:00:00.001Z

I have written before about the travails of my walk to work every morning but it took on a new, sinister turn this morning ... well it's all relative.

If you are not au fait with my walk to work, let me elucidate: the last 600 or so yards are on a road with no pavement which is busy with people travelling to work at the offices of East Hants District Council.

I'm no string bean, therefore if I'm walking on the road, facing incoming traffic, cars often have to slow down to allow traffic coming from the other direction to pass before pulling out to overtake me.

Quite often they don't look too happy about it. And understandably so: the extra five or six seconds it takes probably means they have to park one space further away from the main entrance.

But this morning one man decided he wasn't prepared to wait. With a look of grim determination on his face he actually accelerated towards me in an attempt to get through before the opposing vehicle. He did not veer out at all and clipped my wrist with his wing mirror.

I was so shocked I didn't have the nous to take down his registration number. I almost forgot to mouth the word 'tosser' after him as well, but somehow regained my demeanour in order so to do.

This shaven-headed moron - you know the type: probably keeps a Staffordshire bull terrier in order to make up for the fact he has the intellectual capacity of a tub of cottage cheese - has made a rod for his own back.

If I see him coming again in the next few weeks I will ensure he hits me square on - at 20-plus stone I'll do some damage to his car plus I have the number for Ambulance Chasers Direct programmed into my mobile.

Your days are numbered muppet!

BBC report - could do better apparently

2010-03-02T14:16:00.000Z

Mark Thompson's admission that the BBC will close various parts of the organisation to concentrate on doing "fewer things better" has been met with pleasure and pain - at least in my head.

The thought that the Beeb could start making some decent programmes again while dumping all the tedious reality TV effluent, brought a smile to my face.

I was, however, disappointed to learn that BBC6 radio is under threat. I don't listen to it very often but when I do I find it far superior to the vacuous nonsense churned out by Radio1. And I would imagine a lot of people will feel similarly disposed to the BBC Asian Network. I've always been partial to a bit of bhangra meself...

I'm just glad that the excellent BBC7 has apparently escaped the cull. But as much of its programming is repeats of classic radio series I would imagine it's quite cheap to produce. The ideal radio station one would imagine.

Perhaps BBC3 TV should be turned over solely to re-runs of classic comedies and dramas, providing a popular yet cost-effective channel. It'd be great to see things like Colditz, Secret Army, The Brothers, and Are You Being Served etc again.

The club is dead - long live the club

2010-02-25T19:04:00.000Z

So then, Pompey are finally on the brink of administration.

I'm neither surprised, nor, strangely, perturbed. If at the end of tedious process we still have a football club to follow then I'll be reasonably happy. I've spent too long worrying about the possibility of folding all-together to lose sleep over a nine-point deduction, relegation and the interminable coming and going of potential new owners.

For some time now this club has been a joke. No, a real joke. Four owners in a season and we still can't play the players? Get outta here! We're a laughing stock - and rightly so.

Hopefully somebody with a bit of financial nous, you know Nick Leeson or somebody, can bring us out of administration, and let us get on with life in the Championship.

And do you know, many of us will enjoy it all the more. The Premiership was supposed to be Nirvana, but too often it ultimately proved to be dull and predictable. And certainly prohibitively expensive.

So we won the FA Cup. I was there. It was my birthday. It was a good day. I never expected us to win the FA Cup in my lifetime. But when I think about it, I enjoyed more the day at Huddersfield's Leeds Rd in the mid-80s when we failed to get promoted on the last day of the season.

I certainly enjoyed it more on January 3, 1988, when we won 2-0 at The Dell against all the odds.

I certainly had more fun at Northampton in May 1980 when we went up from the old fourth division. And the visit to Liverpool in 1980 was better than any subsequent clash against the 'mighty' reds - and, truth be known, that cup final day.

Much of it may be down to the fact that as I have got older my priorities have changed; that my passion isn't quite as intense as it used to be. That's as may be.

But I also can't deny that the sanitised version of football, as corporate entertainment, that is served up these days is just not as enjoyable as it used to be. That's why I so enjoy non-league football currently.

So I'm pragmatic about it. It was fun for a while, but we became the Premier League's Icarus and fell to earth injured. Hopefully we can be patched up again, because I reckon there's more fun to be had back down on earth than flying around the Premier League universe.

Bugger Old Trafford and the Emirates. There are clubs in the league now that we have never even played. Bring 'em on and let's fulfil the new 92 club. And start enjoying our football again.

Now lay off...

2010-02-24T18:35:00.000Z

Four blogs in a day? Surely that should satisfy those Bunky hungry media whores at Petersfield Newswire...

It just doesn't add up

2010-02-24T18:33:00.000Z

I Tweeted about this earlier so given my Tiger Woods-style apology (see Newswire takes a pop) below I thought I'd chunter on about it here as well.

I received an email this morning from Pompey (Portsmouth Football Club, for the uninitiated) which may offer a pointer as to why the club has so woefully mismanaged its finances over the past few years.

The subject line of the email boasted: Half-price sale on Hero printing - save up to 60%.

Only at Fratton Park...

Just the ticket

2010-02-24T18:23:00.000Z

I today bought tickets for my son's school's production of Little Shop of Horrors.

The adult tickets cost £12 apiece, so the show must be bloody good; after all my wife and I watched the excellent Shaun Williamson star in the equally impressive stage production of Porridge last weekend where the tickets cost us a mere £10 each.

The lead in the school production might not be as instantly recognisable as Barry from Eastenders, but he still has his fair share of fans. His name? Sam Bowers.

Newswire takes a pop

2010-02-24T18:15:00.000Z

I've been exceedingly lax - and I apologise.

I've been Tweeting a lot lately but have neglected my blog. I enjoy blogging but have discovered Tweeting takes less time as one-liners are easier to fire out at will. And Will's getting hacked off about it...

And it would appear he's not the only one. I'm a regular follower of the excellent Petersfield Newswire - well I would be as they are mates of mine - and one of the guys sent me a Newswire-style story about my own site.

I've included it here for your delectation. Don't forget to check out their site for more. It's worth it...

Blog off

Petersfield residents have been mourning the sad demise of popular blog, Spunky’s Musings.

The witty and cutting-edge column written by self-confessed ‘fat herbert’ David Bowie has not been updated for the best part of a month and only spluttered into life on a few occasions this year.

"It’s a sad loss," said Bloggers’ Monthly spokesman Mr I Wright-Rubbish. "It always brightened my day to read some self-deprecating comment about Spunky’s weight loss, his kids ridiculing him, or the latest news on the farce that was once Portsmouth FC.

"My own personal feeling is that he was too upset over the Tiger Woods affair to carry on blogging. Either that, or he just couldn’t be arsed."

A spokesman for Petersfield Town Council, Bobby Bear, added: "At least it lasted longer than his stint with us…"

Couldn't be arsed? How very dare he...

A tale of two captains

2010-02-09T13:00:00.001Z

So then, now we know.

Missing a drugs test and elbowing an opponent in the face is not as serious as bedding a team-mate’s missus. At least in the view of England boss Fabio Capello.

I have to admit to a little disappointment that Capello opted for Rio Ferdinand after he had – correctly in my view – stripped John Terry of the England captaincy.

Ferdinand also has a chequered past including an eight-month ban for missing a drugs test, a year’s ban from driving after being convicted of drink-driving, and three other driving bans. He is, of course, currently serving a four-match suspension for elbowing an opponent in the face and I would regard him as no more suitable a role model than Terry.

He's also not the brightest, and will probably believe somebody's died when he's passed the armband.

The vice-captain now is Steven Gerrard, and, as we all know, he’s hardly a paragon of virtue.

England’s first-choice back-four makes interesting reading if you subscribe to the theory that international footballers have an obligation to set a decent example for youngsters.

Glen Johnson, convicted of theft; Terry and Ferdinand, see above; and Ashley Cole, a money-grabbing solipsist.

So there you have it. Potentially the top ‘role model’ in our defence is a self-aggrandising whinger who believed an offer of £55,000 per week from Arsenal was “taking the piss”.

A man who was booed and jeered by England fans for his attitude and performance in a home international against Kazakhstan.

It’s a sad state of affairs when an objectionable little Herbert like Cole is held up as some sort of footballing ideal. Bobby Moore and Jimmy Dickinson must be spinning in their graves.

So should we simply disregard the idea that footballers have a moral obligation to set an example to their young fans? I don’t think so.

Anybody in their position, be it in football, tennis, golf (are you listening Tiger?) or pop music has an obligation to behave in a decent manner, the same as the rest of us. Maybe even more so.

But if we don’t ignore their misdemeanours are we in danger of not having anybody left to wear the captain’s armband? What a mess the game is in.

More holiday news

2010-02-09T12:01:00.001Z

You'll be delighted to hear that we have booked a holiday. Finally.

We're going to Turkey. Neither Jackie nor I have been there before, yet, bizarrely all three boys have gone there with their 'other' parent.

Now that is a sign of the times we live in...

I just want a holiday...

2010-01-19T17:28:00.000Z

It’s all too much.

Many years ago when I first booked a holiday with my then girlfriend, we sent off for some brochures, decided a place in Paignton looked OK, and went there for a week.

OK, we were above the hotel’s nightclub but you soon got used to listening to Haircut 100 and Modern Romance at 2am.

Nowadays, the information superhighway presents you with so many more options, so that when my wife and I look for a holiday in Turkey, there’s just too much to take in.

I now find myself looking at video reviews of the hotel and finding stuff to criticise: like the fence being a bit ‘POW Camp’ – what are they trying to keep out? Or the fact there only appears to be one slide into the pool which means the kids will be moaning about queueing.

And if there’s no video to view, pasting the name of the hotel into Tripadvisor.com throws up tales of woe about how the concierge turned into a werewolf every Friday night and regurgitated lobster to entertain the kids.

There’s just far too much choice and information.

I just want a nice peaceful hotel, with swimming pools and a nearby beach and some decent weather thrown in.

Is it too much to ask?

My time has come...

2010-01-12T13:00:00.001Z

I really need to lose weight. To those of you who know me personally that won't come as too much of a shock to read.

Indeed my wife and kids have been on at me for ages to lose weight. The kids want me to play football with them and my wife thinks our petrol costs will go down.

My own moment of clarity came a few minutes ago when I viewed a website which featured one of many 'lose weight' adverts running currently.

This one featured 'before' and 'after' images of a guy's torso ... and I thought to myself that I'd be more than happy to have the 'before' body.

That is when you know the time is right ...

Jacob and his quote of many colours

2010-01-11T13:56:00.000Z

Pompey director Mark Jacob should have a new name. Perhaps he should be known as Joseph, for he has a quote of many colours.

Take this quote in The News: "At the Arsenal game, there were chants which left Ahmed Al Faraj (the brother of Ali Al Faraj) - who watched the game on the internet - most upset. Mr Al Faraj feels supporters do not see - or haven't been told perhaps - what has happened since October and it was like a pressure cooker that had suddenly exploded. Then there was the protest after the Coventry game.

"Quite clearly that is the supporters' prerogative, but I was most upset and disappointed. I sincerely hope that does not happen again given the strides this club has achieved over the last few months."

Supporters often feel quite differently of course. Take this quote from a protest about the board at White Hart Lane a few years back.

“We feel we are justified in expressing these opinions and if a public apology is not given we call upon every Tottenham supporter to continue to support the team - but not the board.

"The TAG (Tottenham Action Group) have started a petition calling for [Sir Alan] Sugar to either back manager George Graham with cash for top quality signings, or quit the club.”

The angry fan? Some bloke called Mark Jacob. He's a lawyer you know...

Don't get me started...

2010-01-11T13:30:00.000Z

I heard on Radio 4 this morning that Gordon Brown's Government is planning to give away free laptops to low-income families.

I was fascinated.

According to the report I've just checked out: "More than 270,000 free laptops with broadband will be given away to low income familes under a new Government scheme."

How lucky for them. My wife and I both work full-time yet only last week I was contemplating cancelling my broadband because we were trying to trim costs and there seemed little point having something that our six-year-old computer struggled to cope with.

The only reason for keeping it was that my wife and our two boys need it to access information from work, school and college. Apparently her work, and their school and college all rely on people having an internet connection at home. So what happens if you don't?

Does she get fired for not having access to emails? Are they kicked out of school for not being able to download their course notes? Probably not, but I don't see either the schools or places of employment offering to pay to keep them connected.

Thankfully, of course, we could now give up our jobs and get a free laptop and broadband, but we'd have no jobs with which to maintain connectivity.

I'm all in favour of helping low-income families, but shouldn't the help be offered in a more prosaic manner, rather than in the form of what really should be considered a luxury item?

Next thing we'll be hearing that as they struggle to get to job interviews they'll all be supplied with a 4x4.

The Labour party should remember the premise behind its formation. Admittedly there are a lot of low-income families at work, or wanting to work, but there are also a lot of people who simply can't be arsed. Why should they get the chance to watch an unbuffered BBC iplayer when I don't...?

Wake me up before you grit

2010-01-08T12:33:00.000Z

From the Portsmouth News.

She said: 'The snow started coming down at Hindhead and then as soon as we got to Petersfield, it was like "wham", nobody was moving. It was scary.'

That Andrew Ridgely always was a lazy bugger, but I'm disappointed in George...

Isn't it ironic? (copyright Alanis Morissette)

2010-01-07T12:15:00.000Z

I see the PFA's Nick Cusack has accused Pompey of "damaging the integrity of football..."

Do you think in the early 1940s in Berlin, somebody spoke out against Adolf Hitler, suggesting he was damaging the credibility of Nazis?

It's hard to damage credibility when there is so little to start with.

Down to the bare bones (copyright H Redknapp)

2010-01-07T11:40:00.001Z

Sounds like Pompey have already sold off most of their highly-paid squad if this intro from today's ESPN soccer blog is anything to go by...

"It is becoming such a frequent occurrence that the average football fan is in danger of becoming desensitised to the news that Portsmouth have once again failed to pay their player."

Anybody got a chopper?

2010-01-06T10:04:00.000Z

If you've seen any tv news or listened to the radio this morning, you can't help but notice that my home town of Petersfield is currently the centre of the snowbound universe.

We haven't had this much attention since the plane crash, our last murder or the time a young woman's body was found by the side of the A3. Hopefully this won't have the same consequences as any of those.

One of the parents from our youngest's football team has been stuck on the A3 at the Ham Barn roundabout for nearly six hours and has featured on both radio and tv. What a media whore!

I spoke to him just now and, not surprisingly, he sounds really tired. He finished work at Heathrow at 1am and should really be in a deep slumber by now.

His only request was that if somebody could airlift him a bacon sarnie it would be very much appreciated. Good luck Andy.

Enough Tiger hunting already...

2010-01-05T14:42:00.000Z

I like to think I keep up with the news but it would appear that during my hibernation period between Christmas and new year, the world's number one golfer was revealed as having locked up a young girl in his cellar for three years, forced her to have his children and then ritually diembowelled them all.

Or is it just that Tiger Woods' serial philandering has driven the commercial world into a moral frenzy?

The latest commercial entities to distance themselves from Woods include AT&T and Golf Digest, which has, and I quote a news report, 'pulled Woods' column' - "they weren't the first," insisted a colleague, before nipping off round the back of the bike shed to have a quick fag.

Surely enough is enough? The bloke's been a pillock, a knob, a complete b*****d if you insist - but he hasn't killed anybody. Why are people treating him as a moral leper?

Many other high-profile figures have done far worse and received far less condemnation.
Some have retained their advertising deals and continue to prosper.

Nobody has a higher profile in this country - apart maybe from those funny-haired twins on X Factor or Susan Boyle - than the royal family. Both the Prince of Wales and Princess Di had affairs - one will still be king and the other will 'always be the Queen of hearts' according to royalists.

David Beckham admitted to an affair - the country still loves him. There are constant rumours of the serial philanderings of more than one well-respected tv presenter, yet contracts still come their way despite their employers knowing of their dalliances.

Let's draw a veil over it now. Tiger Woods slept around OK? He's been a fool. He's not to be trusted when it comes to women. But he's no Warren Beatty - not yet, anyway.

But he is a fantastic golfer and for those of us who enjoy golf, he will be sorely missed all the time he has to go into hiding while this media circus ("Woohoo circus!" - Homer Simpson) continues.

Let's get on with our lives and allow the Woodses to get on with theirs, whether together or apart. There must be something else about which we can get on our soapbox. Doesn't that ice-dancing crap on ITV start again soon...?

It's my own pleasure I'm ruining

2010-01-01T19:40:00.001Z

I enjoyed Wednesday's BBC dramatisation of Henry James' Turning of the Screw, but admit to failing to take it seriously from early on.

Despite the enjoyable production I ruined it for myself during the scene where the governess went to meet young Miles at the station.

As the steam and smoke cleared to reveal young Miles resplendent in his school uniform complete with a top hat atop a shock of bright blond hair, I said out loud: "Blimey, it's a young Boris Johnson."

From that moment on, any scene that featured 'young Boris' was tainted by me adding my own words in an admittedly appalling impression of the likeable buffoon.

Happy new year by the way...

Is it me?

2009-12-29T18:26:00.002Z

It's a funny thing Christmas. It changes one's perceptions.

I could have sworn our shower cubicle was larger a few weeks ago than it is now...

No more heroes any more - because I'm getting old

2009-12-16T15:13:00.002Z

Further evidence of getting old - example number 417.

Putting aside the fact that I keep forgetting to blog, which is a sure sign in itself, I have realised I'm on the way out. The reason?

I've come to the conclusion that two of my big heroes should be put out to pasture.

When I was 15 (years not stone - though the two probably coincided) I appeared on Brucie's Big Night (BBN) on London Weekend Television. BBN was an ITV vehicle for Bruce Forsyth who had been lured away from the BBC's Generation Game by pots of cash and the handing over of Saturday night primetime tv.

BBN started at about 7pm and went on until 10. It featured all manner of things Brucie - including gameshow segments - plus guest singers, dancers, comedians and interviewees. It was probably the last example of variety on tv, save for the annual shindig in front of her madge.

For the period of my segment - I was a contestant not a dancer I should point out - I effectively became Bruce's straight man, both on and off camera. Even when the camera wasn't rolling, the audience were, in the aisles - as Bruce was never off duty.

He was also incredibly kind to me off-stage and generous too. I warmed to him greatly and have been a huge fan ever since. Sadly, even I have to admit, his time as a mainstream entertainer may be coming to an end.

He is 81, after all, and has done well to last this long. But his recent performances on Strictly Come Dancing have been bordering on embarrassing. He has slurred his words, mixed up his words and, one can only assume by the quality of it, insisted on writing his own material.

As much as it pains me to say it Bruce old darling, it's time for you to go. Pick up your knighthood on the way out and enjoy your retirement on the fairways - you deserve it.

I was actually on BBN twice: the first time as a regional contestant by phone from the Southern TV studios in Southampton. I won the regional part of the competition to qualify to go up to LWT the following week.

In the preamble to my participation, Brucie asked me what I wanted to do when I grew out, I mean up. I told him I wanted to be a football commentator, and, when prompted, said John Motson was my favourite.

Motty was usurped in my affections a few years later by Barry Davies, but I still remain a fan of his knowledge, if not his nonsensical ramblings. I'm afraid his commentaries are just banal now.

"Well, you have to say," he says excitedly, with that trembling giggle he persists in utilising, "that that has to go down as a save."

Yes John. When the goalkeeper gets a hand to the ball, deflecting it on to the crossbar that generally does go down as a save.

And, it has to be said John, that, at this stage, you're playing your own equivalent of added time at the end of an extraordinary game.

Nurse! Another knighthood over here please and then put Mr Motson to bed.

Mea culpa

2009-12-08T17:47:00.000Z

I have been taken to task by several people following yesterday's blog - including one of my best mates and my wife!

Mea culpa. I did over-egg the racist line yesterday and that was a mistake on my part. The point I was trying to make is that many newspapers and magazines are fully aware of other people's misdemeanors - no names obviously for legal reasons - but choose to ignore them. Why?

Because it's easier to kick somebody when they're down rather than to be brave, investigate a story properly and break the news themselves, that's why. The fact the people to whom I was referring are white may, or may not be coincidence. And I should have made that clear.

But sod it. I'm not a national newspaper. My blogs tend to be written in a five-minute spell in my lunch-hour. It does not go through a sub-editor nor get passed by a legal team. I speak from the heart so may phrase something a little wildly at times. I'm sorry.

I'm an angry, grumpy malcontent at times and that's what galvanises me to write this rubbish.

And I have, for some time, been appalled by the right-wing media in the US who do not approve of a non-caucasion being the world's #1 golfer. You might think that is ridiculous, but try asking people who work in golf.

It is a minority of the media, but it does prevail. Some things are pushed under the carpet. Woods' infidelity was manna from heaven.

As Michael Gilchrist commented on my post yesterday, Woods SHOULD be ashamed for what he has done. I'm not defending him, I'm just appalled by the attitude of a media which chooses what to and what not to report.

I hope that's clear now. And I also hope to write in a more light-hearted vein the next time I vent my spleen.

Tiger, Tiger taking flight

2009-12-07T15:19:00.001Z

So now there are seven. Or possibly eight. Nine, if it's true about a fling with a British TV presenter.

I wouldn't dream of defending Tiger Woods' philandering but, even as a journalist, I have a distaste for kicking a guy when he's down. And a professional idealogy of relevance. To do neither you need a certain type of newspaper.

In today's edition of a 'certain newspaper' - I will not give it the oxygen of publicity among my 12 regular followers - it drags out the former fiancé of one of the mistresses.

Naturally, to heighten the dramatic effect of the world number one's fall from grace, businessman Derek Schmidt is billed as "a golf fan who used to idolise Woods".

His ex, Jamie Jungers, was first approached by Woods in 2005, according to the right-wing tabloid.

"He immediately started hitting on her and telling her she was beautiful," said Schmidt, who we can only presume from his intimate knowledge of the events that unfolded, was happy to look on armed only with a pocket tape recorder and a Polaroid camera.

"I was a massive Tiger Woods fan. I had Tiger Woods memorabilia all over my house and even collected Tiger Woods videos," continued Schmidt, who, at his age, really should have had a semblance of a life.

Schmidt added: "I think Tiger is a great competitor on the golf course, but away from it he is a horrible person."

One can only assume he can make that judgment because he spent so much time in the company of Woods. His view couldn't be at all clouded because of the presence of a cheque-book.

Woods is an idiot. He's made monumental errors of judgment in his personal life which will probably affect him and his family for the rest of his life. He's left the family home for privacy apparently - he doesn't deserve sympathy. But he's not a murderer - just a naive fool. He's still a great golfer.

And it begs the question would the same newspaper report with such glee similar philandering by a white golfer who was at the top of the tree? Or maybe a popular white British sportsman with a reputation worse than that of Woods?

They must surely have had the opportunity.

They'd be better off trying to analyse the state of Woods' mind. After all he's married to Elin Nordegren - and have you seen some of those women he's alleged to have been with?

And we always thought Tiger didn't like it in the rough...

Where's me Horlicks?

2009-12-04T14:00:00.000Z

I'm tired. It's been nearly a week since I last blogged. I'm sorry.

I'm all out of inspiration because, not to put too fine a point on it, I'm shagged out. Our current workload is very heavy and, consequently, I could sleep for England.

Admittedly I've never been the most energetic of individuals - or the fittest; indeed, only last week I got out of breath chewing a toffee - but better men than I would wilt under such circumstances.

Sure there have been some things worth blogging about. Tiger Woods' car crashes for example. The one where he hit the fire hydrant and the extended one involving his 'PR advisors' - and I use the term loosely.

But everybody's done that. I could moan about yesterday's trip to Brighton from Petersfield, which instead of taking around an hour and a quarter, took nearly three hours because of some neanderthal in Worthing rubbing two sticks together to discover fire.

Instead of changing at Havant and then tootling into Brighton on a comfortable Southern train, I changed at Havant. Then Barnham. Then Littlehampton. Then caught a replacement bus to Worthing, where I was joined by a nutter straight out of a Jasper Carrott routine who intermittently shrugged his shoulders with a jerk while shouting "DURRINGTON!" or some other conurbation highlighted by a road sign. And from Worthing I caught my final train into Brighton.

I could moan about the fact that if I see that Mexican git eulogising about Southern trains on tv again I will throw our youngest child at the set. I could do that, but I won't because it's the kind of inconvenience I imagine commuters put up with on a daily basis.

Nor will I comment on the farce that is Portsmouth Football Club which is in danger of being the longest-running comedy since Leslie Phillips starred in Oops I've Fallen Over and Planted My Head Between the Breasts of the Vicar's Wife, which enjoyed several strong seasons at the Dewsbury Empire.

I'm too tired for all that. And maybe too old. And maybe even too forgetful.

Nor will I comment on the farce that is Portsmouth Football Club which is in danger of being the longest-running comedy since Leslie Phillips starred in Oops I've Fallen Over and Planted My Head Between the Breasts of the Vicar's Wife, which enjoyed several strong seasons at the Dewsbury Empire.

(Did you see what I did there..?)

You'll be wanting clean towels next!

2009-11-29T11:28:00.000Z

Another day, another hotel. This time the Novotel at Birmingham Airport.

And if you're ever in the area you could do worse than stay at the Novotel. Or so I'm told anyway. Personally I find it hard to believe you could find worse at £135 a night.

For that I would normally expect at least Sky Sports and hot and cold running housemaids.

Instead what we got was the point where Ryanair meets hotels. If you're not savvy, you'll be charged £2 merely for the privilege of finding out exactly where you need to park.

Having followed the signs to the Novotel we found ourselves on a narrow road confronted by a car-park barrier. We took a ticket - we're not completely devoid of experience in these matters. But then a sign informed us this was the stop-and-drop area only - no overnight parking. Instead it told us to exit the car park and go to car parks 1, 2, or 3.

At the exit barrier inserting the ticket in the relevant slot resulted in us being told we owed £2. That's 200 pennies merely for following instructions and being led on a wild bloody goose chase.

We retraced our tyre tracks to a pay machine in the hope it would validate our ticket. It did and we got out for nothing. But some of our colleagues were not so lucky. There were no instructions anywhere.

The overnight charge in the NCP car park was £19.50. No, you're not seeing things. £19.50. It would have been cheaper to fly to Berne. When we checked in we tried to validate the ticket to get the parking free, but were told it would be just at the reduced rate of £13.50. The guy looked at us as if we should fall at his feet in gratitude.

He then informed us that to actually redeem the ticket to obtain parking at this ludicrously cheap rate we would need to schlep over to the arrivals' hall in the airport itself to get the ticket validated by the NCP office.

I was not amused. I don't like schlepping at the best of times. And, to top it off, all the rooms our group had booked were singles except for ours which was a twin - obviously young Lee and I lost out in the pillow lottery.

But, yes, you guessed it. All the rooms were made up as twins ... except ours. I phoned down and told an incredulous receptionist who sent somebody up straight away to make up the bed.

This, it transpired, involved no more than pulling out a lever, which saw the bed, already dressed, spring out onto the floor. All the young lady needed to do was take two pillows from the cupboard and place them on the bed.

"If they'd told us how simple it was, we would have done it," said Lee to the young lady apologetically.

Her look, as she departed, suggested we were the biggest divas she'd seen since Mariah Carey's entourage made the mistake of thinking the Novotel sounded like a good place to stop over.

The bathroom was brilliantly designed. Full of wonderful flowing curves and big, bold statements. It was obviously a candidate for a National Design Award, for it wasn't made with functionality in mind.

A shallow sink which made it impossible to do anything unless you filled it to the top and wasted water. And the carefully crafted glass shower guard looked very attractive while offering the rest of the bathroom as much protection from splashing water as would a couple of Rizlas.

Removing the plug from the sink gave a waft of disgusting drains and the separate toilet smelt of damp - what sort of damp we never quite established.

I don't have a grudge against the Novotel chain - I've stayed in the ExCeL Novotel on many occasions without a problem - but this was beyond belief for the price.

On the plus side, they did have black pudding for breakfast - a breakfast which cost an additional £14 or so. But by that time I couldn't wait to check out.

Our survey says...

2009-11-28T16:32:00.001Z

Now I've reached a certain age I judge the standard of a hotel by a number of factors:

The shower in the room;
The quality of tea/coffee-making facilities;
How many toiletries I can pocket; and
The quality of the black pudding in the 'and breakfast' part of the deal

I've spent the last two nights at a pleasant enough hotel in the West Midlands. However, on neither morning did they give me my requested alarm call.

And on the first morning nobody bothered to advise us we needed a code to exit the car park. But what was worse they claimed to offer a 'full' English breakfast - but the buffet was sans black pudding.

It all seemed so good. I trousered two bars of soap, some shampoo and some moisturiser, wasn't forced to drink de-caf coffee and the shower was hot. But no black pudding?

I'm sorry, but it's a no from me...

Comedians on the road to career change?

2009-11-26T17:41:00.000Z

Comedians seem to be branching out.

On the way to Birmingham today we passed a coach from a company called A&J Carr and a lorry belonging to Fry Transport.

Now there's a funny thing...

Sorry, what was that?

2009-11-24T16:00:00.002Z

A funny thing happened to me on the way to ... wherever I was going.

One of my mates, who actually reads this rubbish, suggested I did a blog on the bad manners of people who insist on fiddling with the apps on their iPhone while pretending to be interested in what you are saying.

I would but I didn't catch why it made him so angry. I was too busy texting ...

Yeah, yeah. See ya later.

And finally, monsieur, a wafer-thin mint...

2009-11-23T18:00:00.002Z

I went down to Portsmouth on Friday to meet up with a few old mates who I hadn’t seen in some time.

I don’t go down to Pompey much now, except to pick up and drop off my son at weekends – and he doesn’t live anywhere near the centre.

But when I do go it all looks so different – it’s hard to believe I lived there for the first 35 years of my life. Very few of my teenage haunts remain, and if they do they tend to have been renamed after a colour and either a fruit or animal of indeterminable origin.

Portsmouth has always been a ‘hard’ city, built as it was on the navy and the sore thumbs of thousands of dockies.

By the way, the phrase ‘chip on the shoulder’ is believed to have originated in Pompey dockyard was back in the 17th century. I’m sure there is a website confirming this etymology somewhere, but I really can’t be arsed to find it.

Anyway I digress. Portsmouth has always been a ‘hard’ city, but I didn’t realise, after living away from it for 11 years just how much of a big Jessie I had become.

This was brought home to me in the early hours of Saturday morning when, after a distinctly average curry, I lost a filling on an After Eight mint. Even soft mints are hard enough to take out a filling in Portsmouth when you’ve spent 11 years living in the semi-rural confines of fluffy Petersfield.

So it was, that this morning I found myself registering with a dentist in fluffy Petersfield – not having bothered in the previous 11 years in protest at the dearth of NHS options.

Those particular chickens came home to roost when I realised what bad condition my molars were in. As the lady dentist leaned over what felt like a chasm in my tooth, she asked her hygienist to prepare some cement.

“How much?” asked the hygienist, presumably of the opinion that I could do with having my entire mouth filled.

“Not a bucketful,” replied the dentist.

Had I not, at that moment, had a young lady poking around in my oral cavity, I would have assuaged my natural curiosity by asking if there were only two quantities of cement which could be prepared: a bucketful, and not…

However, as the aforementioned young lady was, at that very moment, poking around inside my cavity with a sharp implement I’m sure I last saw in a tableau on board HMS Victory, I decided against imparting a remark which might have been interpreted as sarcastic.

Having not visited a dentist for more than a dozen years, it was amazing how familiar the sights, smells, and sensations felt. It might well have been yesterday that I last had weapons of mandible destruction wielded in my mouth. The scrapings, the sound … it was all so familiar.

What was hugely different was the fact that as I departed my new chamber of horrors of choice I was clutching a bill which amounted to a three-figure sum. And to get full value from it I have to return next Monday for more of the same.

Folks, as the great Pam Ayres once opined, I wish I’d looked after me teeth…

Moss comment is hard to swallow

2009-11-19T18:08:00.000Z

I see model Kate Moss is in trouble again after saying she lives by a slogan which encourages people with anorexia not to eat.

In an interview with fashion news website WWD, Moss said one of her mottoes was: "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels."

Well, I've never been skinny, but I've seen those poor little kids in Africa and I would imagine they'd all swap their lives for a regular supply of lemon meringue pie or chocolate profiteroles.

What a shame she no longer goes out with Pete Doherty - two people have never been so deserving of each other.

It's good, but it's not right...

2009-11-18T13:44:00.000Z

You have to give spammers credit for trying, but the least they could do is aim for a degree of verisimilitude.

The email I have just received purported to come from HM Revenue & Customs and told me I was due to receive a sum of £218.50 in a tax refound.

To compound the error, the email address to which I was supposed to send all my bank details was Refound-tax@online.hrmc.gov.uk.

To be fair I suppose English might not be their first language, but given the standards we witness these days, who's to know for certain?

Are they taking the pizza?

2009-11-16T18:01:00.000Z

On Friday evening I was lucky enough to accompany my wife as she helped take a school trip to London to see Terry Pratchett's Nation at the National Theatre.

She works at a prep school in Surrey, so I suppose I should not have been at all surprised that when we stopped for a bite to eat at Pizza Express, the most popular choice among the kids was the Padana: a pizza with goat's cheese, caramelised onions and spinach.

But I still choked on my sun-ripened tomatoes when the order went in. No pepperoni for them. And not one of them asked for tomato ketchup...

Bless.

More moans about reality TV

2009-11-16T17:42:00.000Z

I'm really losing the will to live. This morning, over breakfast, bloody GMtv was talking about X Factor and I'm a Non-Entity...

For God's sake, is there nothing else happening in the world that's more important than that shallow pile of *****?

And before you tell me I can always turn it off. I can't; I'm outvoted.

BTW I believe the big-breasted bimbo, Katie Price, is in the jungle. Didn't she do one of these dreadful programmes before and found herself a husband? Anybody would think she was looking for another man or something.

Perhaps Ant and/or Dec are starting a new vehicle: I'm a vacuous bint who flaunts her t*ts and am in need of more publicity and another husband to show off, so get me in there...

I don't know about X Factor, I think hundreds of people have, not just X.

The times they are-a-changing...

2009-11-13T16:45:00.001Z

Amid all the offers of drugs to improve my sexual performance and Russian women desperate to ‘meet man lik you’, my email occasionally offers sage advice from people I’ve actually agreed to hear from.

Despite, at 46, being too old to learn, I keep being told by all around me that ‘you’re never too old to learn’.

Hence, I recently joined the social networking crowd with a Twitter account (www.twitter.com/Bunkybowers) and a Facebook page.

And, thanks to people out there who know things I couldn’t possibly hope to understand, I’ve even managed to set my blog up to post automatically to Twitter and Facebook as soon as something appears.

OK, so it’s not rocket science – but it might as well be for all I knew about it before reading the ‘how to’ pages on the interwebby thing.

But the great thing about web-based activities and computer software, I’ve discovered, is how much you can learn simply by getting and ‘having a go’. If you get it wrong, things don’t crash around your feet – you simply start again and learn from the errors.

The modern age is great for that, because working in Photoshop or Illustrator, designing websites, or using social network tools is a world away from the industries I knew as a lad.

Born and bred in Portsmouth, many of my contemporaries went to work in the Naval Dockyard as apprentices. And I’m bloody sure on their first day they weren’t told by the gaffer “just go and try to fit those rivets into the side of the Ark Royal – you’ll soon get the hang of it”. Or “take this screwdriver and try to rewire that nuclear missile launcher – you can’t do any harm”.

They had years of extensive training. With many of the 21st century industries being in the ‘virtual world’ it is much easier to be self-taught, which also means there are areas where the ‘expertise’ is likely to be lacking a little something.

Most people, like me, get by. I’m no expert. But I know enough now on lots of things to be able to hold my own – a habit I first developed as a teenager, though it was frowned upon by polite society in the 70s.

Traditional industries – and by ‘traditional’ I mean stuff before computers took over the world and sent Arnold Schwarzenegger back in time to save us all – don’t allow for a ‘little knowledge’ and require a lot of training and tuition.

This was brought home to me in spades earlier in the week when, as a parent of a prospective student, I was shown around the chemistry department of the University of Sheffield.

My chemistry knowledge is very limited, as I took the subject for only one year at school. And my place in dunces’ corner was confirmed when we arrived at the department and I thought the periodic table on the wall in reception was the seating plan for a lecture theatre…

But my complete ignorance was brought home during the tour when Dr Jim Thomas, one of the members of staff tasked with dragging round idiots such as I, spouted forth in one of the laboratories about the machinery doing ‘some of the basics of chemistry’.

From what I understood - and it wasn't much - it took something, smashed it to pieces, and then tried to discover its constituent parts. I wanted to know why it smashed up whatever it was that it smashed up in the first place. I’m sure there was a damned good reason but I know not what it is.

But for the most part my lack of basic knowledge meant Jim’s words made the same sound as those of the teacher in the TV Charlie Brown cartoons: “Wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa.”

It’s a good job the self-taught philosophy doesn’t apply in those labs, otherwise I get the feeling parts of the University of Sheffield might have been relocated to Barnsley and other areas of south Yorkshire some time ago.

"Sum up the game for us Jon..."

2009-11-11T15:00:00.001Z

If you read my ramblings last week about my one-man campaign to correct the misuse of the English language by the nation’s football commentators – or even if you didn’t – you will be interested to note that I’m also now taking issue with their numeracy.

Jon Roder, commentating on Reading v Ipswich for the BBC’s Football League Show, made the point that as Reading had scored only two goals at home all season, Simon Church’s equaliser for the Royals had increased their home goals’ total by 33 per cent.

Given they had only scored two goals before it should surely have occurred to him that any increase in goals scored, by the very nature of football, was never going to be less than 50 per cent.

On the plus side he didn’t insist that the ball was prodded in from “distance”.

It's not so grim oop north...

2009-11-11T13:41:00.000Z

So then, I'm back from Sheffield - and I was right: it was a real shock to the system.

But not in the way I imagined. I was hugely impressed by both Sheffield the city and the University of Sheffield.

My last visit to Sheffield was around 20 years ago, maybe more - and my recollections were not good. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, a sh*thole!

I was expecting boarded up mills and steelworks. But it was nothing of the sort. Maybe Mrs Thatcher was right in shutting down all the indigenous industries of the north ... no of course she wasn't.

Now, however, it seems a splendid city. Much has been done to it and I felt much safer walking around it yesterday than I do when I return to my home city of Portsmouth.

While that is a sad indictment on poor old Pompey, it's also a compliment to the former steel city. James, my eldest step-son, was also hugely impressed. He may even choose to study there.

If I had to live in a northern city - heaven forbid - I could certainly do much worse than choose Sheffield. The only problem I had with it - speaking as a chap of some girth - is those seven bloody hills!

A step into the unknown

2009-11-09T14:17:00.002Z

For more than 46 years I have lived within 20 miles of the south coast - for two-thirds of that time within half-a-mile of the sea as the crow flies.

To me, the area known as 'the north' has always been a mystical land filled with giants, damsels in distress, dragons, whippets, cloth caps and blokes who wear cap-sleeve T-shirts in February.

I am the archetypical 'soft southern shite'. I'm happy drinking pear cider, wouldn't attempt anything hotter than a chicken madras, and always make sure I wrap up warm as soon as the leaves start to fall from the trees. Even a genealogical study fails to turn up any of my ancestors who lived north of 'the smoke'.

Any visits to 'the north' were brought about by watching football (often when younger); out of necessity with work (occasional); and the odd - and I use the term advisedly - weekend away at some tourist trap (seldom).

I once went to York for the weekend with my first wife and can recall being completely underwhelmed by the Jarvik Viking Museum - it was more than 20 years ago and must have improved otherwise it wouldn't still be there. I think some of the displays were made by the original invaders.

I do quite like Oxford, though it is only those of us who live in the deep south who would ever consider Oxford as 'north'. Inspector Morse was based in Oxford, of course, and I can recall him saying that he once visited 'somewhere' and "further north than that I have no desire to go".

It tickled me then and it would tickle me again now if only I could remember where the 'somewhere' was.

Anyway, I digress. The reason I write of 'the north' is that I am going there today, with our eldest, who has an interview with Sheffield University tomorrow.

Sheffield, of course, likes to compare itself with Rome, both being built upon seven hills. From what I can recall from previous visits that's the only similarity - I can't imagine the Full Monty being remade in Rome for the Italian market.

Nor, when travelling to Rome, do you have to pass Luton, Milton Keynes and Nottingham to get there.

Rome has the Colosseum; Sheffield the Meadowhall shopping centre. Rome is full of beautiful women in designer clothing; the north is full of hoodied chavs - though to be fair so is most of England these days.

I'm a great believer that devolution should not have stopped with Wales and Scotland. The Midlands and the North should have been next to be given independence, with only the south - and maybe, at a push, the south-east - being retained as England.

Cornwall, as we know, has long harboured a desire to be an independent state and it should be given that right along with anything west of Fareham. Likewise Suffolk and Norfolk where there are several million people and only about five surnames.

You may have summised I'm not looking forward to my trip north. I'm approaching it with the same trepidation that Capt Scott and his team had when attempting to travel to the South Pole. I'm expecting the same desolation and temperature.

But most of all I'm worried that James, coming up 18, might actually like it and choose to continue his education in the city's university. That would require further visits ... and I'm not sure I could survive the culture shock.

*For fellow sufferers, might I take the liberty of offering up a recommended read... Up North by Charles Jennings. A fellow southern Jessie goes in search of the real 'north'.

Hello, my name's Jules and this is my friend Sandy...

2009-11-06T14:44:00.001Z

"'Ere, Mister 'Orne..."

I’m a big fan of BBC Radio 7, the DAB station which outputs a load of vintage radio comedy shows.

I’m also keen on the 6.30pm comedy slot on BBC Radio 4, but in recent weeks the contrast between the two has been palpable.

Take Tuesday’s Radio 4 output – Too Much Information – and the 8am slot this morning on Radio 7, Round the Horne.

The latter episode was 42 years old and still makes me chortle; the former, which claims to be a comedy based in a tourist information office, simply made me shake my head in disbelief. I’ve heard funnier news bulletins.

What is it that commissioning editors look for currently in new shows? One would hope it was humour, but that clearly is no longer a pre-requisite.

Shows of the quality of Round the Horne would, quite simply, never be given the go-ahead in the BBC of the 21st century. It’s far too concerned with being politically correct, and inoffensive – the BBC’s ‘fun police’ are the broadcasting equivalent of the health and safety executive.

Round the Horne is too near the knuckle; too dangerous; too camp; just too damned funny.

Take this morning’s episode. Kenneth Horne is a special agent and catches Robin Day trying to climb the BBC’s equivalent of the Berlin Wall.

“I’m trying to defect over the wall,” explains Bill Pertwee as Day.

“Well,” says Horne, slowly,, in that wonderful deep brown voice, “it’s a clever trick if you can do it.”

It requires the art of innuendo – and it is an art in its highest form – and, in the listener, a decent command of the English language.

Perhaps that’s the answer. The general population is no longer able to appreciate clever or subtle humour so we get programmes devoid of any form of it.

Too many of today’s shows pander to the lowest common denominator. And I’m not saying that because I’m in my 40s. I can see why the younger generation would like things like We Are Klang. I’ve laughed at it myself, despite the fact it’s not aimed at the likes of me.

But the BBC wouldn’t let Round the Horne through these days for myriad reasons, not least for fear sketches like Jules and Sandy might offend homosexuals or that minors might be corrupted by the cordwanglings of Rambling Syd Rumpo.

Rambing Syd was completely inoffensive; it’s only in the mind of the listener that it becomes suggestive. A classic example of the British love of innuendo.

And as for Jules and Sandy, Kenneth Williams was as camp as a row of tents in real life and if he had no problems playing the part why should people be offended by hearing it?

Indeed one of the biggest Round the Horne fans I know is a gay woman. She loves it. And she’s quite keen on Round the Horne… did you see what I did there?

The gist of what I’m trying to say is that anybody out there with a modicum of comedic writing skill should be haranguing the BBC with anything they’ve penned. And anybody with an interest in enjoying comedy should be haranguing the BBC to commission some decent stuff without running it past the fun police first.

It's shocking to think that had the current climate been prevailing 30, 40 and 50 years ago we would never have had Round the Horne, Are You Being Served, It Ain't 'Alf Hot Mum, Til Death Us Do Part, The Goon Show, Monty Python's Flying Circus and many other great comedy shows.

It doesn't bear thinking about.

*And if you’re really interested in following my advice, the controller of BBC comedy commissioning is Cheryl Taylor (http://www.bbc.co.uk/commissioning/tv/network/genres/comedy.shtml)

Grammar pedantry part 432

2009-11-05T14:44:00.000Z

I've always looked at the BBC as the last bastion of the English language.

But I've now decided the British Broadcasting Corporation is just as poor as everywhere else in retaining a semblance of correct usage. Eric Partridge must be turning in his grave.

The past few days have really been the final straw for me.

Radio 4's Today programme has fallen into the trap of scripting its newsreaders to say "try and" instead of the invariably correct "try to...". And they persist in using "due to" instead of "owing to" or "because of" when not modifying a noun.

Football commentators appear to be a breed apart when it comes to bastardising the English language. In the past few days alone I have heard them say "he shot from range" and "he shot from distance". No shit Sherlock.

Every shot is from range or distance; what actually needs to be determined is whether it's short range or from long distance. Even better why not try informing us of an estimate of the distance in, say, yards ... that seems as good a measurement as anything else.

And to top it off, when Robin van Persie skewed his shot wide of the post in Saturday's clash with Spurs, the commentator pointed out that the Dutch striker had missed by "...a margin". Sorry but I thought that was, in sporting parlance, a 'given'.

Of course he missed by a margin - and it's your role to tell us just how much of a margin it was.

This footie-speak is becoming anathema to me now and will soon result in something being hurled at the tv in the same way I previously launched a keyboard at the radio during my days on the sportsdesk one Saturday, when, for the umpteenth time that season, the local radio commentator claimed the ball had gone "straight into the goalkeeper's midrift".

Heaven help us...

That's odd

2009-11-03T09:34:00.000Z

The great thing about wearing boots to work, as the weather gets colder, is that you can wear odd socks and nobody is any the wiser.

Unless of course you're stupid enough to write about it...

I'm going on strike

2009-10-30T08:17:00.000Z

I’ve been a card-carrying member of various unions since the age of 13.

I’m a great supporter of my fellow workers. Or, as my Tory friends call me, a communist.

So today, I’m prepared to support the postal workers in their strike by refusing to deliver to my neighbours all the mail which gets erroneously posted through our letterbox – including yesterday, worryingly, a chequebook.

Maybe if they were more efficient and learned to tell one number from another they’d get more public support.

It’s just a thought comrades…

For Sale: One soul in return for a decent holiday

2009-10-29T17:26:00.000Z

I'm an atheist - but I'm starting to believe in a superior being.

That would be a superior being who held grudges against non-believers. And I believe the Christian version of this deity shows suggestions of a vengeful side.

Isn't there something in the Bible, maybe in one of the letters to Corinthian Casuals - who amazingly still play in Ryman League division one south more than 2,000 years later - about 'you will believe in me or I shall come unto thee with a red-hot poker and some snakes and do some nasty stuff on you ass'... (all in a Samuel L Jackson voice I would imagine).

Anyway, I digress. I'm starting to feel I'm being singled out for somebody's sadistic amusement. Somebody out for revenge over something I've done previously ... like not believing.

I've considered other possibilities. I'm also a staunch anti-fascist, an anti-monarchist, and have sung songs about Southampton supporters scrabbling around in refuse looking for supper; but I'm not sure any of these groups wield sufficient influence as to conjure up illness at will.

I realise the Royal Family are pretty powerful, but what with having idiot sons who say bankers bonuses are "minute" I think they have more than enough problems, without concerning themselves with a fat bloke in Hampshire who thinks the £41.5m taxpayers spent on the Royals in 2008 was a tad excessive in a desperate economic climate.

No, I'm pretty sure it's one of His minions who's got it in for me and mine.

The evidence is pretty damning. In August, having saved up for a year, we were all set to go on a family holiday until I was diagnosed with cellulitis, 24 hours before we were due to fly.

Having recouped around 95 per cent of our outlay through the insurance, we decided to go away in the October half-term instead. But prices were even higher than in the summer so we settled instead for me having the week off and doing day trips out.

This time, it was our youngest, Ben, who was struck ill. With a heavy cold which completely debilitated him, he spent most of the week in bed and we spent most of the week within a short distance to make sure he was OK. And as a contingency plan, one of our cats was given an abscess just as a precaution.

Gone were the planned days out in Dorset, London and France. Instead, the furthest we went was to Portsmouth, 18 miles away, where my beloved insisted on taking me to the top of the Spinnaker Tower - a prospect which, given my fear of heights, was as welcome as an evening in the company of Nick Griffin and his close family.

The fact that, once there, I really enjoyed the experience, was one in the eye for whoever's attempting to ruin any time I have to myself.

I will not get a proper 'holiday' in 2009. And given my stance on religion I have to take it on the chin. But what about my wife and kids?

I'm not sure they're all atheists. And while Jackie (Mrs B) is definitely anti-fascist she's very pro-monarchy - which leads to some interesting 'discussions' in our house. So I think she's been a little hard done by.

So let me make this clear now. In order to ensure a decent family holiday in 2010 I am prepared to make a pact with the Devil. Or the other fella. Just as long as they promise to leave us alone in future.

Read all about it!

2009-10-27T14:59:00.001Z

I'm 46 years old. No spring chicken. And until Tuesday, October 27, 2009, I'd never done a paper round.

When I was a kid I never felt the need to go out and earn pennies as my only hobby was football and my pocket money covered that. I didn't go in for designer clothes, or buy lots of albums - I taped my mates' instead - nor did I have a girlfriend until later when I found somebody who also liked football.

So why, you may ask, did I do a paper round today? And whether you asked or not I'm going to elucidate.

Our youngest, Ben, aged 14, has a paper round. He delivers the Petersfield Messenger - a free paper the sort with which I'm sure you're all familiar - to around 120 homes in our area. The Messenger carries everything you need to know about press releases issued by local community groups and the odd big news story lifted from other organs.

For carrying around half-a-ton of newspapers and walking the best part of a mile-and-a-half, young Ben brings home something around £7, give or take a few pence determined by the number of inserts included - they're the things that fall out on the mat and go in the bin first.

It's under minimum wage, given the time it takes him, but of course minimum wage doesn't apply to kids under the age of 18. They have a special Government-approved Far East Nike shoe worker rate of £3.57 per hour, which is good preparation for when they go out and get a real job and find themselves exploited by management. I'm sure it counts as a Government-backed education initiative.

Anyway, despite the fact I've got on my high horse on several occasions when Ben has returned home soaked to the skin, over the fact I believe it's hardly worth the effort and "I'd rather just give him the bloody money for cleaning my car", he insists on carrying on, bless him.

Until today that is. Today, he's not very well at all. Ben is a very athletic kid. He runs for the local athletics club and is as fit as a butcher's dog. But today he hardly had the energy to lift his spoon to his mouth over breakfast.

Knowing that one of the boys in his football team had been diagnosed with swine flu - and being a bloke who always naturally thinks a sniffle is the first sign of the onset of Asian flu - I wanted to keep close tabs on him and take him to the doctors.

His mother being the nursing equivalent of Genghis Khan - I discovered that myself in the summer when I was diagnosed with an illness which necessitated the loss of our summer holiday - dismissed my fears and decided we'd do part of his paper round for him. And it wasn't the royal we. It was 'we' as in me and her. 'Me' as in the bloke who's taken a week off to spend time relaxing with wife and family.

And so it was, that on a day's holiday and after 46 years of contended idleness in the realm of newspaper delivery I this morning found myself carrying an armful of free newspapers around one of the more affluent parts of Petersfield.

Some of these houses had substantial drives and, after completing my part of my wife's deal with her youngest, I had worked up quite a sweat. It was clear to see why I had eschewed the opportunity to deliver newspapers for the best part of five decades - it takes effort.

And it wasn't without incident. At one house, where the letterbox was at the foot of the door, I bent down to insert the paper only for the door to open and for a middle-aged lady to be confronted by a 23-stone bloke blocking out what should, by rights, have been substantial amounts of autumnal sunshine.

She screamed the scream of a middle-class home owner about to find themselves coshed over the bonce by an East End rough with a broken nose and a selection of cauliflower organs. The situation was not helped by me naturally reaching out to reassure her that she had not wandered into a scene from The Ladykillers.

Realising she was not in danger, as I had neither the energy nor the inclination to cuff her with a dozen copies of the Petersfield Messenger, she soon gathered herself and started apologising to me. To me, would you believe. Here was I, standing at the top of her drive inserting what was left of a small sapling through her letterbox, uninvited, and she was apologising to ME.

So I started telling her not to apologise and started to apologise myself. While all this was going on it took all her husband's efforts not to roll around the floor with his legs flailing wildly, so much was he laughing.

I must have been stood for the best part of two minutes talking to this poor lady, and her husband said not a word. He was too busy wiping the tears from his eyes.

Fortunately I did not come into contact with another human being as I dread to think what effect it might have had on an individual of a delicate constitution.

But as I finished the act of losing my delivery virginity I stood in awe of those boys and girls around the country who deliver papers every day - I assume there are some, somewhere, like milkmen and the bloke who sharpens knives on a grinder at the front of his bike.

Having folded the newspaper into a thinner package for easy insertion (no jokes please) I was still struggling to make a clean delivery without catching on the myriad styles of letterboxes - I didn't realise there were such a variety available.

And as I failed once again and turned a copy of the Petersfield Messenger into an origami piano accordion I realised what an art delivering papers is. I can't get 16 pages and a couple of takeaway menus through a letter box - how the hell do these kids get on with the Sunday Times?

I think we should be told...

PS In theory I'm on holiday all week, so if I don't blog regularly please accept my apologies now...

Griffin-watch part two

2009-10-23T17:40:00.000+01:00

Apparently last night's Question Time was the third most-watched programme of the day.

It came in behind BBC1’s EastEnders, which had 8.7m (39.6 per cent of the viewing public) between 7.30pm and 8pm, and ITV1’s Coronation Street, which had 8m (32.5 per cent) between 8.30pm and 9pm.

So more people were interested in learning about the progress of Killer Tony and Maria's engagement and dozens of Cockneys yelling "you slag!", than the policies of the BNP.

And we wonder why the guy got elected. This country...

I was heartened though by a guy in the QT audience who was interviewed on Radio 4's Today programme this morning - although I didn't agree with his opinion that Nick Griffin should not have been allowed on.

He added that the upside to giving Griffin the oxygen of publicity was that the very people likely to vote for him were unlikely to be watching a programme of the calibre of Question Time. They were, he said, "more likely to be watching X Factor".

There's a man after my own heart.

Only in America

2009-10-23T10:27:00.000+01:00

An early contender for news story of the day.

http://tinyurl.com/yldjpct

"A Minnesota man has been sentenced for driving his La-Z-Boy chair on a public street while drunk." You can be sure this has a happy ending... :)

Ooo, Ooo, there he is!

2009-10-23T09:02:00.000+01:00

We live in a society in which the accusation of racism is often levelled at the police.

That's why I was disturbed by BBC's Question Time last night. Despite constant denials that the police force is 'inherently racist' thousands of constables were out in support of BNP leader Nick Griffin outside Television Centre.

Unashamedly they were still in uniform. And some even took to the skys in a helicopter to get a glimpse of Griffin. So interested were they that they hung around until well after everybody else had gone home.

Now that's far more worrying than Griffin...

Mmmm...

2009-10-22T16:08:00.000+01:00

Just had a coronation chicken baguette.

Whose idea was it to first put sultanas with chicken? Genius? Madness? Mad genius?

What freedom?

2009-10-22T15:00:00.000+01:00

Apparently, journalists in the UK enjoy less press freedom than those in 19 other countries including Estonia, Malta, Latvia and Lithuania, according to a survey released yesterday.

I find that bloody disgraceful and

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Give 'Nasty Nick' his platform

2009-10-22T12:14:00.000+01:00

I wholeheartedly support the BBC’s stance on allowing the BNP’s Nick Griffin to appear on today’s Question Time.

People have voted for this man and his party and while the majority of us may find his policies abhorrent and his followers odious, in a country which is supposed to believe in free speech, there is no room for censoring politics.

Cabinet minister Peter Hain has done himself little credit when referring to other parties as ‘democratic’. This IS democracy in action, as repulsive as it may be.

Griffin is a Euro MP. People voted for him – albeit people with the IQ of a whelk. His voice should be heard. To keep him off the programme would simply give him something else to bleat about, only on this occasion his stance would not be quite so ill-informed.

Let’s hear what he has to say. Then let everybody see what a foul, bigoted, narrow-minded individual he is. Albeit a reasonably articulate foul, bigoted, narrow-minded individual.

Personally I’m looking forward to it. I haven’t thrown anything at the telly since the closing credits of X Factor went up.

Check out Newsarse’s take on Question Time here "BNP supporters to overcome fear of ’speaking picture box"

Bin and done

2009-10-22T09:02:00.000+01:00

Parents often chastise their children when they show little work ethic with the threat that “if you don’t start getting better marks you’ll end up working as a dustman”.

This is seen as a pejorative statement for dustmen – or refuse collection executives as they are now often known – are regarded as the lowest of the low, unintelligent and low-paid. Hence when people find out that they don’t actually work for minimum wage there is an outcry about their salaries.

Well let me tell you now, dustmen are worth every penny of their salary – and more.

I have written before of the terrors of my walk to work and this morning I discovered myself gaining on a refuse lorry. This in itself is not unusual it happens every Thursday. But today I was downwind. Even at 100 yards and closing I was gagging. The smell was awful. It permeated my soul and clogged my throat. I wanted to eat an Airwick.

Fortunately the lorry turned down a side road as I got to within 50 yards and, in an effort to get to some untainted air, I increased my pace – though falling short of actually jogging of course.

If these guys can work all day with that stench in their nostrils they are better men than I and deserve all the pounds sterling they get.

Their salary should be docked only for unnecessarily loud voices – which seem also to be a prerequisite for the job – and the use of discarded cuddly toys as ineffective bull bars on the front of their vehicles. They’re not going to cushion the impact of anything.

Perhaps they’re not so bright after all.

Masterchef spin-off to hit screens over Halloween

2009-10-21T13:27:00.001+01:00

Terry Wogan knows the popular cooking contest Masterchef by the name ‘Mastershout’.

It’s an accurate reflection, particularly of the way 45-year-old Cockney barrow-boy-turned-pillock Greg Wallace behaves.

We’d all like to be able to taste wonderful food for a living – and have a girlfriend 17 years younger come to think of it – but there’s no need to keep yelling everything in an attempt to remind us of how lucky he is.

“Cooking DOES NOT GET any tougher than this,” he bellows at the beginning of every episode.

It doesn’t get any more irritating either Greg. The chefs are hugely talented and even a culinary klutz such as your correspondent has learned something from catching the odd show while SWMBO tunes in.

But I end up just wanting to punch the guy. I’m sure his girlfriend – who is 17 years his junior by the way (wasn’t sure I made that clear earlier) – loves him dearly. But we know he’s not kind to animals because he invariably skins them and chucks them in a pot. And on that basis, I’m out.

And to make things worse we’re apparently going to see more of him as a spin-off show will hit our screens over Halloween weekend.

It’s called MasterShrek and it's designed to find the best ogre, in the same way Masterchef finds the best chef. Obviously there will be a culinary element to the show, otherwise Wallace wouldn't be involved.

Contestants must prepare their finest ogre cuisine, with such delights as eyeballs and worms being used as ingredients. That leads nicely on to the second challenge which is attempting to eat the dishes they've prepared without being ill.

It's amazing what the commissioning editors at the BBC will allow through these days. I mean, where the hell did they get that idea from...

Me, myself and some other guy

2009-10-20T12:57:00.000+01:00

For the second time in a little over a year I have been the victim of identity theft.

Thankfully, first my bank, and, more recently, my credit-card company, have reacted swiftly to the change in purchasing habits and have nipped it in the bud.

But I am puzzled. Who the hell would want to steal my identity? I mean look at me...

Little wonder the bank were able to spot it so quickly if some guy was walking round buying designer clothes dressed as a 23-stone, middle-aged man.

It makes me soooooooo angry

2009-10-19T12:49:00.000+01:00

X Factor apparently got a record 14.8 million viewers last night – am I the only person in the country who detests this sort of show?

I can honestly say I’ve never watched a whole episode of X Factor, Britain’s Got Chavs, Pop Idol, How Do We Solve a Problem Like Maria?, I’m a Pillock Get Me Out of Here, or Big Brother.

Nor do I watch Come Dine With Me, How Shit is your House?, Wife Swap, Holiday Showdown, Honey I Should Have Shown the Kids Some Discipline or any of the myriad ‘reality’ tv shows the current channels seem intent on shoving down our throats.

They don’t need to shove them down my throat, as they already make me vomit.

On the occasions I have been forced – generally by She Who Must Be Obeyed or one of the kids – to endure five or 10 minutes of society’s flotsam and jetsam, I’ve generally had to leave the room to prevent myself launching into a foul-mouth tirade or throwing an expensive nick-nack through the screen of a not-inexpensive television set.

Andy Warhol obviously foresaw the parlous state of tv in the 21st century when he said: “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.”

The trouble is, people aren’t even that ambitious. They’re quite happy to be seen on tv for just fleeting moment. With numerous video recording devices, and YouTube and Facebook upon which to publish them, an appearance of just a few seconds can be preserved for ever and regurgitated whenever the individual wants to make people think “what a knob!”

What will these people do with these clips? Will they really sit their grandchildren down on their knee in 50 years time and say “look at this Kylie, this is Grandad on Britain’s Got Talent; wasn’t I a complete ****?”

Yes Grandad. Yes you were. And there are thousands like you; and millions more who perpetuate the myth that it’s good to be a **** by watching you and laughing at your lack of intelligence.

One can only hope there is an afterlife and that when we arrive there St Peter tops up the number of such shows we have watched during our lifetime, calculates the hours of precious life we have wasted and punches us in the face once for every hour needlessly lost.

And I hope he’s got an arm like Mike Tyson’s…

I just wouldn't let it lie...

2009-10-16T12:27:00.000+01:00

Football fans have today been reeling in shock after Spurs manager Harry Redknapp displayed some humility during a press conference.

The inappropriately named ‘Appy ‘Arry, who has previously attempted to rewrite history by claiming to have discovered penicillin and been the first man on the moon, this week claimed to have been the best manager in the history of Portsmouth Football Club.

Though neither his wife Sandra nor son Jamie have publicly derided the family’s patriarch for his dubious claim, privately they are believed to be ‘ROTFL’ according to a text message sent to one of Redknapp’s tame Fleet Street sycophants.

A family source confirmed: “Everybody is starting to believe Harry may be down to the bare bones mentally. Some of the stuff he’s coming out with is ridiculous. Bob Jackson, of course, took Pompey to two back-to-back league titles without the aid of a sugar daddy pumping millions into the club.

“And Jack Tinn managed Pompey to a cup final victory in 1939 against the best team in England – not the second-best team in Wales.”

Redknapp has also this week claimed to have tried to save crisis club Portsmouth by introducing rich friends – believed to be stationery magnates; suggested he went to Spurs merely so Portsmouth could claim compensation from the White Hart Lane club; blamed the south-coast club’s demise on its former owner Sacha Gaydamak; and that he expects a warm reception from Pompey fans.

However, in a remarkable turnaround apparently inspired by watching an old episode of the Lone Ranger, in which a native American claimed that “white man speak with forked tongue” Redknapp* chose to come clean in this morning’s press conference.

“Actually I deserve all the abuse they will heap on me,” said an unusually coy Redknapp.

“I promised them I wouldn’t go to Southampton – then I did. I then said I was ‘Pompey till I died’ – then a week later went to Tottenham. And then I said I wouldn’t go back to Fratton Park for any of their players because that would be ungracious – and then I signed Defoe, Crouch and Krancjar.

“Basically I’m the most duplicitous man in English football and that’s quite an achievement ferrshure. After all I once claimed Yoshi Kawaguchi had the best distribution I’d ever seen when he signed for Portsmouth and then, after he was a huge flop, denied ever having seen him play and claimed no knowledge of him before his signing.

“I even tried to blame poor old Sacha Gaydamak for Pompey’s financial plight when it was me what spent all the money including giving £50k-a-week contracts to players what didn’t even play more than a dozen times for the club.

“But that’s me all over…”

Redknapp, whose face appeared more paper cut-out mask than normal, was then bundled off the stage by large minders to be replaced by a twitching lookalike.

Responding to a question about one of his back-room staff, the new Redknapp said: “Kevin who? Kevin Bond? Never ‘eard of ‘im mate. You must be confusing me wiv somebody else. Anyway, did I ever tell you how I mediated in the Cuban Missile Crisis…”

*A man wearing a paper Harry Redknapp mask has been arrested by police and will be charged with flagrant honesty. Around 50,000 Portsmouth residents are believed to be prepared to stand bail

Is it me?

2009-10-14T14:43:00.000+01:00

When I was a youngster programmes like Dr Who, Star Trek and Lost in Space convinced impressionable youngsters that we would be invaded by an army of alien machines who would colonise earth by use of mind-control devices.

Forty years later, and travelling to London on a commuter special - the 7.45am Petersfield to London Waterloo - yesterday I realised that day had come to pass.

Everybody, other than your correspondent, was being fed mind-control instructions from a hand-held device called a Blackberry. It really was like a scene out of a cheap 60s' sci-fi drama.

It appeared to me that nobody in the carriage was resorting to the traditional commuter-travel standby of a national newspaper, or the latest pot-boiler from Jackie Collins. Admittedly I had on my MP3 player, listening to Bill Bryson's The Lost Continent - after all it wouldn't do to engage in conversation with other species - but at least I was aware there were other people around.

For everybody else the entire world was contained in a small metallic box only slightly larger than the average wallet and subsequently the panacea for all ills was displayed on a LCD screen smaller than a credit card.

Thousands of years of evolution - all for this. What are these people doing? Twittering? Blogging even? Are they labouring under the illusion there are people out there who really give a toss about what they think? Who'd be stupid enough to believe that...?

My incredulity was only heightened when I alighted at Waterloo and took the Northern Line to Leicester Square and then the Picadilly Line to King's Cross St Pancras - I'm nothing if not thorough when it comes to setting a scene.

On the Underground there was every living cliche you could think of:

the broad-shouldered rugby-playing ex-public schoolboy, now city trader, in his £600 suit and £300 shoes with his hair slicked back completely using enough oil to provide the annual gross domestic product for a small third world country;
the overweight teenage mum resplendent with huge hoop earrings and complete with pushchair and small child, still stuffing her face with a family-size bag of Doritos despite the fact her leggings were screaming "enough already!" (she may have been Jewish as well...);
the poor Asian student for whom carrying his textbooks in a rucksack automatically marked him out as a terrorist suspect to almost everybody in the carriage;
the power-hungry, 40-something single-woman, dressed to kill and with a tongue to match - after all being rude to people is the only way to get on in a male-dominated society;
the 'trendy young guys' who dress to give the impression they're at the cutting edge of fashion and may even be a rock star you haven't heard of, and who think they look really cool in their retro gear, whereas anybody over the age of 30 will tell you they look a 'knob!';
the commuting banker, in three-piece Savile Row suit, with a rolled-up copy of the FT under one arm and a brolly in his other hand, despite the fact it's the warmest October day since the dinosaurs keeled over;
the fat, long-haired, unshaven Motorhead t-shirt-wearing 30-year-old on his way to a Dungeons & Dragons convention in a dark room in Soho - this was not me by the way: I do not possess a Motorhead t-shirt;
the knuckle-dragging, tattooed skinhead sporting a BNP badge and making snide comments about anybody "who shouldn't be in this country";
the impeccably dressed gay, with his designer glasses and £500 man bag;
the painter and decorator in paint-splashed overalls who takes great delight in brushing up against anybody in an expensive suit or anybody with impressive breasts;
a middle-aged Japanese tourist who sees nothing wrong in wearing a 3/4-length denim jacket, with tracksuit trousers and a Van Heusen shirt...

I could go on, but suffice to say that's the last time I attend a public transport users action group meeting...