Oh dear. I do hope it was nothing I said...
http://www.rovers.co.uk/page/NewsDetail/0,,10303~2243513,00.html
Monday, December 13, 2010
Hurrah for Coyle's Bolton!
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...
Friday, December 10, 2010
Selling out is no laughing matter
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’…
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’…
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
It's a generation thing...
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.
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.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Comedy's breath of fresh air
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.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Football is all about 'intent'
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…
– 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…
Friday, September 17, 2010
What's that you say Skip? Bunky's in trouble?
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…
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…
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Running Man's still got talent...
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.
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.
Monday, September 06, 2010
I'm not funny and I'm not doing myself any favours
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.
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.
Monday, July 12, 2010
The World Cup's Webb of lies and intrigue
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!”
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Ole! It's Spain for me
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...
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...
Friday, July 02, 2010
Crosby stills gnashing teeth (Tenuous pun!)
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...
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...
Monday, June 28, 2010
Why do we demand club success for our national boss?
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.
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
I was going to blog about England players' World Cup capitulation but I thought they couldn't be arsed, so why should I?
Monday, June 21, 2010
A lazy blogger - and a very sad tale
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
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
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
A mountain out of a DIY molehill
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.
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.
Monday, April 19, 2010
A soap opera
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...
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
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Why I can't give them my vote
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
Friday, March 26, 2010
That's yer lot you slag!
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?
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)