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.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
A street party? Not in my name...
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.
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.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
On the side of the media
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?
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?
Monday, March 07, 2011
A heroic vision: A postscript
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...
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...
Friday, March 04, 2011
A heroic vision
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…
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…
Monday, February 21, 2011
Times have changed - and me with them
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?
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…
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…
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Laugh? I nearly hit a pedestrian...
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?"
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?"
Thursday, February 10, 2011
One for a wet and boring lunch-hour
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:
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?)
Monday, January 24, 2011
Sky caves in on football's mysogynists
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'.
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...
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
William and Kate to help common bloggers
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.
I will report back on the success, or otherwise, tomorrow.
Monday, January 10, 2011
We lost - but I'm delighted for Brighton fans
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.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Getting fruity on my 'diet'
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
New year: same old story
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
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
Welcome to 2011. This year I will mostly be buying food, books and children's clothes. Cheers George.
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