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:

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

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

Sky caves in on football's mysogynists

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

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

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

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

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

Sian Massey - proved 100 per cent correct

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

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

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

*I was being sarcastic...

Royal obsession just a passing fad

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

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

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

William and Kate to help common bloggers

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

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

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

We lost - but I'm delighted for Brighton fans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting fruity on my 'diet'

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

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

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

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

New year: same old story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

■ Weight at January 4, 2011: a lot

A new year's message

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

Bye Sam!

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

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

Hurrah for Coyle's Bolton!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selling out is no laughing matter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a generation thing...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comedy's breath of fresh air

Miranda Hart - such fun!

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is what I call very funny. Such fun…

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

■ Check out a recent interview with Miranda Hart here.

Football is all about 'intent'

in•ten•tion [in-ten-shuhn]

– noun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Particularly not on these ankles…

Running Man's still got talent...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The World Cup's Webb of lies and intrigue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ole! It's Spain for me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crosby stills gnashing teeth (Tenuous pun!)

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...