Monthly Archives: April 2009

Masters of None

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DV490084The weather forecasters got it wrong again. They told me it’s warming up, yet all I keep seeing are photos of Policemen in balaclavas—must have been freezing at that g20 demonstration. Silvermans must be doing a roaring trade in wooly headgear for Constable Savage, poor love obviously feels the cold. They also sell duct tape for covering-up those annoying shiny lapel numbers. It’s nice to see there are some retailers who have inadvertently benefited from the financial collapse. I shall wait to purchase my cold weather gear til the bitter gales off the Thames rip around the Valley of Lost Dreams and nibble about me vitals. It’ll be sad enough watching a season involving the likes of Yeovil and Hartlepool, let along enduring a north-easterly unprotected. I’m sure that nice Bobby behind the goal will lend me his if I ask him.
It’s 1981 since we were in the 3rd tier of the english league and, to be brutally honest, it’s no more than we deserve. Playing against the best was great while it lasted but let’s get back to what we know best: pub football, where the only use of ‘wonder-goal’ is when someone wonders if we’ll ever score a goal again and the rotation-system is the one used by fans queuing for the urinals, not by the manager for the squad. There are many upsides to third division football, one of which being you’ll always get in, another is there’s plenty of room to stretch out, and if you get to the ground early enough you get a game.

A packed Valley awaits the teams

A packed Valley awaits the teams

If only the Charlton back four obeyed orders as well as the boys-in-blue did on April 1st. Someone (could it have been Daisy Boo of they Yard?) gave the ‘balaclavas on’ order, the bugle played “Tape-Up”, then came the ’99 call’ and a beautifully choreographed sortie began into the massed ranks of 3rd Battalion Swampy. I’m sure there were a lot lot of herberts there, spoiling for a punch-up in the demo that day—there usually are—I just, as yet, haven’t seen footage of a copper getting a pasting. As in all conflicts there were civilian casualties as a policeman with a truncheon and a riot shield has never been a precision weapon of war. If the end hadn’t been so tragic it’d be almost laughable that a large number of these acts of brutality were caught on CCTV — the very same ones that so many have called an invasion of privacy, and those that the Old Bill use as part of their own daily life. I’m sure there’s absolutely no connection between the Hendon Brigade trying to mask their id numbers and faces and the fact they knew that they’d be on camera. Charlton have been on tv camera for years and they’ve never been as devastating in attack as Her Majesty’s Finest were on that fateful day.
I notice that in a last ditch-effort to recover whatever credibility she has left, Jacqui Smith has released the Hillsborough disaster “secret files” ten years earlier than is necessary. Quite why they weren’t released immediately, and why the South Yorkshire Police will still have control of the documents (and not an independent inquiry) is beyond me. They’ll show that Liverpool fans were originally investigated for what happened that day, following the knee-jerk accusations of crowd trouble and football violence that spread like wildfire that day and over the following days. What they won’t show by the time any independent body gets its hands on the files is who in the SYP was to blame, what conversations and interviews took place between officers, and which were hushed-up. Will this new info allow for prosecutions for 96 deaths? Have the police really changed in 20 years since Hillsborogh (twelve of which under a supposedly socialist government) ?
Let’s hope the family of the G20 victim Ian Tomlinson won’t have to wait 20 years til they get their answers. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.

No Apologies

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There now follows some blatant begging from my mate John Mac. Have a read, have a laugh and do what you can do for a good cause and a hopeless case:
image001

 

This is a photo of “yours truly” finishing the Hastings half Marathon last month.
 Time; 2 hours and 22 minutes
Conditions; Warm and fair
My condition; Totally and utterly knackered!
 
So not really ideal preparation for the big one, the “London” on Sunday week. I have no idea why I, at 5’6”, inside leg of 29”, 46 years old and tipping the scales at 80kg, think I could be a marathon runner. To quote my doctor, “it’s total madness,” to quote my therapist “We need to do a lot more work together John,” and to quote my kids “you’re an idiot!”
 But, I’ve done all the training (that’s a lie), and I’m fully prepared for the big day (that’s also a lie). I’m really looking forward to it (that’s another one), and I’m fairly sure I can get under 4 hours (the biggest one yet). What isn’t a lie though is that I’m running for fun and to raise some cash for people who can’t hear or see.So have a think, and have a little splash-out on www.justgiving.com/sterlingmarathonteam  I’m really not looking for big cash, tenners are fine.
 
And watch out for me on Sunday week. I’ll always run on the left of the road, dressed in red vest, black headband and blue lycras. (not for the easily offended!).
And I’ll be taking phone calls between listening to Pink Floyd and Leonard Cohen on my Nano.Thanks a lot, and anyone who wants to hear the gruesome side affects, drop me a mail on Monday week..
 
Be lucky
 
Johnners,
 
 
 
 

كيف-كان-ذلك؟ *

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What a week we’ve had? The shenannegans of F1 continue on the track and in the courts, climaxing with Ron Dennis jumping overboard to save the McLaren team from further punishment over Liargate. The Diffusergate inquiry found in favour of Eva Brawn’s mob and a bloke called Jenson (a fine old English name) still leads the championship. Any day soon the back pages will be full of something called Racegate or even Interestinggate when a Grand Prix is actually more enjoyable AFTER the race starts. What a farce it all is? I’ve actually seen grown men leave a pub to go home on a Sunday afternoon to watch the latest parade from the Nurburgring or Monza. LEAVE A PUB. Honest.

Hands up who's bored with F1?

Hands up who's bored with F1?

Meanwhile, in the world of sport, David Dunne was sent off for the third time this season as Man City bid a fond adieu to Europe. Dunne, desribed to me this morning as a “Sunday Morning Lummox”, has the turning speed of your average oil tanker. It’d be no surprise to this reporter if at City’s next home match Somali Pirates were spotted sitting behind the goal, waiting to board him.
Terrific news from Seth Efrica that Andrew Flintoff ISNT playing in the IPL for the money. No, no. He’s playing to hone his 20-20 skills for the upcoming World Cup. Thank heavens for that, then. I guess there’s the added attraction of the probability of him getting injured so he can sit out the poorly-paid Ashes series. On the other hand if Freddie can get hold of the Aussies that are down there and take them out for “just the one” of an evening, maybe we still stand a chance against them, as they won’t have sobered up by July. Our reader with Setanta has promised to keep me up-to-date with the scores from the IPL, not that I give a monkeys.

 

Gonna be good n hot down there, under the lights. Having played a lot of cricket abroad (albeit to a rather lower standard) I can vouch for the complete shock of playing in a very hot climate and what it does to your system. My military-medium-pacers have been spanked over boundaries from Adelaide to Antigua and I’ve always been able to blame the heat or the altitude for my complete lack of competence with ball-in-hand. On one occasion in Nairobi (5889 ft above sea level) I wobbled and waddled to my mark at the end of my run up before delivering the fourth ball of my spell, when with sweat-filled eyes and a thumping head, I turned and started charging (sic) towards the square leg umpire before collapsing in a heap. “Take a blow, Bealers” came the exasperated voice of the skipper. At least they didn’t score a boundary of that delivery. In Mombassa I didn’t even manage to bowl a single ball as an excruciating pain shot up my left leg after I’d taken but three strides towards the wicket. The doctor said it was cramp, but I’m pretty sure it was cobra-bite.

A rabbit by his hutch

A rabbit by his hutch

Anyway, never ever again will I throw beer cans at the TV as I watch the English tourists falter and collapse against the Indians/Pakistanis/Sri Lankans as I fully understand how harsh foreign conditions can be on us Poms (playing in Colombo was like playing in a wok). I would, however have donated my left testicle to watch last night’s World Cup Qualifying match between Scotland and Afghanistan, where the Afghans romped home by 42 runs. Played in Benoni, Sef Efrica (presumably the Kabul Oval is undergoing a refurb?), the Scotch were chasing 280 to win but lost their last 8 wickets for 50 runs. Now I know a lot of you will be surprised that Scotland play cricket (it’s staggering popular in the gorbals), but how much fun do you reckon you’d have playing a match in-between US bombing raids in Helmand Province?? I reckon your opening bat may lose concentration every-so-often, deep backward square regularly gets kidnapped before tea, and there’s a land-mine just on a length outside off-stump. I suspect there’s a few short legs around, but that’s another story.

 

*Arabic for “How was that?”

Ernie was Only 52, He didn’t Wanna Die

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A poll (why??) released today lists the nation’s favourite ‘pop’ songs played at funerals. Seems to me, if you discount the No1, that my funeral would be the perfect time to play these to me, as I would be unlikely to get up and kick the buggery out of the sound system:

1 My Way – Frank Sinatra/Shirley Bassey
2 Wind Beneath My Wings – Bette Midler/Celine Dion
3 Time To Say Goodbye – Sarah Brightman/Andrea Bocelli
4 Angels – Robbie Williams
5 Over The Rainbow – Eva Cassidy
6 You Raise Me Up – Westlife/Boyzone/Josh Grobin
7 My Heart Will Go On – Celine Dion
8 I Will Always Love You – Whitney Houston
9 You’ll Never Walk Alone – Gerry and the Pacemakers
10 Unforgettable – Nat King Cole

In his will Peter Sellars famously requested the Glen Miller‘s In the Mood be played at his funeral. The tune was loathed by Sellars and sent Milligan, Secombe et al into fits of laughter, knowing that it was the one time it would be played when he couldn’t hear it. Like most of us, I’ve often mused about what tunes I’d like not to hear at the celebration of my termination. Elvis’s Old Shep is right up there, Terry Jacks’ Seasons in the Sun too (“Goodbye papa, it’s hard to die” has always been a fave line of mine). terry_jacks1 Neither of these are on my list cos I don’t want to hear them ever again, just cos they’re so bad it may encourage a few of those gathered to join me in my box. I may prematurely throw a seven if I have to listen to the Scouse tones of You’ll Never Walk Alone ever again. I suspect it won’t be too long before the Bish of Liv dusts off his cassock in remembrance of the fallen. I wish Gerry’s Pacemaker would go on the Fritz.

But before I am planted six-foot Down Down, Deeper and Down, I’d like to draw your attention to the very sad demise of Clement Freud: Cook, Liberal MP, Dog-Food Advertiser, Bon Viveur, Wit and All-Round Good Egg. The grandson of the great shrink, brother of a bohemian artist. Funny as Fuck. Those of you (photographers, probably) who never listened to him on Radio 4 missed a real treat, and it is for that type I relate just one of Clement’s stories, as re-told by Stephen Fry this morning, of his MPs junket to China a while ago, on which he travelled with Winston Churchill (the Tory MP of the 1980’s—not the war leader). In China, apparently, one is rewarded for politeness and kind acts as well as revered for achievement. When Freud noticed that his hotel room was rather smaller Winstons, he asked if it was because Churchill’s party was in power in the UK and the Liberals were not? The answer came “No, No! It is because he has a famous Grandfather”. Freud noted that it was the only time he’d ever been out-grandfathered.
PD*1475525

Bob be Nimble, Bob be Quick

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Did you know that the managing director of Aintree racecourse is called Julian Thick ? No? Terrible, innit? You’d change that name, wouldn’t you? I certainly would. I was about to write to him and suggest some alternatives he might wanna change to, but I see this morning that one of those has already been taken. Step forward Assistant Commissioner Bob Quick of the Met Police. He was apparently the third most senior officer in London’s finest, and the head of counter-terrorism, but entered the doghouse after giving the press a sneak peek at his top secret counter-terrorist plans (looked like a to-do-list to me). Not very Quick-witted, you might say, even for a copper, and capping a great 10 days for Plod in general (see past rants). But, almost at once, he announced his resignation. That’d be within 24 hours. Now that was quick! Shows there’s still some semblance of duty and honour around:” I fucked up, I put my hands up, I will fall on my sword.” It’s a pity our home Secretary isn’t called Jacqui Imaliarandacheatandimorf, then she might take good heed of her name and act on it, once she’s taken the videos back, of course. Where’s Malcolm Tucker when you need him?

Where are you calling from? Nigeria! Ah yes, my credit card details are...

Where are you calling from? Nigeria! Ah yes, my credit card details are...

Sometimes fate sells you a pup which turns round and bites you on the arse. There’s not much you can do if your surname happens to be rather daft, embarrassing or inappropriate (and no, I’m not gonna talk about Neville Neville). There was a contract photographer in London called Denzil McNeelance and yes, you’ve guessed it, he was known as McNeelance the Freelance (and maybe still is). What a great moniker. Family names are family names and we’re pretty much stuck with them.
But sometimes your mum and dad down 3 litres of cheap vodka come up with a first name for you that beggars belief. Jamie Oliver‘s wife Jools has given birth to a baby girl and named her Petal Blossom Rainbow. The couple already have two daughters with floral-themed names – Poppy Honey and Daisy Boo. I don’t really know what to say. When they grow up, I do hope one of their daughters inserts a large kitchen utensil into her dad for being such an arse. Would you ever take orders from your boss if she was named Poppy Honey? Can you forsee a time when there’s likely to be a Prime Minister Petal Blossom Rainbow ? I suppose the UN job’s still open to them (Boutros Boutros Ghali Ghali, U Thant etc).
Given that the public appetite (geddit) for this lisping mockney will surely fade (let’s all hold hands and pray for that day to come soon) one can only hope he’s made enough cash out of Sainsburys that those girls need never go out to look for work. Though the way the Met are losing high-flying officers, there would doubtless be a vacancy for them, they’d just have to wait a couple of weeks for one to come along. It would scare the bejeezus out of Bin Laden (cos they still won’t have caught him by then) if Daisy Boo of the Yard was on his case.

Exceedingly good, my son

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IF…..

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

rudyard_kipling

Rudyard Kipling, from ‘Rewards and Fairies’ 1909

Now there’s a man that knew.
.

Vile Bodies

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Hats off again to Constable Savage. That’s one less defenceless newspaper vendor we need to worry about. As reported by The Guardian this morning a copper, in a move which they call at Hendon “The Belgrano Manoeuvre”, carried out a complete surprise attack with devastating effect on a slow-moving, ageing man, peacefully walking in the opposite direction. Thank Christ England scrum-halves aren’t armed with truncheons or who knows what damage Danny Care would do on the field of play? Savage will doubtless be given the key to the tea-urn back at the station house and a free go on the Taser. Sadly the kin of the victim, Ian Tomlinson, will be more concerned with a different sort of urn. Well done the lads at The Grauniad. Doubtless there’ll be a full and frank internal police investigation.

Charing Cross, sir? Of course, sir: Down the road, second on the left.

Charing Cross, sir? Of course, sir: Down the road, second on the left.

There was a lot of bloodshed that day, most of it none-too-serious, though worrying none-the-less. But the cameras did pick up on a protester who’d had his teeth knocked out by the Police. It’s a good thing the lovely Clare Balding wasn’t commentating on the demos— she’d have told the poor guy he looked much better. The perfectly-formed Clare (perfectly-formed, that is, if you like your women to look like Colin Montgomery‘s big sister) suggested on live tv that winning jockey of last weekend’s Grand National, Liam Treadwell, could now afford to get his dodgy teeth fixed. She has since apologised saying she meant no offence. Well nor do I when I say this: Fuck off you fat, charmless, Thelwell, drag-act.

A Mrs Doubtfire Convention: Balding and Monty

A Mrs Doubtfire Convention: Balding and Monty

Now then, where was I ? Ah yes. Incidents like the above are, of course, keeping the already-stretched NHS on its toes. Imagine therefore my joy when I heard that Johnny Taxpayer is forking out 40 million quid a year to keep our hospitals staffed with chaplains. No, not silent movie actors, but priests. It’s deemed a worthy use of our cash to employ Vicars, Vergers, Rabbis etc so that, in our hour of need, we can repent/confess/convert to a man of the cloth. Wonderful. I wouldn’t want that cash to be spent on nurses or cleaners, Oh No! Let’s have a chorus of Morning Has Broken while I’m on my last legs. The Right Rev who was interviewed by the BBC stated that at his hospital they had at their disposal Catholics, Anglicans, Sikhs, Muslems and Buddah-knows-what-else in case of a religious emergency, and all on my Nat Insurance Stamp. I have in the past screamed out to the Greater Being during the more probing of examinations, but I don’t need to pay for someone to hold my hand and rattle his rosaries while its happening. I’d rather fork out for someone to knock out the doctor who’s got his finger up my arse.
dickemerybbc-998
What do these blokes do while waiting to go into action? Is there a room where they sit and wait for it to all kick-off? Do they play cards or darts together til the alarm sounds like in Thunderbirds? The eyes in a photo of Vishnu on the wall start flashing and a Hindu Holy man leaps into action, scrubs up and off to the isolation ward?
Whoyagonnacall ? DEVIL DODGERS!!

All of this leads me to news of the world’s first face-and-hand transplant—on a burns victim, as it happens. Anyone who has suffered the misery of sitting through John Travolta’s Face Off will realise not only how complicated this operation is, but also how truly awful the subsequent movie will be. Will Nick Cage ever make a decent flick again? I doubt it. But there’s something oddly enticing about a face transplant (especially if you don’t have to endure first-degree burns to qualify for one). Can you choose what, or rather who you want to look like? Now that Monty’s face has been stolen by a horse in jodhpurs (see above), and given that not all operations are a success (Andrew Lloyd Webber’s face was put on inside-out) I wonder if I could apply to look like either Hugh Grant or The Daily Lama? I’d like to hear what a South London accent coming out of their faces would be like. And while we’re at it can I get even smaller hands than I have now? There’re hidden advantages to having small hands. For starters, certain things look bigger when you hold them with small hands.

All together now:
“Pinning in the teeth…
Pinning in the teeth
We shall come rejoicing…“T-Insert Wires0567265811