A Bad Taste in the Mouth

Posted on August 29, 2009 by The Ed

Advanced warning to my friend who said she read and enjoyed my blog, “but not the boring sports stuff”. Please feel free to scroll down to the next post, it’s all about music.

Anyway

Don’t you think it would have been better if, when Tom Williams went into that Clapham Common joke shop, he would have gone the whole hog? For those not-in-the-know, Williams plays for Harlequins Rugby Football Club and is the centre of a scandal having been found to have bitten on a joke shop blood capsule, thus faking a blood injury so he could be substituted. I’d have loved to have seen him emerge from the bottom of the ruck with a fake arrow through his head and one of those rubber nails though his thumb. If you’re gonna feign injury, have a bit of style about it.

tom-williams-pic-getty-image-1-517904843

I know of a club in Wales who used to have a one-legged bloke in their Vets team. He’d play on the wing wearing his plastic leg and, at the pace that over-35’s rugby is played at, got along just fine. On one occasion, with the opposing team’s consent and cooperation he removed his artificial limb whilst he was laying at the bottom of a pile of players, and a team-mate stuffed raw liver into the now-empty leg of his shorts. The play stopped, the scrum of players untangled and broke up, leaving this bloke on the floor, screaming in mock-agony. The only guy on the pitch who wasn’t in on the joke was the referee, who duly fainted. Now THAT’S style.

The most worrying thing about the Tom Williams affair, or Bloodgate as the press are calling it, is the complete lack of shock or surprise shown by anyone in world rugby. Apparently feigning a blood-injury is commonplace and what are we all bleating about? Tales of England physios opening up stitches on a player’s old wound soo he could come off the pitch for a fresher player, teams smashing blood capsules into their scalps have filled the sports pages this week. Has it come to this? I listened to a rather gleeful soccer pundit on the radio who was beside himself that at last, the smug holier-than-thou rugger-buggers had finally been exposed for what all footy fans had thought for eons: that they were as corrupt and dishonest as anyone involved in the round-ball code. It’s difficult to argue against. How can we watch the Six Nations Championship this year and believe any injury we see, short of decapitation? I have a feeling I may not bother.

So where does the sports fan turn to for clean, unsullied, cheat-free fun? Cricket? Remember Hanse Cronje, the bookies runner? Mike Atherton’s dirty pocket; or any number of Pakistani indiscretions on and off the pitch? Nope that’s out. How about Track and Field? For every Usain Bolt or Paula Radcliffe, there’s a Ben Johnson or a Dwayne Chambers waiting to happen. Horse Racing? (Keiron Fallon); Baseball? (Barry Bonds) Cycling? don’t even go there.

Eduardo_682x400_441767a

There is always soccer, I suppose? I mean it. Perhaps that’s the one I should watch because at kick-off no-one should be under the slightest illusion that any of the 22 men on display has any intention of playing within the rules if he can possibly get away with it. It is a game based on cheating, on conning the referee, on maiming the opposition, on getting fellow professionals sent off the field of play. It makes good tv and the authorities not only applaud it, condone it, they actually encourage it. They must do. How else could it carry on like this if UEFA or FIFA or the FA or whoever did not support this rotten, murky, corrupt shambolic excuse for a game of sport?

Arsene Wenger is fuming that his player Eduardo may be punished for diving in the penalty area and thereby conning the ref into awarding a penalty. YOU BET HE’S FUMING. Every single player dives given the slightest opportunity to obtain a free-kick or a penalty, or to get an opposing player sent off or booked. So why has Eduardo been singled out for punishment? Have the authorities finally had enough of this integral part of the game? Of course not. Sadly for the Croatian, he’s so bad at diving, it was such an obvious cheat that even UEFA can’t turn a blind eye to it. They have to go through the motions of being seen to do the right thing. If they were serious about stopping the cheats they’d have shut down Seria A, La Liga and the Premier League years ago. Lee Bowyer, Drogba, Klinsmann and the rest of them down the years would long be behind bars, or at least have been banned from the game after their first match.

drogba_dive

So I have no sympathy when a mate moans that his team “was robbed” through a penalty-that-never-was, or because the full-back should have never been sent off for a foul that didn’t happen. Sod them all. All of them are cheats. All of them, and as long as you go to a game knowing that, football is almost an enjoyable game. The score doesn’t matter, just watch the play-acting, or the acts of violence that pass for a sporting past-time. It doesn’t matter who wins or loses or how, just sit back and watch the show and see if you can spot the young lad, new to the game, who hasn’t quite got it yet, trying to play them game as written in the rule book. Fret not for him, he’ll come around in the end. In seasons to come he’ll be rolling around the penalty area, screaming for the magic sponge after being felled by an invisible foot. They’ll probably make him England captain of he’s convincing enough.

Of course that sort of thing doesn’t happen at Charlton. That’s five wins in a row, by the way. It’s a beautiful game.

Nowhere Men

Posted on August 29, 2009 by The Ed

I heard the news today, Oh Boy: Oasis, the world’s 4th best Beatles cover band, have split up. Words cannot accurately express how totally underwhelmed I am to hear that. The Gallagher brothers will perform no more together on stage or in the studio, with Noel, or is it Liam, citing irreconcilable differences with his brother Liam, or is it Noel? Expect to see fans crying all over Manchester, floral tributes outside their posh London homes (do they still live down here? dunno, don’t care) and the Man City players wearing black armbands in memory of the gruesome twosome. The brothers will presumably continue to support their beloved City from their seats at opposite ends of the ground, presumably so they don’t have to hear each other’s voice as they sing “who’s the bastard in the black?” Personally I’d want to be a lot further away than 150 yards from either of these two once they start warbling. My kids were in the crowd at the recent V Festival when Oasis decided not to show up to headline the gig. My girls were mortified, though if I’d have known they weren’t going to play I’d have bought a ticket myself.

finger

Nearly 100 years ago two miserable bastards, Burke and Hare stole bodies and went on a two-year rampage of murder, selling the corpses of their victims to the medical profession. When they were found out, Hare confessed all and shopped his partner Burke thus escaping the gallows. Since 1991 these mono-browed Mancunian Brothers Grimm have plied their own miserable trade, stealing ideas and murdering songs, selling the corpses to gullible children, teenagers and, worse, adults. Liam may well shop Noel, or vice versa, but let’s hope no amount of clemency is shown for their crimes against my inner ear. If you’re gonna copy another band, at least have the good grace to look like you’re having fun spending our money and have the courage to admit you haven’t an original idea in your head. Even off-stage, walking around with a face like a slapped arse, flashing V-signs and flipping the bird at all and sundry is hardly ground-breaking rock-n-roll behaviour. The charm of a Panzer division, the wit of Margaret Thatcher.

In the next few weeks magazines and newspapers will be full of features and specials on The Beatles as the AppleCorp machine churns out the re-digitalized versions of the Fab Four’s back catalogue. This will be another chance to fork out several of your hard-earned Quids, Bucks, Yuans or Euros on The White Album or Sergeant Pepper. For those of us who have previously bought these on vinyl, cassette (cartridge anyone?) ,and cd (twice, but that’s divorce for you) it’s a tough ask to splash out all over again, but don’t think that this will be the last time you’re asked to make that call. For starters, this latest issue comes in a choice of stereo or ‘original’ mono versions ( a mate at work has already stated he’s gonna buy both), and further down the line they will be uploaded onto itunes. What a staggering franchise it is. I guess it will help Mr McCartney’s keep up with his alimony payments.

The Beatles industry shows no sign of slowing down. There are hundreds of tribute bands making a healthy living out of mimicking the Mop Tops. Most will struggle to reach the heights of Oasis, but at least they’re honest about it. Normally rolled out during the holiday season for Christmas or New Year parties The Bootleg Beatles, The Paperback Beatles and the like have a more-than-decent stab at reliving the great days of the world’s first true pop phenomena. I once to stood at the back of a crowded club where the Bootleg Beatles were playing and watched with some amount of mirth as kids in the audience sang along to Hey Jude and She Loves You. But who am I to judge? I was a year off being born when Please Please Me was released, and only 6 years old when the band finally split up so I hardly own them myself.

Now that John and George are no longer with us, and Ringo (sorry, Mr Dontcallmebymystagename Starkey) has washed his hands of his legacy (apart from the royalties, of course), none of us will ever get the chance to see the real Beatles perform live (let’s be honest- you wouldn’t go and see McCartney perform, would you?) and the tribute bands are the only way to get anywhere close to the experience. But there’s always the Rutles, of course. I know they no-longer perform, but there’s still great fun to be had watching All You Need is Cash as I did again recently.

The story of The Prefab Four- Dirk, Barry, Stig and Nasty still stands-up as a piece of Eric Idle genius, with as good a selection of Neil Innes Beatles parodies as Oasis’ Definitely Maybe ever was. In a prime example of art-imitating-life the film documents the frosty relationship between the band and their manager, Leggy Mountbatten, a domineering, half-mad, nasty bastard with a wooden leg. Remind you of anyone in Paul’s later life?
There are even Rutles tribute bands, one called Ouch! and another The Mountbattens who, apparently are “Tokyo’s top Rutles tribute band”. So we now have tribute bands’ tribute bands. Check out The Mountbattens on Youtube below, they’re bloody awful, but I’d rather sit through a night of them than having to listen to 2 bars of Wonderwall ever, ever again.

Not mad for it.

Told You So

Posted on August 24, 2009 by The Ed

…and there I was thinking I was the only pessimist around.

This morning’s piece by Simon Barnes of The Times

I remember when an old friend met the love of his life. “I know I’m going to make a mess of it, because I always do. But at the moment I can’t see how.” That was as near to optimism I have ever known him (and no, he didn’t make a mess of it). But that’s what it’s like being a lover of England cricket. You simply can’t do optimism.

Not, at any rate, when England are playing Australia. So there were Australia, asked to make the highest fourth-innings score not only in Test matches but in all first-class cricket, and still every English person in the ground feared the worst. It was as if we expect Foinavon to win the Grand National every year, as if we expect Australia to win the lottery every week.

The figures simply didn’t stack up. There was no way England could fail to win this match. Well, maybe one way . . . and ooh-er, off we go again, because anything can happen when you are playing 11 supermen from the outback with nerves of steel and blood-flavoured chewing gum, people who are capable of anything.

If you had done the maths, yesterday should have been a day of celebration right from the start, an all-day gloat. But, of course, it was nothing of the kind. It was a day of fear and dread, leavened with occasional shafts of hope — hope that was almost instantly suppressed, as being far too risky a thing.

This mood of desperate defeatism must have absolutely boggled the Australians, who simply can’t understand the culture of self-defensive pessimism it springs from. So the question at the ground right from the beginning was not “how long will it take to finish these people off?” but “in what way are we going to make a mess of this?”

It was a mood that spread out on to the field of play, as moods tend to. The England players had the chance of their lives to make a spot of cricketing history and yet, on this day of days, they went through flat periods, they went through going-through-themotions periods as if they, too, were unable to believe in victory as a serous possibility.

They also dropped a few catches just to keep Australia in the hunt, with Paul Collingwood, of all people, responsible for three of them. England couldn’t quite believe in victory, couldn’t quite bear to finish the job. It was the same story four years ago — the two victories and the final draw being long drawn-out agonies of flickering and faltering belief.

There was a long period yesterday as Ricky Ponting, the Australia captain, and Mike Hussey were batting together, when it seemed England would never take another wicket, that Australia would cruise to the target of 546 while the Gloucester Old Spots spiralled and curvetted in the sky above. A clear sky, but a cloud of gloom blotted out the bright sun of good cheer. On such a day, surely only England could fill a ground with doom and gloom.

There’s an ancient cricket joke about these terrible, hopeless periods of impotent bowlers bowling to invulnerable batsmen. It’s called “bowling for run-outs”. And so, in a glorious and surreal passage of play, one that lasted a miraculous six balls across two overs, two run-outs came at once and the day and the match were more or less sorted out.

First Ponting hesitated at the non-striker’s end before setting out: Andrew Flintoff — a muted figure for most of his final Test — gathered the ball, swung the mighty shoulders and brought off a direct hit. Ah, that Freddie should live to see such a day, emulating no lesser cricketer than the great Gary Pratt.

Half a dozen balls later, Michael Clarke flicked Graham Swann to leg and set off for a well-deserved off-the-mark single. Alas, he didn’t see that the ball had rebounded off Alastair Cook’s boot at short leg and Andrew Strauss at leg slip underarmed the stumps down.

Of course, it wasn’t that order was restored instantly and that all fear was banished. This is still England for God’s sake, playing Australia for God’s sake. But a more balanced appreciation of cricketing probabilities began to infuse the ground and as the subsequent wickets were laboriously prised out, finally coming in a great and glorious rush, the mood had changed to one of rejoicing.

But it was a peculiarly English kind of rejoicing, one that was more like relief. There was relief that England hadn’t, after all, made a mess of it. There was mild surprise that the team who outplayed the other lot throughout the match were actually capable of winning it. So on, then, with the celebrations.

England have regained the Ashes, a glorious summer has reached a joyful conclusion.

Never in doubt, was it?

The Punter Problem

Posted on August 23, 2009 by The Ed

Look carefully at the above. I’ll wager those of you reading from overseas may just about have heard of Leeds Utd, a famous old club from the north of England, famous for cheating, foul play, Eric Cantona and the location of that film about Brian Clough.

A few of you who’ve been following these pages regularly might just recognise the name Charlton too. They are, of course, my local football team, the team I follow, the team that has caused me a little pleasure but a lot of heart-ache of the over the years. And the top of the table. Top! Ok, they’re top of the third league in the English game, but top of the league nonetheless. Four wins in a row. Four! The last time that happened there were Zeppelins flying over South East London.

The fact that we’ve beaten teams who most of you have never heard of matters not one jot to me. Walsall, Hartlepool, Leighton Orient and the mighty Wycombe Wanderers may not be regulars on your screens in New York, Paris or Honkers, and you may not have read anything of them on the back pages of Corrire dello Sport or in the back pages of The Sydney Morning Herald (those of us living in Blighty would even struggle to find them on an A-Z or an O.S. map) but Charlton Athletic Football Club have beaten them all and, because they’ve scored more goals than Leeds, are sitting proudly on the top of the tree.

Do not read any further. Bookmark this page—you’ll not see them on top again. Now let us continue.

charlton

It is the nature of most sport fans to believe their team to be world-beaters when they win, and utter tripe when they lose. I am not one of those sports fans: I believe my teams to be utter tripe whether they win, lose or draw. I always want them to win, but I never expect them to. As mentioned previously here, being a pessimistic supporter means you are rarely disappointed. Charlton may win another game or two but, in the end, will wither away into mid-table anonymity next to the like of the MK Dons (who they???) and Milwall (ditto). Don’t put your life savings on them winning the league. I bet on them once. What a complete waste of money that was.

A bloke on the radio this morning, of a similar mindset to me, said he was gonna pay the bookies a tenner to help England win the Ashes (we’ve gone on to cricket now, chaps). He reckoned if he could get odds of, say, 10-1 on Aussie and put a bet on them, then with his luck England were sure to win but if somehow they managed not to, he’d be 100 quid to the good, thus sweetening that bitterest of pills. I like that kind of thinking. There are many who wouldn’t dare bet against their own team, but I see nothing wrong with it: patriotism is patriotism and betting is betting.

wales438

Example: I have a friend (to protect the innocent, let’s call him Trev) who has lost the equivalent to the Mexican National Debt by persisting on betting on his beloved Welsh Rugby team, regardless of all the evidence and odd stacked against him and his Boyos. Throughout the nineties the sluicegates of Trev’s bank account opened up and spewed the contents therein into the gaping reservoirs of Messrs J.Coral, P Power and S.Index, Turf Accountants. Yeah, ok, a resurgence in Wales’ rugby fortunes means he’s been able to recoup some of his losses, but Trev suffered long and costly Saturday nights as the points mounted up against his team and the cash made its merry way out of his wallet. Great fun to watch though.

It’s now 12.20 on Sunday, August 23rd and England are, or at least seem to be, romping home to regain the Ashes at the Oval. Everything points to an England win. They are miles ahead in the game. The pitch resembles the crust of a semolina pudding. Any given bowl thrown at an Australian batsman could either go through the surface of the pitch and dribble along the floor, bruising his big toe, or hit a lumpy bit, rear up and knock the batters block off. They cannot possibly predict what’s gonna happen next: Big Advantage England.

Just two things stand in the way of an England series victory: The England players themselves and Australian Captain Ricky Ponting.

ponting

Ricky “Punter” Ponting is possibly the best batsman around at the moment. He’s technically excellent and mentally tough. Like many great men (Napoleon, Nelson, T.E.Lawrence, Mickey Rooney) he’s rather short and perhaps this focuses his mind. Short-man syndrome is well-known and perhaps this one compensates for his lack of height by wielding his bat and smiting the ball to all corners. Whatever the reason, he sure is a tough little bugger to get out. He gets boo-ed on and off the pitch and that only seems to strengthen his resolve to protect his wicket. His nickname “Punter” was given to him for his love of a betting office. As a young man he loved a bet. Loved a bird too. A bet and a bird. And he took a drink. A bet and a bird and some booze. Now, though, he’s a reformed man and a superb cricketer, free of distractions (apart from his little legs). He knows his odds, and he knows that while he’s still at the wicket, even the London bookies wont be giving a decent price against an improbable Australian win. He knows that if anyone can do it, the Aussies can, and the bookies know that too.

Anyone who’s watched and supported England play football, rugby, cricket, you name it has seen us throw away much stronger positions than this before. We seem apologetic for winning. A lack of killer-instinct. Somehow we seem to think winning well, stuffing the noses of the oppo into the dirt is not the done thing (hence the phrase “just not cricket”). We like a competition, a near-thing, a close-run race. The whole of the English sporting psyche is built around the “it’s not the winning that counts, it’s the taking part”. What a load of cobblers. If we ever do trounce an opposing team, the first thing said in the pubs and the papers is that the opposition were “not very good”.

Perhaps because of the many times we’ve lost, we’ve always had a very different view to the rest of the World of what constitutes a victory or a defeat. Dunkirk is taught in english schools as a victory, for Christ’s sake. If the Charge of the Light Brigade had happened to any other country’s military, the story would be torn out of history books in Russia, China and parts of the Conservative American West. Douglas Haig and Bomber Harris would be filed under ‘E’ for ‘Embarrassment’ if they were German. Not here: we erect statues to them. Scott was beaten to the pole by Amundsen and died a heroes death, freezing his nadgers off in a tent. Our history books are chock-full of dead heroes. Why can’t we have a few more very old codgers walking around who once beat West Germany by 11-0? or who captained the European Ryder Cup team which beat the yanks 28-0? or was 100 Olympic 100 meter champion for 16 straight years. I’ll tell you why: it’s cos we don’t like winning, and if we do, we don’t like winning well.

Rorkes_Drift

In 1879 just under 150 Welshmen from the 2nd Battalion, 24th Regiment of Foot successfully defended the mission at Rourke’s Drift against about 4000 Zulus, winning umpteen Victoria Crosses, (and providing us with a great story for a movie, 85 years later).

Trevs’s Great Grandfather was there. He bet on the Zulus.

Now Stop That! You’re Not Even a Proper Woman

Posted on August 21, 2009 by The Ed

This story writes itself. Either she is a bloke in which case she should be banned and GB picks up the silver, or she’s a bird and we should all be ashamed of ourselves for thinking otherwise of the poor girl. Just because she doesn’t look like Denise Lewis (phwoaarrrrr, eh!?!?! A nudge is as good as a wink and so on, and so forth) and has a voice like Nelson Mandela on valium she has come under huge media suspicion and speculation. Either way the Athletic authorities need shooting: the timing of their announcement of the inquiry (hours before her final) was a disgrace.

Semenya indicates how many testicles she has

If all ugly women are liable to gender testing and a ban from their chosen profession, what a state we’d all be in? Does anybody actually remember Rachel Heyhoe-Flint?, Betty Stove, and dear old Fatima Whitbread? Girls Aloud would be one short for starters and the former PM would have led a batchelor’s life (oh how he wishes).

Here’s a game you might like to play. Turn on the BBC TV news. Close your eyes when they go over to Afghanistan and try to picture the face that goes with the deep gravelly voice of the BBC Correspondent.

Your mind will think along these sort of lines:

But in reality it belongs to the lovely Caroline Wyatt :

Now obviously it makes no difference to us whether she’s a he or not, apart from the confusion she causes me nightly when I see her face for the first time after her VT is played. No-one is suggesting that she should be tested or banned from the Beeb because she looks like Claire Balding‘s big sister and sounds like Lee Marvins Auntie? I merely point it out that sometimes a Doris does look like and sound like a Geezer! (I had a whole paragraph here about women in my past, but on legal advice, I have removed it)

It’s a shame for Semenya that it’s come to this. Personally I’d have run a little slower and worn skipy drawers but, hey, is it her fault that she’s bloody quick but a tad butch?

It is a bloke, though, innit?

We Will Fight them on the Beaches, but not in Birmingham

Posted on August 17, 2009 by The Ed

tomtom

The longer you’ve been away, the harder it is to come back. I originally quite liked the 4-weeks-on-2-weeks-off lark which I managed eek out of my new employers, but now I’m beginning to see the fault in my plan: I can’t remember a sodding thing. Couldn’t logon this morning, was typing the wrong password into the wrong system; forgot that we had a ten o’clock conference so no idea what we’re doing today; everything they’d taught me about the new system had vanished from my mind; and I addressed three different women colleagues by the right names, but not necessarily in the right order. They’re all very impressed with me.

Since we last met, France came and went, Birmingham just came. I can’t get it out of my head, but more of that later.

How the world changes in a couple of weeks. Before I left England were well in command of The Ashes Series, ham sandwiches didn’t give you cancer and the Tory Party loved the NHS. Yes really. What, you mean you don’t believe them? Shame on you. Don’t you know they’ve changed??? They’re all-for the Welfare State, comprehensive education, spot-the-ball and whippet racing. When they romp home next year they will ban BUPA, shut down Charterhouse and shoot all hounds and huntsmen.

Neil Warnock will become Sports Minister and Peter Tatchell Home Secretary. New Tory will be unrecogiseable. I know all this cos Dave told me, and I’m not the sort of bloke who disbelieves Dave. Why, didn’t you hear him crucify one of his foot soldiers who told Fox News that the NHS was a bag ‘o shite ? Said the Yanks would be mad to adopt a similar model! Dave’s rebuke was quite terrifying, and very, very believable. Honest. It was in The Mail.

Up the Ox and Bucks!!

Meanwhile, back in the real world (well as close to real life as I get) The Incumbent and I travelled to Normandy, sans enfants (did you see what I did then?). First stop Pegasus Bridge. In the early hours of D-Day, 1944, about a hundred British Tommies landed in gliders and stormed the tiny garrison defending this vital crossing over the Orne River. Immortalised by the aforementioned The Longest Day, the Tommies made swift work of dispatching the nasty Hun, secured the bridge for the Allied advance and liberated a small café to boot, so everyone could have a cup of tea afterwards.

These glider pilots really were something else. Under cloudy, moon-less skies, they navigated their heavily-laden craft over the coast of France to the target area with little more than a compass, a stopwatch and a huge moustache. 5 out of six gliders hit their target, with one landing a mere 47 yards from the end of the bridge.

On the other hand, The Incumbent and I were armed with an O.S. map, a Toyota 4×4 and the ubiquitous SatNav and managed to miss the turning three times. Not really Tommies, more TomTommies, and fucking useless ones at that. I’d have missed the whole of the Normandy coastline, and probably more if I was on HMS TallyHo as part of the invasion force armed with that TomTom. I’d have probably liberated Wales. Or perhaps I wouldn’t.

The problem is with these bloody things that we’ve (or rather I’ve) stopped looking at maps. A year ago I’d have never undertaken a journey past Sainsbury’s car park without consulting the old A-Z beforehand, but now I glibly set off on 300 mile journeys without a care in the world, trusting implicitly this little box stuck to the windscreen. Well it gets confused, I can tell you. New roads get built, diversions are enforced, roads blocked and it drives your poor little TomTom beserk. Yes yes yes, I know you’re supposed to update it every 17 minutes and download new maps, but who has the time to do that before you go away? I’m far too busy looking for my passport and the Arret.

How the hell did they get something that big across the Channel? Pic also shows a section of Mulberry harbour

Anyway, SatNav apart, and taking into account everything in France is tres cher (God I’m good!) it was a memorable trip. Pegasus Bridge, The Mulberry harbour at Arromanches, Omaha Beach, the US Cemetery (I know how to show a girl a good time) plus lashings of Kronenbourg (you need it after that lot). The streets of our little town were full of young an old, enjoying good food, dear beer, and great wine to the sound of the odd accordion and the even jazz combo. Lots of munching, quaffing and couples tangoing in the street. All v civilized indeed. I recommend it.

Fade to black with the strains of Edith Piaf in your head

Cut to Broad Street Birmingham, Saturday night. Cue the Housey Housey music.

The carnage.

We’d been to see the cricket at Edgbaston (just how lucky can one girl get on holiday?) and made the short 2-mile walk in good time and in better thirst and needed immediate refreshment. What confronted us was more terrifying than the Allies could have possibly faced on the beaches of France 65 years ago. Legions and legions of pissed, swearing, puking, fighting boys and girls (and I mean boys and girls) in various stages of undress, noticeably unmolested by Her Majesty’s Finest. Not a copper in sight (shock).

Literally hundreds of once-pretty 14 year-olds, now made-up like cheap hookers in barely more than their underwear screaming at each other in the middle of dual carriageways, 16 year old boys hanging on lampposts, gasper on bottom lip, WKD in hand, absolutely wankered, chanting the mantra “ get yer tits out” to all and sundry (yes, to me as well). Doormen, bouncers and stewards sharing looks of fear, boredom or total annoyance, winding up haymakers for the next gobby shite who abuses them. They had my sympathies. It was as close to Dodge City as I’m ever likely to see, and I wanted out. We made a dash for the Hotel bar where the coppers and the specials were sitting in the corner, away from the trouble. And who can blame them? Well I did, at the time, but in the cold light of day it was pretty understandable. Having worked on dozens of stories about Binge Britain, and poo-poo’d all of them as a load of hysterical bollox this was my first real-time, up-close sight of it and it was ‘orrible. My daughters will never go out after 6.30 at night, if I have anything to do with it (which I don’t).

Are all towns like this, or does that honour just fall to Birmingham? Don’t write to me and tell me, I don’t wanna know. I have seen, been involved with and started a few piss-ups in my time, (I will probably be close to one tonight) but the scale of this was mind-boggling. I can only imagine it’s like a chilly version of Tenerife and I’m so very glad I missed out on all of that rubbish. Grubby, ugly, young, fat kids (plus their parents with dreadful outfits and disasterous haircuts). Synchronised obnoxiousness. You can tell, I’m in shock. Shell-suit shock. What a complete and utter shit-hole. Trust my bleeding TomTom to be able to find that one.

And it’s all yours, Dave, whenever you wanna take over.

The Cemetery at Omaha Beach. Twinned with Broad Street, Birmingham

The Talented Mr Rapley

Posted on August 11, 2009 by The Ed

After all the previously discussed misery and mayhem, imagine my delight when the Italian chapter of the Dave Rapley Appreciation Society serenaded us on our last night in the mountains. Their instruments included garden shears and toilet cysterns, and they’d make very Worthy Old Dartfordians, one and all. I could have stayed and listened and sung along all night, had my eldest daughter not dragged me away in embarrassment. I did get a little carried away at the end. CDs available in the foyer.

You Darts.

Zwei Birra, und Quattro Cokes, Si Vous Plait

Posted on August 10, 2009 by The Ed

So I was worried about the flight, and I was worried about the drive across Italy. A little bit of me worried how I’d handle four kids for a week. But for some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to be worried that we didn’t possess a map , a phrasebook or the minutest smattering of the language between us. Whether it was an oversight, what with everything we had to organise and fret about beforehand and all that; or whether my subconscious considered me far to wordly-wise to bother about not being understood I’m not sure. Anyway, we had the Tom Tom, right? Nothing goes wrong when you have a Tom Tom, does it? And this was, after all, an EU country where everyone spoke English, right? Wrong! This was a part of the EU where they had been mercifully ignored by plane-loads of Brits tearing up their towns and abusing their waiters. Sure there were always a few families passing through, but not enough for the indigenous population to feel the need to gen-up on the Oxford English Dictionary.

So, Ich nicht sprechen Italiano, je ne comprends your banter pas, old boy. By the way, can you tell me when the hell I am please, Signor Garcon? What a berk.

Ulysses

No matter, we picked up the motor at one of Rome’s airports (a battered and bruised Fiat Ulysses, prefect for our Odyssey, I thought) and sped east along the Autstrade. 17ks later we hit (almost literally) a string of Toll booths, stretched across the road. In a singularly British way I plumped for the wrong gate. I pressed the red button. Nothing. Pressed it again, still no ticket. Two cars had pulled up behind me. I started sweating-up in the paddock. I pressed the green button, next to the speaker. A conversation was had between 2 people who had no idea what the other was saying. The word “ticket” was the sole common denominator. Four cars behind me now, the third gave several honks on his Italian handbrake (his horn). I made the International Sign for bugger off, back-up, I’m coming out and they begrudgingly obliged and I reversed onto the hard shoulder. Somehow Italians can steer a car, press the horn AND wave both arms in the air all at the same time (yes, I know this sound like a stereotype, but it really is true).

I found a tall, imposing, para-military-type at the help desk, complete with mirror-shades and, dare-I-say, jackboots. He spoke very little English, so he had the jump on me. “Where you go?” he asked.
I’d forgotten where, indeed, I was going, so I picked a nearby city at random “Ancona” I replied. A puzzled look came across his face. Why would anyone want to go to that sh*t-hole?, he was thinking. Ah wait!: He’s English. He wrote several unconnected words in block capitals onto a scrap of paper and handed it to me.
“You no pay” he said. Then gesturing the International Sign for giving, said “you give this to Ancona”.

What he wrote I cared not one wit, as it was clear he was letting us through without charge. And away we went.

An hour down the road we approached a second set of tolls. This time I was determined not to embarrass myself as before. I chose the one with the International Sign for money above it. But there was no slot to insert neither coins, notes nor credit card. I started to panic again. Then a cardboard ticket spewed out of a hole just in front. In my haste I lunged at it, snatched at it and dropped it on the tarmac.

“Oh sod it ! Sorry kids” I exclaimed.
“Dad, Daaaaaad” yelled one from the back row of the car “it’s open!”.
I looked up to see the gate had indeed opened. WooHoo!!!, I had an escape route. I stuck her into what I hoped was something near 1st and released the clutch. We stalled. I’d stuck her into 5th. All week I would struggle and fail to find the right gear. Left-hand-drive motors call for right-hand gear-changing and I would discover that I was crap at it. I restarted the car, found 2nd-ish and we kangaroo-ed out of the trap.

Ninety minutes of scary motorway driving later and we’d reached our exit. Down the slip road, around the tight hairpin (5th instead of the desired 3rd gear) and up to our final toll booth. I pressed the green button. Nothing, but an LED message in Italian. What good was that to me? I pressed the green button instead.

“Si” came a woman’s voice after a short pause.
“Hello”, I said in my best David Niven, “do you speak English?
“Put in your ticket” she replied, by way of an affirmative.
“I don’t have a ticket”
“Put in your ticket”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a ticket”
“Put in your ticket”
“I don’t have a ticket, sorry. I have a piece of paper”, remembering Signor Jackboot’s gift to me earlier.
“One moment please” There was a pause of no more that 4 seconds.

The LED message changes from the unintelligible message to one I understood clearly. It was the International Sign for 75 Euros. Signora Tollbooth had suddenly gone mute. Hmmm… I knew I was stuffed. I hadn’t the command of the language to argue the toss, even if I had an argument. Two crisp 50 Euro notes were slid into the machine, the change was spat out into the tray bellow. I stuck her into reverse, then 3rd, then finally 1st and limped out under the open gate, my tailpipe between my legs.

“I bet they did that cos we were English” offered one of the small mammals in the back seat.
“Yeah” said another, “They hate the Brits” declared a third.

“Nope” I told them. “We didn’t have a ticket so they charged us for the whole length of the motorway. It’s fair enough. British Rail do similar. We’ll know better next time.” Famous last words.

On day 3 of our trip one of the lads and I parked outside what we took to be a supermarket, but which turned out to be a chemist. Exiting with what little we could find worth buying (Aftersun and loo roll) we noticed a parking ticket for 38 Euros slapped on the windscreen of the car. A tad miffed we yomped to the local Cop Shop. “Hello” I said (trying my Alan Whicker this time), handing him the Duty Sergeant the ticket,”do you speak English? ”
“A little” he smiled.
Sadly, he apparently knew only one English phrase: “Thirty-eight Euros”, he said, holding out his palm and making the International Sign for give me the money.
“What did I do wrong?” I asked
“Thirty-eight Euros” he grinned again. Hmmm…. we’ll know better next time.

Later, in a take-away restaurant I managed to order 6 whole pizzas when I wanted 6 slices. The kids were thrilled and chomped their way through the lot. When we finally found the supermarket I bought 12 litres of water which no-one would drink as it was of the fizzy variety and they’d “clearly asked for still, daaaad”.

Map-less, we managed not to find the biggest water-park in southern Europe, drove up two one-way streets and, on the home trip, spent ninety minutes looking at the airport from a distance of 700 yards while we encircled it trying to find a route in. When we finally did so, I drove into the wrong car park to return the car and had a fruitless two-language argument trying to get out of said car park to go find the proper one. This time the lady took pity on me and opened the gate for nix.

So would I go back? You bet. Apart from the odd jobsworth and copper, the Italians were a superb bunch. Most were very happy to help us through the language barrier, and keen to teach us the few words we needed to get by. Birra, Conto, Prego, Formaggio, Pomadoro and the like now seem second nature to me, which will be handy when I go to France tomorrow.

view

The weather was hot, and the birra cold. The region in which our villa was situated was absolutely beautiful, tiny little medaeval villages dotted around a stunning mountainous landscape. An hour down the road (take a map) is mile-upon-mile of beautiful, clean welcoming beaches, full of elegant,friendly locals, spectacular ice cream parlours and, according to the Incumbent’s 14-year-old boy, beautiful, topless, Italian women (though I never saw any, and if I did, I wasn’t staring, honest).

I’ve never stayed at a better appointed nor better situated villa than The Villa San Raffaello, run by Damien and Sharon, two charming Londoners (albeit, he’s a Gooner) who set up shop there five years ago. Plenty of room, a pool, tv etc etc etc everything a family would want, complete with hot n cold running vegetables and herbs from their gardens surrounding the dwelling. Stick yer straw hat on and play being Don Corleone among the tomato plants (though, hopefully without the final consequences). The vines mature next summer so there will be wine too (or vino, as we like to call it).

Driving through a neighbouring town one afternoon the driver of a parked car I was poodling past opened his door and sliced off my wing mirror. K-LUNK. I pulled in down the road, got out and trudged back to the scene of the accident. The man, elegant, middle-aged, grey hair, mahogany skin and perfect teeth, shirt open to the navel, stood there grinning at me, arms outstretched, palms pointing upwards, the International Sign for sorry mate, but what you gonna do?. I did the only thing I could: I taught him some Anglo Saxon words beginning with ‘F’ and ‘C’, picked up my ex-wing mirror and went back to the car.

Normandy tomorrow, courtesy of Mr Horrible‘s generous hospitality. Now French I’m good at. Cul de Sac, mon amis.

hat

The Sharp Single

All Done

Monthly Archives: August 2009