Sorry for the lack of posts recently, and I’m orf on me hols now, so it’ll be a while before I do any more. Meanwhile, this was sent to me by The Rev. Many thanks to him., it made me titter.
Thrice.
See you after the cricket.
Pie Charts
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Monthly Archives: November 2009
Talking the Talk, Limping the Limp
I’ve just finished my Christmas list. Here it is:
A walking stick.
er…That’s it.
Now you may be thinking, why would one so young need an implement to aid his perambulation of the local environs? Well, sad to say, last night I became victim of who the press are already calling The St John’s Wood Sniper. Either that, or I didn’t warm up before I started cricket practice last night. In preparation for our imminent tour to Oman (currently ranked 137th in world cricket), my fat fleet street chums and I rented out a net at Lord’s Cricket Ground in which to throw and hit things at each other. But I forgot my achilles heel was my achilles heel, failed to stretch off enough/at all beforehand and paid the price in the early hours of this morning with my big, throbbing ankle waking up like a big throbbing, ankly thing.
So during the slow limp into work this morning I thought I’d ask Santa for a walking stick, partly to help me overcome my perpetual lameness, and partly to fend off varmints who seem to be closing in on my life, like I’m in a scene in the Thriller video. News of two neighbours (and The Incumbent on the fateful Guy Fawkes Night) being stopped in the street nearby by groups of young lads demanding wallets, phones and/or cash hasn’t made the short, dark, lonely walk from Blackheath railway station to my home any more appetising. If you add that little corridor of uncertainty to the dark East London Streets I have to negotiate around work, then I think some sort of heavy stick as a travelling partner would help, or at least offer some succour. There’s some scary young people out there, just waiting to take advantage of a frail old man like me.
A third good reason to use a cane would be that I’d be forgiven for taking the lift at up just one floor. This doesn’t happen very often, but in a mild bout of dappiness the other day I opted for the lift option when clearly the stairs wouldn’t have hurt me (this was pre-injury). It wasn’t intentional, I was just away with the fairies and wasn’t thinking. So I pressed the button to go up, the lift stopped, doors opened to reveal one rather surly young bloke therein. I got in, I pressed the button for the next floor up, the doors closed, and only then did a modicum of shame overcome me. Why didn’t I walk ??? I kept my glance firmly at the crack in the door, not wishing to make eye-contact with my travelling companion. After 1.5 seconds, the doors opened again and I made my way out. Under his breath, the stranger in the back of the lift muttered, barely audibly but unmistakably, the immortal line :“Lazy Fat C*nt”.
And it’s a fair cop guv. Just think if I’d have had my limp and my cane. The bastard would have held the door open for me, called me ‘Sir’ and offered some assistance. But as it was, I wasn’t a ‘Sir’ I was a fat, lazy, erm…person.
So I’m posting my list off to Santa. The Posties are back, with a whistle and a jaunty spring in their step so it should have no problems getting to the north pole in time. I just need to make sure my handwriting is legible and I spell Santa’s name correctly. No one would send out a letter otherwise, would they ?
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Hahaha@teeheehee.com
As mentioned here previously, I’m no expert on soccer (there has to be something I’m not a world authority on, and this is it) but I do keep a lazy eye on what goes on in the land of “Backdoorbackdoor”, “Manon” and “Onmeheadson”. Having been born into a long line of Geordies (can’t you tell by my accent ?) I’ve always kept an eye on the lows and lows of Newcastle United, and if Matt Groening had written something similar about the Springfield Isotopes it would be hilarious, though highly unbelievable. Until he does, we must make do with Mike Ashley and his comedy business brain. You gotta feel sorry for the Toon army, they’ve had their fare share of footballing disasters. But on the other hand I desperately don’t want it to stop, cos whatever’s happening up there is always worth a chuckle (and helps a fledgling blogger out when he’s short of anything else to post). So I bring you the following from this morning’s Times. If you find the whole situation as funny as I do and crave more, there’s a link at the bottom to a funny Comment-piece by the same author (think he’s a little bit angry). I thought about writing myself, but as George is paid for writing this stuff (and I’m not) I thought why not? I also thought you might like to read at least one post without the word ‘fuck’ in it. Oh shit, I’ve just spoilt that.
From The Times
November 5, 2009
Newcastle United rename historic stadium sportsdirect.com@StJames’ Park
George Caulkin
In 1892 two football teams joined to form Newcastle United and to play at St James’ Park, and what was once a sloping patch of grazing land became one of Britain’s most famous football grounds.
The passing years and the legendary players who graced its turf burnished the old name into something more than a stadium: the title spoke of a proud history, of 1950s’ cup victories, of Alan Shearer scoring, of Sir Bobby Robson pacing the touchline, of Kevin Keegan urging his team forward.
Now the title speaks of an online sportswear company. For the next six months the cathedral of Tyneside football shall be known as sportsdirect.com@St James’ Park.
The names of newer stadiums have been sold for the purposes of sponsorship. Bolton Wanderers play at the Reebok Stadium, York City play at the Kit-Kat Crescent. But the rebranding of St James’ Park is being seen as one more insult in a long period of humiliation that began in 2007.
That was the year that the man behind the rebranding assumed control of the club. Mike Ashley, the billionaire businessman and founder of Sports Direct, paid £134 million. Fans were cautiously optimistic. He seemed enthusiastic about the club, he was in the stands at games and he certainly knew how to make money.
He had, however, completed the purchase without undertaking due diligence and did not realise that a change of ownership meant that much of the club’s £70 million debt would need to be repaid. (continued after this advert.)
His new regime declared that it would take a long-term approach to running the club. Then it sacked Sam Allardyce, the manager, after half a season, and replaced him with Keegan. A heroic figure on Tyneside after an earlier spell in the dugout and his time as a player, Keegan walked away when players that he did not wish to sign were forced upon him.
Keegan, who had been told to view a new signing on YouTube, was subsequently vindicated in his case for constructive dismissal.
In his place Mr Ashley hired Joe Kinnear, an out-of-work manager, but when he fell ill, Alan Shearer was appointed on a short-term basis. In spite of Mr Ashley describing it as his “best decision” at Newcastle, the former England captain was not off- ered a full-time contract. Poor results led to relegation and redundancies and attempts to sell the club failed.
Demoted from the Premier League to the Coca-Cola Championship, fans have gained a brief respite from the troubles under Mr Ashley’s fifth manager, Chris Hughton. Out of the discontent Hughton has forged a team that is top of the Championship.
But even as the club was confirming that it was no longer for sale and that Hughton had been given a permanent contract, it gave fans another reason to be tearful. At the bottom of that official statement, Newcastle announced that offers for the naming rights to the stadium would be welcomed.
It unleashed a wave of resentment from fans, who had shown their support in the previous home match, when almost 44,000 attended the game against Doncaster Rovers.
Petitions have been set up — the Newcastle United Supporters Trust (NUST) has collected more than 16,000 names — and demonstrations are planned for Saturday’s game against Peterborough United.
Derek Llambias, the club’s managing director, said that the St James’ Park name would remain and that they “could have worded” their statement better. He added that Mr Ashley’s running of the club had been “nearly spot on”. The form that St James’ remains — prefaced by the website of a company of which Mr Ashley is still the majority shareholder — is both peculiar and an affront to most supporters.
“We strongly believe the name and the soul of our ground is not theirs to sell,” NUST said. Newcastle will also not receive a penny from Sports Direct in branding fees.
But it is questionable how many companies will want to be linked with a club suffering such agonies.
Llambias issued a rallying cry to fans: “The negativity around the city, it needs to stop. You need to concentrate on supporting the team.”
At the famous sportsdirect@St James’ Park. Or whatever it is called.
A Couple of Little Darlings
Here’s a rare thing: A British F1 champion with wit, charm and charisma. No honestly, they did used to be fun to watch both on-and-off the track. Of course, since Nigel, Damien, Lewis, Jenson and the like arrived, you could be forgiven for thinking that we only produce motor racing drivers as dreadfully boring as the races themselves, or perhaps an afternoon grouting the bathroom. But once upon a time, they were spontaneous, humorous and with just that tiny little bit of class. So anyway, to mark the end of yet another season of dull and tedious processions around the asphalt circuits of the world, below is just a snippet of when Dick Dastardly ruled the roads, and everyone’s mum went gooey in the middle when he flashed his choppers, looked the camera in the eye and spoke in those magnificent clipped tones. Have a look at these few seconds of Hill, laid up in hospital after a crash, just one of many clips of his naughtiness you can find on Youtube. And check out that tash.
A loveable rogue, a cheeky chappy with a glint in his eye, Graham Hill was unmistakeably one of those chaps who you’d be proud to shake warmly by the driving gloves and by a warm pint of beer (or a cold bottle of poo) in the local village pub. As kids, when we played Scalextric on the front room floor, everyone wanted to be Hill. As we wedged our plimsoles and mum’s shoes under the the corners to hold up the banking, we mimicked Murray Walker commentating on numerous dogfights betweeen Hill and Stewart or perhaps Rindt (extra shoes were used when Jochen was on the track).
It was a time of heroes and feats of derring-do, of flat caps, pencil moustaches and men reminiscent of Spitfire pilots, rather than boys who pretend to be Airfix models in TV adverts and no-one spots the difference. Lewis wanders around in his dull way, with his dull, identikit dad, and they’re all very-nice-and-all-that, but I get no indication that they have any sense of fun, enjoyment or achievement from their titles and riches, or the wish to contribute anything more to the social fabric or culture of society than driving around Monza or Monaco.
Is there a spark of of the boy-racer left? or are they the driving equivalent of Yul Brynner in Westworld, plodding automaton-like between one scene to the next? (to be fair, Brynner spent the whole of his acting like plodding between one scene to the next, he didn’t need to play a robot). They go from corporate sponsor’s event, to press photocall, to TV appearance flashing their perfect sterile grins and their faultless thumbs, before the PR girl whips them off to the next function. Maybe the enormous G-forces have sucked all personality out of them.
Yes, they enjoy a fine line of beautiful girls on their arms (Jenson seems to have a conveyor belt of them), which all rich young sportsmen seem to have at their disposal, but what else do they bring to the table? A naughty smile at the camera? A feeling that they are enjoying life, reaping the rewards of their craft ? That sense of a Lucky Jim? Not a bit of it. They’re more like accountants, less interesting than merchant bankers. And that’s a real shame, cos they’re probably very nice chaps and don’t deserve such an attack on their characters (not that they probably care one jot- they’re not Stephen Fry, after all).
Now as you will understand, I know sod all about F1 and care even less about it, but if I could walk into a pub and at one end of the bar was Mansell, Button and Hamilton (and even Damien Hill) and at the other end of the bar was Graham Hill having a quick snifter with James Hunt there’s no doubt who I’d go and join, and yoiu’d be with me. And I bet Hill and Hunt would hang around for more than just-the-one.
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The Sharp Single 