Monthly Archives: August 2012

Turd Polishing**

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Ah yes: Exam Results. I remember them. For some reason whenever I see on the news that today’s the day when the exam results come through, I get a chill running through my bones. I feel nauseous. The very water inside me somehow wants to get out.

Perhaps this is because it brings back memories of when I received an envelope containing my results all those years ago ? Perhaps not. It wasn’t all bad (honest) I scraped in here, and got by there. Could have been a lot worse (the teachers at school certainly predicted so). No it’s not those memories which irk me. It’s something rather more recent. Something that’s still taking place. It’s the “jumping for joy photos”.

Stick your head out of the window, listen hard and there’s a good chance you’ll be able to hear the unmistakable sound of a photographer near you organising a staggeringly unimaginative photo.

“Ok if you could spread yourself out in a line towards me… no, no, can we have the two blonde young ladies in the middle… yes, much better… now, on the count of three, could you all jump up, punch  the air and cheer ? … especially you girls… thanks very much….right here we go…one…two…three….SNAP…CLICK…SNAP…”

It happens every year (twice in the UK), and it’s happening today with the announcement of today’s A-Level results.

And it’s not necessarily the fault of the photographer. Would you believe that, in this day in age, there are national newspaper and agency picture editors who actually commission such dross ? They do, I promise you. And why ? Because above them are Chief Subs, Features Editors and other assorted numpties who deal in crap and clichés. But don’t take my word for it. Buy a paper tomorrow (any one should do) and look for yourselves. If you can’t wait, switch on TV Regional News this evening (“Local Man bit by Local Dog, Locally“). They’ll be down at their local High School or Academy filming young men and women, crying with/jumping for joy (delete where applicable).

Such imagination.

Here’s another. It’s gonna be hot this weekend. Some at the Met Office are predicting up to 30 degrees over the south of England. Queue the hot weather picture:

L-R: The Times, Indie,Guardian;               Tabloids+Telegraph;                            All of them

You can bet your left testicle (or whatever you have to hand) that you’ll find a version of the above tomorrow in your favourite rag. If I had a penny for every time someone submitted a photo of boys diving into the sea/pond/canal/fountain once the temperatures reach 28 degrees, I’d have £17.43.

Visionaries.

But the photographers don’t get off Scot free. After all, they take the snap, they ping it in to the picture desk and some berk uses it. Ca-Ching! Why on earth do you think that we’ve seen this pose endlessly over the last few weeks ?

No. Serena’s not biting that medal because she’s hungry (again), but because there’s an unwritten law amongst sports snappers which tells them that’s what Gold Medallists do.  And you know what ? – the pictures go in the paper. They get in the linen, as we used to say. (oh, and by the way, don’t think that this dreadful state of affairs will finish with the death of newspapers. Online Photo Eds and Snappers – oh, ok Monkeys – are just as (un)imaginative as are the paper ones.)

But don’t let it worry you. If you have been lucky in life and never had to listen and watch a back bench fuck-up your picture selection, you will remain unscathed by all this. I’m sure you probably think my head is about to pop off again, driven by dark memories of no-nothing subs and myopic designers ? You may or may not be correct.

I shan’t go on. Just to say, the next time you see Obama do this…

…don’t think that he’s seen someone in the crowd he recognise, it’s just that someone (probably a press officer) once told him that photos of Pointing Politicians get in the linen too. He’s not alone. They all do it. Just watch them all getting off a plane pointing; Take the applause of the crowd, pointing; Arrive in Brussels POINTING. Watch out for Barack when he wins the election. He’ll be jumping for joy.

**”You Can’t Polish a Turd, Mike”…Telegraph Photographer Roy Letkey on being asked by me how his photos were from a terribly thought-out photo shoot.

Farewell to TungstenTossers

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You didn’t have to be a darts fan to appreciate TV commentator Sid Waddell. You merely had to be a lover of the English language, the forced metaphor and the crow-barred simile, and most importantly, possess a love of the ridiculous.

Waddell who died today aged 72 was a star of the BBC’s  and then Sky’s Darts Coverage for 35 years, and almost single-handedly brought the game into the homes of millions, and out of the drab public bars of the British boozer.

Everyone who knows anything about the man has their own favourite Waddell quote, from “There’s only one word for that: Magic Darts” to his legendary summation of Eric Bristow‘s world championship win: ” When Alexander of Macedonia was 33, he cried salt tears because there were no more worlds to conquer…Bristow’s only 27″

Waddell could be described as a combination of the baseball legend and ultimate quote machine Peter ‘Yogi” Berra and Homer Simpson. But his simplistic and bizarre analogies belied the the fact that Sid was a Cambridge History graduate. Waddell was nobody’s fool, even if he pretended to be.

So sit back and relive some of Sid’s greatest hysterical and historical thinkings and his great wit. The world of Darts and TV commentary has lost another magician.

That was like throwing three pickled onions into a thimble!

He’s playing out of his pie crust.

They won’t just have to play outta their skin to beat Phil Taylor. They’ll
have to play outta their essence!

Darts players are probably a lot fitter than most footballers in overall
body strength.

There’s no one quicker than these two tungsten tossers…

He’s about as predictable as a Wasp on speed

The atmosphere is so tense, if Elvis walked in, with a portion of chips…
you could hear the vinegar sizzle on them

There hasn’t been this much excitement since the Romans fed the Christians to the Lions.

Keith Deller‘s not just an underdog, he’s an underpuppy!

Even Hypotenuse would have trouble working out these angles

Steve Beaton – The adonis of darts, what poise, what elegance – a true
roman gladiator with plenty of hair wax.

If you’re round your auntie’s tonight, tell her to stop making the
cookie’s and come thru to the living room and watch these two amazing
athletes beat the proverbial house out of each other

Big Cliff Lazarenko‘s idea of exercise is sitting in a room with the
windows open taking the lid off something cool and fizzy.

Well as giraffes say, you don’t get no leaves unless you stick your neck out

His eyes are bulging like the belly of a hungry chaffinch

That’s the greatest comeback since Lazarus.

It’s the nearest thing to public execution this side of Saudi Arabia.

His physiognomy is that of a weeping Madonna.

There’s only one word for that – magic darts!

When Alexander of Macedonia was 33, he cried salt tears because there were
no more worlds to conquer….. Bristow’s only 27.

Eat your heart out Harold Pinter, we’ve got drama with a capital D in
Essex.

If we’d had Phil Taylor at Hastings against the Normans, they’d have gone
home.

He’s like D’Artagnan at the scissor factory.

Trying to read Reyes’s mind is like trying to read the mind of Jabba the
Hutt

These guys look calm but inside they are as nervous as a vampire who knows
there’s a sale at the wooden stake shop in the morning.

He’s going like the Loch Ness Monster with a following wind!

Keith Deller is like Long John Silver – he’s badly in need of another leg.

On Bobby George – “He’s like a Sherman tank on roller skates coming down a mountain!”

He may practice 12 hours a day, but he’s not shy of the burger van!

He’s like Jack The Ripper on a Friday night.

He’s got one foot in the frying pan and one on thin ice.

Rod now looking like Kevin Costner when told the final cost of
Waterworld.

Tarantino re-writing Gunfight at the OK Corral couldn’t have done any
better than this.

It’s just like taking a sausage from a boy in a wheelchair.

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Stiffening Up (and other Double Entendres)

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It all started when I started fiddling with the girlfriend’s tea-towel holder.

We’d bought a new one, you see, over in France at one of their premiere Old Tut shops. I was attempting to fix it to a kitchen cabinet drawer, bent over a bit too sudden-like and my ribs cramped up (a common occurrence, thanks to an old rugby injury), I then shot bolt upright to try to un-cramp myself when my left calf went into spasm (a common occurrence, thanks to being an old git) and I found myself cramped all the way down my left side. I would take myself off to see the Doc, but he will say my ailments are probably due to the Warfarin (the rat poison the give to recovering stroke patients).

Here’s a few quotes that may interest you:

My GP on my blood-spot-splattered feet:
“That’ll be the Warfarin”

My GP on my irregular and worrying dizzy spells:
“That’ll be the Warfarin”

On the numbness in my face:
“That’ll be the Warfarin”

On the shooting pains down my:
“That’ll be the Warfarin”

My GP on the Eurozone crisis and the war in Afghanistan:
“I’m no expert, but that’ll probably be the Warfarin”.

Well why am I still on it, then ????

So thanks to the producers of Warfarin and the failure of The Incumbent’s Tea towel holder to grip anything effectively (not even my little finger) I’ve been forced to  repair to the sofa, look, listen and learn from the wise sages of T’BBC.

It’s almost certainly an age-thing (or maybe it’s the Warfarin) that I now prefer the sports radio coverage more than I do the television. This may be because Claire Balding isn’t on BBC Radio, but more probably because the broadcasters have to think on their feet to keep the audience entertained, rather than just point a camera at a volleyball player’s arse.

Two exchanges on the wireless demonstrated this perfectly yesterday. One was an interview with Manteo Mitchell who represented the USA in the heats of the 4x400m relay. Half of it he ran with a broken leg, it having snapped down the back straight.

“I felt it break. I heard it. I even put out a little war cry, but the crowd was so loud you couldn’t hear it.” said Mitchell.
I can assure the reader that if my leg broke should I ever again find myself running anywhere, you will be able to hear my ‘little war cry’ in Tanzania. Mitchell completed the remaining 200 meters, unable to create a lead for the second runner in the team. What a lightweight !

I listened, opened mouth to this account, full of shock and awe for this man, knowing full well that I, in the same circumstances, would have used the old Navaho Indian trick of collapsing on the floor and begging for mercy. The piece was marred slightly when the interviewer started raving about the American’s third leg. Which was a bit forward for daytime radio, I thought. There’s a time and a place.

I was wrong.

Not an hour later, another intrepid reporter waxed lyrical to his anchor man (Mark Chapman) about meeting former gold medal-winning diver (the pool) Greg Luganis in the gents urinals. I thought I’d tuned into a police wave band.
“As I stood next to him, I asked him about what was likely to happen later”. Back in the studio, his colleague was incredulous. One could sense a producer’s hand hovering over the ‘off air’ switch.


“You just went up to Greg Luganis in a toilet and struck up a conversation ?” he asked
“no, no, of course not. We’d met before”
(We were not informed where and under what circumstances.)
“I said to him: ‘From what you’ve seen…'”
“You said what ?…” Chapman had clearly fallen off his stool. “You can’t say that to someone while standing at a urinal !”
“Honestly, Chappers” retorted the reporter “it’s impossible to have a conversation with you without you inserting double entendres. I was talking about what he’d seen so far in the pool…”
The chat continued with Chapman desperately trying not to interject with too many men-in-urinals gags. One can only hope the conversation in the loo didn’t contain too many questions regarding diving technique. “Greg, how does one get a ripped entry with minimal splash”. Luganis may have fainted.

Switching back to the TV it was time to witness Mo Farrah run to glory to take the 5k/10k double, and what a fantastic race it was. Mo was determined that he wouldn’t be beaten, aided and manfully abetted by a huge crowd, 95% who madly cheered for a man named Mohammed, a refugee from Africa who runs proudly and passionately represents the country which took him in all those years ago. UKIP and the EDF must be apoplectic.

Those of us watching at home, some laid up on the sofa, tragically stuck down with cramp, were privileged to listen to Steve Cram’s commentary, a real appreciation of distance running, which will be one of the most replayed moments of the entire games. Beside Cram in the commentary box was Brendan Foster, who looked like he’d heard they were opening his pub early. ‘Bottle of Newky Brown, please, pet.’

I am now told by T’BBC of an auction where one can buy London 2012 momentos. Bradley Wiggins’ and Jess Ennis’ stuff is the most popular, so they’re bound to be out of my price-range. I’m off to bid for some of Kriss Akabusi’s broadcasting talent. Apparently there’s not much of it.

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On the Run

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7 Aug 2012 17:01

Missing: Seven athletes from Cameroon ‘absconded’ from Olympic village amid asylum fears

Seven athletes from Cameroon have gone missing in Britain after competing in the Olympics, sparking fears they have fled the Games to claim asylum.

The five boxers, swimmer and a footballer have all disappeared from the athletes’ village at the Olympic Park in Stratford, east London.

Some of the missing Athletes

David Ojong, the head of mission for Team Cameroon, confirmed that the group were reported missing earlier this week.

All seven athletes would have had visas allowing them to remain in the UK until November and it is understood that none of the seven have claimed asylum.

David Ojong told Cameroonian media that of 60 athletes and officials living in the village, 28 have gone home, 24 were still in the village and seven have disappeared.

Two of these three athletes are vital to the Cameroon’s medal hopes

The missing athletes include all five of the team’s boxers – Thomas Essomba, who competed in the 49kg category, Christian Donfack Adjoufack in the 80kg, Abdon Mewoli in the 60kg, Blaise Yepmou Mendouo in the plus 91kg and Terv Sheldonomo in the 364kg – who disappeared over the weekend.

The others were Drusille Ngako, 25, a stand-by goalkeeper for Cameroon’s women’s team, and swimmer Paul Ekane Edingue, 21.

Cameroonian athletes are known to have gone missing at previous international sporting events, including the Commonwealth Games. Once they have left the athletes’ village, the absconders are very difficult to find and apprehend.

Occasionally, the bright lights and many attractions of the bars in the Olympic village and beyond are hard to resist, and there have been numerous sightings of one of the missing men throughout the week.

If you see this man, alert the authorities immediately –
and under no circumstances lend him any money.

She’ll Be Right, Mate

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This, like many of the things read on this website, is a true story: When I was but a nipper (we’re talking in the days of black & white) the bloke who taught me cricket at school (Graham Walder, if you must know), when asked about the impending Ashes series said: “If England bat first and score 738 for 4 declared, then bowl Australia out for 39 and 41, it has been a bloody great game.”

Mr Walder said those words to me in 1978, at a time when we were actually bloody good at cricket (and thankfully, when the Aussies were bloody awful.) And that, pretty much, was how we were brought up to eye the Aussies: They must be beaten at all costs, and when (or normally if) you have them down, put your foot on their throat and keep pressing.

I’m here to tell you that there were many years in my youth and young adulthood when that wasn’t the case. It was Australia who held the whip hand and the Poms who were complete and utter rubbish. A rabble. A bunch of Galahs, you might say. It was a dark, dark time for those of us who followed the game and who had to painfully acknowledge that the colonials were actually in the ascendency. It hurt.

Things have gone full circle, and it’s now The Motherland who are supreme rulers – winning three of the last four competitions. And don’t we love it ? When Michael Vaughan‘s 2005 side first beat…scratch that… TROUNCED the touring Australians, the much-loved English press wasted no time, missed no opportunity and showed no mercy in their reporting of the hapless Aussies. An English victory hadn’t happened for many a long year and the press (and some bloggers) set about their task with vengeful gusto.

And the sport of laughing at the colonials has spread to the Olympic Games.

If there was a 100m Aussie-Bashing competition, “Team GB” would secure a 1-2-3, taking all medals. It’s difficult to open a paper, browse a news site or turn on a TV Channel without someone squealing with delight at the poor performance of the Guys and Gals in Green and Gold. Led, of course, by The Daily Mail and Seb’s own news outlet, T’BBC, the cries of “What’s Happened to the Aussies?” is louder than a Brit crowd cheering Jess Ennis.

Things get worse. If there’s one country Australians hate losing to it’ll be Britain. Unless its New Zealand. Even the Kiwis are doing better than their Tasman neighbours. At time of writing the All Blacks have 3 golds to the Aussies’ 2. This hasn’t gone down well. When New Zealand reached 10th place in the medals table, official Australian Olympic broadcaster Channel 9 reportedly wiped New Zealand off their top 10 Olympic medal table TV on national television, showing only the top 9.

Jeez, mate.

And it’s not just the British Press – the Aussies own have been having a go.

Why don’t we have papers over here like that ? Oh, right, we do.

In the pool there was not a single Aussie individual Gold medal, just a relay win. In 2008 they’d come home with a tucker bag-full of ’em. Some Aussie journos have suggested their athletes lack conviction. You might say that it would be a first for there to be an Aussie without a conviction, but you would be being cruel and historically incorrect.

The Sydney Daily Telegraph decided to combine both Aussie and Kiwi medal totals , calling the new state ‘Aus Zealand’ which ranked ninth in the medals table, still behind Kazakhstan but above the likes of Belarus and Cuba.

Things will improve for our cousins. They are sure to win gold through hurdler and leading lemon-sucker Sally Pearson (unless, that is her face splits asunder should she break into a smile). Perhaps she’s nervous. Perhaps she just isn’t Michelle Jennecke. We can’t all be, love.

With the British medal total looking to break all records (which, after all is what is supposed to happen when you host the games) other nations are seeking explanations, looking for excuses. Aussie press are moaning about the huge Lottery Fund-led cash insertion to Team GB. Quite right. That’s how we felt when you lot were useless in the 70s and decided to inject wads of cash into all sports and set up academies. We learned what to do from you lot.

The French are insinuating that the wheels on our bikes are somehow illegal, as we hide them away after every cycle race. Well of course we do. If history has taught us anything, it’s not to share our secrets with you lot or the Yanks. Churchill had to pawn our best stuff and secrets to save the nation, without so much as a “Thanks, Bud”. We don’t have to do that any more.

US coaches questioned the validity of a great win by a Chinese 15 year old swimmer, Ye Shiwen, querying how one so young could win so well without the use of stimulants. Oddly when their 15-year-old Katie Ledecky produced the second fastest 800 metres freestyle in history to take gold the silence was…er…golden. It won’t be long before Mo Farah will be accused of something by someone, I’m quite sure.

The wheels (legal wheels) seem to be coming off the British Gold Dispenser as Athletes go crook, runners under-perform or even fail to turn up. But that’s ok. We’ve won lots. You lot have a couple. Go on, help yourself, mate. We don’t want to be greedy. And we’re uncomfortable being so good anyway.

By four years time in Rio it will all be very different. Normal service will resume. You’ll remember how to swim, and we’ll remember how to lose, or at least beat you and apologise for doing so – promising it won’t happen again. But I think we can finally dispense with the tag of Whinging Pom, don’t you ?

No Wukkers.

Aussie Gloom over Gold Medal Drought

“Now Vania, What Would You like to Be ?”

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“Miss, when I grow up I’d like to be a 400m Hurdler”
“Really ? Do you think that’s wise ? I mean, what with your surname and all…?”

Vania stumbles over … Bulgarian athlete Vania Stambolova misses the first hurdle in the womens’ 400-metre event.

Personally, I can’t wait to watch Vasliy Dunmibakkin in the weightlifting later.

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