It Is Written

Posted on December 30, 2009 by The Ed

Predictions.

When crap journalists can think of nothing else to write about, and editors have nothing sexy with which to fill their pages, we are left with long and exhausting lists of predictions for the coming year. Here at The Sharp Single things are no different. So read this and you need not read another til, ooh, next week I should imagine.

2010 and all that.

In January David Tennant becomes Dir Gen of the BBC, narrowly edging out the twin-bid from Mathew Horne and James Corden. It’s believed that the board said they didn’t want too much hilarity during important meetings, and yet they still plump for Tennant. Peter Andre marries himself. Katie Price explodes. Her life has gone tits-up.

The recession ends in February. Then it starts again a week later for those of us under £150,000-a-year when the government raises income tax to pay for a Champagne and Crayfish bar at the 2012 Olympic Equestrian stadium.
Following another attempted rectum-launched terrorist attack on an airliner, all passengers are now asked to remove their underpants through customs. John Prescott and Amy Winehouse are exempt. In the third week of February, due to an administrative error there is no sale on at DFS. Early march sees Hazel Blears join the Tory Party, and Peter Mandelson join the Brownies. Boris will say nothing sensible or vaguely relevant all year.
I lose 20 lbs by the end of March, in preparation to put on 25 by late June. In an astonishing turn of events, Jude Law continues to receive offers of work. In April, a virulent strain of Gnu Flu sweeps through Fleet Street and Sky News studios. Some people are almost likely to very probably have a tickly throat. The epidemic is expected to last until a proper news story breaks.

A Briton wins the first seven races in the F1 Championship. Meanwhile, in sport, Chelsea win the Premiere League by one point from Arsenal when, in the Blues last game three late deflected off-side penalties are allowed by the ref, a Mr S.Wonder, apparently. (By the end of the year, each match will be officiated by 7 refs, 2 linesmen, a sheepdog and The Met Police.) Alex Ferguson is finally pickled and displayed in the Man Utd museum for all eternity. United appoint Victoria Beckham as their new coach.

Gordon Brown loses the election and takes his seat in the upper chamber as Lord Thankgoditsallover. Fox hunting is re-legalised by the new Tory Government, as is hanging, public masturbation and child chimney-sweeps. Charlton Athletic make the play-offs only to lose to Millwall, 3 fan deaths to 1 (Duckworth/Lewis method).
In late May, the newly-appointed Minister for War, Mr Liam Fox, announces the Government’s new big push in Afghanistan. Plans are made to enlist every first-born child from labour-voting households (that’ll teach ’em). June 16th, fifty-three women in Florida, California and St Andrews simultaneously give birth to babies of mixed-race and a smashing set of choppers. The women, all blonde, rather soiled-looking, hotel cloakroom attendants immediately sign contracts with The Mail on Sunday. Gillette sales plummet. Or soar. July 21st, a string bag full of lemons is seen being delivered to The Crown public house, Blackheath. But no ice.
By the beginning of August, after a summer of riots and general discontent, Police officers are allowed to carry machetes while on crowd-control duties. All fingerprints and DNA of police officers are removed from the system, to be replaced by those of mortgage-defaulters and lollipop ladies.
Brazil win the World Cup. By now, England have already been roasted by the West Germans, Capello is poached by Portugal and grilled by the press. Then he goes and gets smashed.
Andrew ‘Freddie’ Flintoff is seen urinating up against the Grace Gates at Lords after a particularly convivial lunch during the One Day International vrs Australia. The press dub it ‘Gategate’.
In late September after a ‘leaked’ press release it is widely reported that this year’s must-have toy for Christmas will be Mattel’s Stoat Family Fortunes (David Tennant Edition). A week later all stocks are sold out. Individual members of the Stoat family change hands on eBay for up to £300, except the very popular ‘Piper Stoat’ which you can’t get for love nor money.

In October I turn 40 years old for the seventh time running. Later that month armed police from the crack ‘Arrest Innocent People Squad’ raid a flat believed to be the HQ of a sleeper cell of Al Qaeda, responsible for the alleged underpants plot earlier in the year. Yet again, their information is found to be shoddy: Having forced their way into the premises, all they find is a derelict, uninhabited shit-hole, of no use or interest to man nor beast. And that’s not this years’ only connection with Wales: After a particularly wet autumn at Celtic Manor Golf Club, play is suspended during the foursomes on the opening day of The Ryder Cup when US player Stewart Cink’s caddy is tragically drowned while replacing a divot. Organisers pledge never to attempt to hold the event in Wales again, at any time of the year.
November 2nd and the Google Street View van finally visits my street, when it catches me stealing my next door neighbour’s wheelie bin, to replace mine which was stolen the week before
Thursday Nov 25th, Brisbane: Australia finish the first day of the first Ashes test on 431-1 (Ponting 230no, Katich 125no. Swann 1-250). Ian Botham arrested pending inquiries into an alleged incident in the bar afterwards which leaves 6 members of the Aussie press corps needing treatment. Four (empty) cases of Shiraz and a cricket stump are bagged and sent to forenics.

December: Keith Harris and Orville win Strictly Come Dancing, beating Clare Balding in the final, watched by 48 million catatonic viewers. On a visit by my children, mid-month, I resume the mantle of ‘Best Dad in the World’ – the first time I’ve held the title in 12 months. Their Christmas lists are then handed to me.
On Dec 23rd, a new supply of Piper Stoats arrive on the docks in Liverpool. Massive queues form and14 people are crushed in the ensuing riot when it’s announced sales are limited to one buyer each. Dec 29th: Mattel recall all sets of Stoat Family Fortunes due to a massive, dangerous design fault. Hundreds have been maimed by Piper’s sharp protruding teeth. Richard Branson makes an aggressive takeover bid for the company. Awaiting details of the photocall.

Happy 2011 to both of you

Dark Matter

Posted on October 4, 2009 by The Ed

Well that’s that, then. Time to pack away your shorts and sandals, put the covers on the garden furniture and start the never-ending process of sweeping up leaves. As a default position I’ll be drinking Guinness instead of lager, and if I fancy that something a little bit different I’ll opt for a scotch (size to your discretion) rather than a Magners. Roast potatoes will be on the bars of the nation of a Sunday lunchtime, and the social lepers will drag on their gaspers while huddled round the patio heaters in the garden.

In the mornings it’ll take just that little bit longer to raise yourself from beneath the duvet. It’s a time to delve deep into the back of the wardrobe and re-discover those long-forgotten woolies and overcoats. It’s also the time to play chicken at home. Who will blink first and put the central heating on or stoke up the fire? “Close those bloody curtains, it’s freezing in here!” Life in London will be spent in virtual darkness, only very occasionally punctuated by spells of bright, crisp days, when we’ll moan cos we’ve slipped over on the ice outside.

You’ll walk to the station in the morning and from the station in the evening, never spying the sun as you do so. Wrapped up against the elements with perhaps a hat perched at a jaunty angle on your head, you battle your way through the masses of arseholes and their eye-gouging umbrellas on the station platform. It’s gonna be dark, damp and cold. They’ll be a nasty nip in the air. Are scarves in this year, and if so at what length and what’s the fashionable way to wear them? You’ll have plenty of time to get it just right, as the first cold snap or fall of leaves will delay your train service into the metropolis. Last year during a heavy snowfall the London Underground ground to a halt. How the fuck does that happen?

The trains and the offices of the land will be alive with the coughs and the sniffles of those suffering the latest bout of bugs. Steam will rise from the gloves perched on radiators, placed there in the hope they’ll be dry by home time. There will be empty seats at desks cos ‘Julie has a cold’ or “Dave has the flu”. The perennial malingers have a friend this year in swine flu, offering the perfect alibi for a day off work. It’s a brave boss this winter who will insist you come into the office with suspect symptoms. Having typed that I will doubtless come down with it myself. But for real. Honest.

For those of us who manage to struggle into the office, sundowners on the way home will be a thing of the past, that pleasure of having a quiet sup by the river as the sun sets having been replaced by the joy of a standing by a real fire in a real boozer. It’s early October so the posters to entice you to book your Christmas party will already be festooning the walls of pubs and restaurants. We’re seconds away from this year’s M&S and Coke ads on the telly. My 45th birthday will come and go and my Black Dog will scratch at the door. This year he’s not invited in.

The soccer season will continue unabated, apart for the poorer clubs who don’t possess undersoil heating. The England cricket team will show us new and un-entertaining ways of how to lose matches abroad. Strictly Come Dancing, the X Factor and the like will clog up the schedules until the festive season, by which time you have done your bollocks on pressies, and are able to recite word-for-word both those M&S and the Coke ads. You’ve bought enough food and booze to feed the street, all the while moaning that you only do Christmas for the kids. The kids buggered off round their mates yonks ago.

January comes and you’re even fatter than you were in December, and you vow never to look another Jack n coke (Coke Is It!) in the eye again. If you didn’t purge yourself in November in preparation for the big push, you go on the wagon for the whole of January, which usually lasts 13 days until you have to go out for a drink with your mate on his birthday. Life continues in the dark and the wet of the early months, your eyes peeled for the green shoots of Spring. No-one knows when Easter is as the fuckers have moved it again, the only ones in-the-know being Devil-Dodgers and Sheave-Bringers, and they’re few and far between, thank Christ. The Six Nations Rugby offers a glimmer of hope: It takes so long nowadays that you know by the end of it you’ll be rubbing linseed oil into your bat and liniment into your groin.

Then it all happens at once, seemingly. The National, the Boat Race, then it’s here: the traditional start of the season: The Marathon. The first drink of the year without wearing a coat, and the biggest hangover of the year. It’s six months away, but stick with me kid- we’ll get through the dark times together. Wrap up warm, have a regular wee dram to warm the cockles, close your eyes, think of cold beer, hard pitches, hot tea, blind umpires and cricket pavilions and it’ll be spring before you know it.

The One with the Waggily Tail

Posted on September 30, 2009 by The Ed

You’re never alone with a Strand, so the advert went. Cobblers! You’re never alone with a dog, I say. Unconditional love, always happy to see you and, if nothing else, if you’re all alone in a big house with the windows rattling and the stairs creaking, you can always rely on your hound to get as spooked as you are and curl up in bed next to you and keep you company.

As someone funny once said, when the doorbell goes, a dog more-often-than-not will rush towards it, as if it’s for him, when it invariably isn’t. Dogs are like 2 year-old kids: ever-loving, trusting and smiley, even when they’re pooing on your carpet. I met one the other day called Arthur, an excitable little chap, who wagged his tail at anyone he caught smiling at him and rolled over for his tummy to be tickled . Wish I could do that.

Dogs smell and moult and slobber on your furniture and whine when they want to go out and keep you up at night howling and chew the legs of your chairs and jump up on you with their muddy paws and skid across the lawn rubbing their arses and sniff each others arses and your goolies and lick their balls and yours and knock ornaments off shelves with their waggy tails, oh and they have a penchant for shagging your leg. But they do ALL this with their tongue hanging out and an inane grin across their doggy faces. They are comedy animals. Yes, always been a fan of yer canine.

But not cats. Evil, spiteful little things. Satan’s children. If there’s a cat section on ‘You’ve been Framed’ I turn it off. If there’s a Franklin Mint plate with kittens on it advertised in the Observer Magazine I refuse to part with my “four easy payments of £49.99”. Cats show no interest in you as you walk in the door (unless they’re starving), and even if you do feed them then go into the garden and half kill, half kill, mind you, some poor dicky bird or frog, bring it back into the kitchen where it squirms around the floor until you accidentally step on it with your bare feet or have to put it out of its misery with the aid of a hoover attachment. Cats are definitely not comedy animals. Horrible little bastards. And they know who in the room is allergic or has a phobia of them, as that’s the poor sod who the moggy makes for to march all over their laps, or bury its claws into their bum. Little fuckers.

So it was with great surprise and not a little mirth that I received a link for catsthatlooklikehitler.com. The first and only time I have laughed-out-loud at anything feline since Clarence in Daktari. If I’m ever forced at gunpoint to own a puss, I want this one:

or this one

This bloke has gone a bit too far (or even a Bridge Too Far), if you ask me

And there’s the added bonus that, once you’ve stopped laughing, you’d have no qualms in kicking the little sod up the arse.

Dealing with Tragedy

Posted on June 27, 2009 by The Ed

Can you imagine what the funeral will be like? The world’s weirdest and worst-dressed family queuing up to see who’s the most upset. Sales of dark glasses will rocket in Beverly Hills. The pallbearers, jacket sleeves rolled-up, moonwalk backwards down the aisle, MJ’s silver glove (god alone knows where that’s been) atop of the casket. The vicar screeches woo-hoo at the top of his voice, spins, grabs his crotch and leads the congregation in a rousing chorus of We Are the World (Where Are Your Children?).
As the hearse drives slowly along Paedophile Boulevard, the weeping masses toss monkey nuts onto the bonnet, in respect to Bubbles, the one small mammal who didn’t have to be paid not to reveal what his mate had done to him during those long winter evenings by the fire. Liz Taylor, looking like an extra from Thriller says a few words of thanks, and Diana Ross collapses. No-one is sure if it’s the emotion that gets to her, or merely a sudden puff of wind that catches her off-balance. Liza Minnelli helps the 40 pound diva to her feet then announces a comeback tour and that she’s to stand-in for Michael at the O2. That’ll be a real treat for all concerned. Dame Reginald Dwight accompanies her on keyboard in a rather inappropriate rendition of Johnny Cash’s Jackson. Paul McCartney mutters a few words, something about a woman called Linda and and bloke called John, then flashes several Victory signs to the cameras. The service is concluded by Lisa Marie Presley’s un-plugged version of her dad’s Old Shep. Not a dry leg in the house.

President Obama, who thankfully is still the same colour as when he was born, announces a national day of yawning, three Jacko impersonators are arrested for trying to string up a series of Hollywood Doctors from lamposts by their goolies, Ben reaches No1 in every pop chart in the world, and schools cancel all exams to spare grief-sticken children the terrible ordeal of getting on with their lives. June 25th is named MJ Day, when masks will be worn and babies hung over balconies in celebration of the great man’s life. On that day buggery will be made legal in 36 states. Compulsory in California.

Elsewhere the bodies of young men and women are returned from Afghanistan and Iraq to be buried in simple services by their loved ones. Innocent civilians caught in the cross-fire of war, or by suicide bombers are buried in paupers’ graves. Millions are laid-off as recession bites, nuclear weapons are built by madmen and pointed at their neighbours, floods and earthquakes hit the poorest nations in the world, tens of thousands die. People have their operations delayed or canceled because they’re not on the right medical insurance scheme, and the National Health Service hasn’t the money nor capacity to carry out procedures for cancers, heart defects or the like.

Just as long as we keep it all in perspective.

baqubah

Lions, Tigers and Beers

Posted on June 18, 2009 by The Ed

52956676DR035_Brit_Lions

So what’s it gonna be? The Lions first test? The British Grand Prix? The US Open golf? or the 20/20 World Cup final? If none of them tickle your ivories then maybe you’ll wait until Monday to soak up the action from the All England Club when Wimbledon kicks off? Whatever is your cup of assam, you’ll be hard-pressed not to run into a magnificent sporting event this weekend. Unless you’re me, of course. Saturday sees me donning white flannels for my second full cricket match of the summer. Not quite a crowd-puller of the same magnitude as the above events, but important none-the-less. My reader will be well aware of the damage the last match did to my body, so let’s just hope I’m better prepared for this one—three weeks between matches and doing nothing but drink beer is the proper preparation, right?

So anyhow, I shan’t be plonked in front of the telly to watch the Lions take a mauling, and doubtless I’ll be in a curry house on Saturday night rather than seeing if Tiger’s leg holds up during the third round of the open (though by the sounds of it he’ll be swapping his sand wedge for a rubber ring if the predicted deluge hits New York).

Come Sunday I have nothing on the cards so I should be ready to soak up the weekend’s remaining action. SHOULD be. If only I hadn’t told my satellite company to stick their digi-box up their arse last year. I used to pay around 40 quid each month for their service and a jolly good one it was too. All the sport and movies you could wave an enormous remote control at. But each time there was a fault in the picture (about twice-a-year), or my box refused to record (once a week) it was a painful drawn-out process to get the tv company to attempt to fix it.

flat-screen-tv

I even once bought a “new” box from ebay in an attempt to get a decent picture, but that worked for 3 months before it too collapsed. The tv company’s usual method would be to send a signal down the line to clear the fault. Here’s a tip: it never ever works. They tried that three times with my last box. Didn’t work. So I asked if they could stop sodding about and send a man round.
“Do you have insurance, Mr Bealing?” asked the girl on the optimistically-named ‘Help Desk’
“I have no idea” I replied.
“Well it will cost you £75 to get an engineer round if you didn’t take out insurance” she informed me, helpfully.
Mildly peeved, I said “I really have no idea if I took out insurance. It was a long time ago when I signed up, but YOU will know if I have it, as you’re looking at my details on your screen, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t access that information, but if I book a call-out to you we will charge your account £75 if you haven’t taken out insurance” she read from her card, rather labouring the point.
“No, I tell you what, just disconnect me, I’ve had enough of you lot” I’d now lost my world-renowned patience.
“Well don’t be like that, Mr Bealing, I’m merely informing you that it’ll cost…”
“Look, darling, I know you’re only doing your job, but I really couldn’t give a monkeys any more, just cancel my subscription”

After an elongated telephone rally she finally put me through to the Taking-calls-from-pissed-off-customers Department where we continued to knock it back-and-forward.
“Mr Bealing” the lad on the other end announced, as if it was his name, not mine “I understand you wish to cancel your subscription?”
“Correct”
“Could you tell me why you would want to do that?”
“It’s not what I want to do, it’s what I’m doing. I’ve had enough.” I smashed the answer back at him.
“Which football team do you follow ?” That one came right out of the blue and momentarily caught me off-guard, like a wonderfully disguised pass down the tramlines. I regained my composure and realised where this was going: how was I going to watch my team play on tv without receiving satellite tv?
Lovely back-hand coming up: “Charlton Athletic“. It was the first time I’d ever said those words without sounding apologetic.
“Charlton?” he choked. It had worked. Clearly no-one had ever said that to him before. The chances of them broadcasting a Charlton match were about as likely as them showing a funny Owen Wilson movie. He was beaten by the pace, direction and guile of my answer. Point won.
“Well what if I give you one month’s subscription free?” he offered meekly, the strength sapping from his legs.
“That’s 40 quid! I pay you 40 quid-a-month for your service and when YOUR box breaks down you’re gonna charge me 75 quid to repair it. YOUR BOX. The one I rent. FROM YOU.” Advantage me.
Last effort: “Mr Bealing, what could I say to you to persuade you not to leave us?” he grunted (clearly trying to put me off)
It was a limp effort, a soft dolly of a lob, right above my head. “Well,” I wound myself up “you could say Mr Bealing, we will send an engineer round immediately, at no charge, and while we’re at it we’ll throw in a couple of free porn channels for nothing and my sister to watch them with you”. Game Set and Match to Mr Bealing 6-4, 6-0, 7-5.

We shook hands over the telephonic net and he went off to contemplate his defeat, while I took the plaudits from myself. I waved to the crowd (me in the lounge mirror), I felt empowered emboldened and lots of other words starting with em, most of which made no sense at all. Ever since that day, whenever I hear satellite or cable tv mentioned in conversation I’m compelled to say “fuckem” under my breath. If I wanna see sport I now have to go up the pub to watch it. Which is a real shame, as you can imagine. And yes, I know the Grand Prix’s on terrestial, so I use that as an excuse to go to a pub without a telly. And, as tennis isn’t a real sport either, I expect to do the same for the next 2 weeks.

Grunt.

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If I Were a Betting Man…

Posted on June 6, 2009 by The Ed

They were taking bets on what colour hat The Queen would wear to the Derby today. Bookmakers Paddy Power had lilac as odds-on favourite. Yellow, light blue and white all had interest from the punters, but her Maj—a dark horse herself— turned up in the paddock wearing some sort of pink bush-hat and the bookies had a field day. I’ve lost count how many times someone in my office (it’s usually a bloke from the post-room) has come to me with inside info from a trainer, a coach, a stable-boy, an insider (though rarely a milliner) telling me that a certain horse/dog/hat is a dead-cert, then I stick a crafty fiver on it and imagine the riches of the Indus coming my way via the Turf Accountant. A few hours later the race is run, the match is over or the hat donned and I’m left counting my losses, vowing never again to listen to any more ‘tips’ from that berk who delivers the Evening Standard. Jeffery Bernard once said “One way to stop a runaway horse is to bet on him” and I am living proof that the fine old bugger was, as on so many things, absolutely right.

Five Pounds to win on "The Bastard Sarkozy" please

.
It’s a mug’s game, betting, unless your surname happens to be Coral, Power or Hill, yet the vast majority of us have been guilty of handing over our hard-earned readies at the drop of a (pink) hat, a nudge from a tipster or purely because the name of the horse makes us laugh. Anyone who uses the phrase “if I were a betting man…” usually is just that. Indeed I treat those who don’t bet with the same suspicion as I do vegans, teetotallers, and policemen—not to be trusted. (By extension, my mate Trev is possibly the most trustworthy person I know—just don’t bet on the same horse he’s on.)

If I were a betting man I would have walked down to the bookies and had a shilling on Susan Boyle to win BGT, Alastair Darling to lose his job as Chancellor and England to stuff Holland at cricket. Except I wouldn’t. As we know from our reading and viewing, betting on England is for the deluded or the clinically optimistic. You may as well put your money on Andrew Symons turning up for training as expect any return for your bet on our national teams prevailing over minor opposition. A mate at work (an Australian) said on Friday morning ” England vrs The Netherlands??? What’s the point in you lot playing minnows like that?” He hasn’t been over here long, young, naive, boy.

No-hopers and also-rans. But better than us.

Remember when San Marino scored within seconds of the kick-off? Or how about those “nailed-on” victories which were never to be against the Jocks at Murrayfield and Twickenham, when we only have to turn up to win the Championship ? Or when Eddo Brandes, a Zimbabwean chicken farmer, took us to the cleaners in a One Day International ? We’ve always been crap against crap opposition. Yeah yeah yeah, the Dutch played well, blah blah blah, the lesser nations are catching us up blah blah blah, 2020’s a great leveller, blah blah blah, THEY’RE DUTCH, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!!!!! Clogs? yes. Spliffs? yes. Tulips? yes. Gay policeman? almost certainly. But CRICKET???? DO ME A FAVOUR!!!

Yes, they deserve to celebrate and deserved the win, mainly because they scored more runs than us, but FOR CHRIST’S SAKE. Why don’t we just admit we can’t play this sodding game? I don’t know why I get so upset about it because it isn’t proper cricket and should mean nowt. But it just does. The bowlers were hapless, the fielding hopeless and the batting order made as much sense as a Gordon Brown cabinet reshuffle. Rob Key coming in at six? Jesus! Open with him and make him skipper. Is it any consolation that the West Indies are, as I write this, making the Aussies look like a pub team? Well of course it is. But fuck knows what the Paks will do to us tomorrow night. We’ll be lucky to lose. Oh for a Botham, a Flintoff or even a Symons (born in Birmingham) to save us. Even if all three of them had been out on it for a fortnight (as is their wont) and were swimming in claret, they’d surely have fielded and bowled better that shower did last night.

Middle stump and bottle of chablis please, Umpire

Still, we have the certainty of our national football team doing us proud against Kazakhstan in somewhere called Almaty. Christ Almaty, what’s the point in playing minnows like that? I’ll wager ten of your English pounds we’ll put 6 past them, if I were a betting man…

“Lord Nelson! Lord Beaverbrook! Sir Winston Churchill! Sir Anthony Eden! Clement Attlee! Henry Cooper! Lady Diana! Maggie Thatcher – can you hear me, Maggie Thatcher! Your boys took one hell of a beating! Your boys took one hell of a beating!”
Norwegian TV commentator Bjorge Lillelien after Norway beat England 2-1 in Oslo in a World Cup qualifier in Sept 1981

When the Boat Goes Out

Posted on May 25, 2009 by The Ed

Taylor going for the treble vodka

It is, I suppose, the reason we watch sport—for the unpredictability of it all. Unless you support Man Utd or Phil “The Power” Taylor, one thing thing is for certain: nothing is for certain. One minute you’re flying high in the Premier League, or in the Drivers’ Championship, next minute you’re laying low in the bowels of The Sinclair C5 League (South), or at the back of the grid in the world’s most expensive (and dullest) procession. Newcastle United (who, by the way, still insist that they’re a big club) went the way of all things and spontaneously combusted out of the top divison with a performance as bad as I’ve seen since I last watched Charlton play . Their fans (currently a healthy second place in the Fickle Fuckers League, behind Tottenham Chutzpah) cried openly, bereft of pride or shirts, on the terraces as another in a series of Messiahs couldn’t save the bonny wee lads.

H'away, Pet. The Toon are doon>

Meanwhile, in Monaco, a bloke called Jenson (who used to be crap) won a “race”, leaving another bloke called Lewis (who used to be brilliant) in his wake in what looked like a re-enactment of shoppers trying to find a space in Sainsburys’ car park. At Wentworth, Claire Balding, or to use her stage name, Colin Montgomery, Mr-Creosoted around the last day of the PGA finishing, roughly, 137 over-par, where in years gone by you could have bet an extra shilling that he’d be lactating up the 18th fairway as he wobbled towards the Crown. The West Indies cricket team, once the world force in the game, look like my local team could give them a run for their money at the moment (though I’ll need a couple of days more til I can walk again, let alone play), and Scotland are shit at rugby. No, wait a minute, that’s always been the case.

Am I, I hear you thinking, about to launch into a rant that sport is cyclical and that my beloved Charlton Athletic will soon, once again, be amongst the big boys? No. Not a chance. Charlton have plummeted so low that even the local MP has disowned them. No, like a decent Nicolas Cage movie or a solid stool, CAFC as a footballing force are but a distant memory.

Start the Car

The Aussies cricketers are here and appear to be in that “transition period” which journos love so much, whereas Team England are being talked up like an Minister’s Mortgage claim. Are we really all set to give they guys from Down Under what for? Alas I doubt it. Whatever has been discussed above, sporting excellence very, very rarely disappears quite so quickly, more often than not it’s a slow process of decline. Steve Williams, Tiger Wood’s caddy, when asked if his boss would be a dominant after he recovered from knee surgery replied that they “haven’t operated on his heart or his head”. Nuff said. I suppose if Tiger falls foul to as many injuries as, say, Johnny Wilkinson or Andrew Flintoff then he might end up texas scrambling around Dog Shit Park with Monty, Sandy and Jack, but this leading light is along way from being snuffed out.

Victor Borg

It’s truly sad when you watch sporting brilliance diminish through the process of age, injury or abuse. Michael Owen has been well past his sell-by date for years, Gazza, had he been handled properly, would surely have had much much more to give, and who knows if we’ve seen the best of Freddie? Let’s hope not. Whoever a “great” plays for, sport needs true class on or in the field. Perhaps that’s it, then? We cheer our own favourites through thick and thin, but the real viewing comes when the masters take the stage, and we secretly want to be enthralled by their art and skill, even if it means them giving own boys a damn good thrashing. The Tigers and the Golden Bears, the Utds and the Juves, Borgs and the Bothams, the Zidanes and Zinzans. Some of us, nay most of us never had what it takes to become a legend and can only sit in our collective underpants in front to the telly and watch in awe. Others kid themselves that, as they were in the same changing room, they were in the same class. They clearly were not.

So if your team was relegated this weekend, or your favourites have lost all form, they might be back, they might not. But they probably deserve all they got. They’re not good enough. So put your shirt back on, for Christ’s sake—you’re a fat, boozed-up, grown-up man. Stop crying and come and dine with us lesser mortals at the lower table. Yours ain’t a big club no more. And, in my memory, it never really was.

BRITAIN SOCCER

La Cage aux Fools

Posted on May 14, 2009 by The Ed

As the great Pam Ayres once might or should have said: I’m ‘aving trouble with me tits. As my regular reader will know I was very pleased earlier in the spring to see a pair of Blue Tits setting up home in my newly-nailed-up bird box in my back garden. For the next few weeks there was a flurry of feathers and a chirruping from tiny birdy beaks as mum and dad took it in turns to bring back a selection of worms, maggots and caterpillars for their young to devour.

A Future Poet Laureate?

Well, I say it was mum and dad feeding them, though you never can be too sure: I also have a pair of male Blackbirds in the garden (again, you’ve met one of them here before) who seem to have taken a real shine to each other. I’ve read all the books about competition between the males of the species and of the punch-ups which regularly occur between rivals and, true to form, these two when first sighted were fighting like bird and bird over the local bit of skirt, and I thought that was all very Bill Oddie. Trouble is, they now seem to be best of pals. BEST of pals. More power to their elbows, I say—given that they have elbows— but it’s now made me wonder if my tits are male and female or if one is, ow yu say, a bearded tit? Well you never know, do you?

Anyroadup, I digress again. So weeks of twittery-twittery action and I’m getting all excited and I’m making up names for the babies and I’m still filling the feeder with nuts and THEN. Nothing. Not a sausage. Bugger all. The twittering and the flurrying and the chirpy chirpy cheeping stopped. Last Saturday. It was all very worrying. What had happened? What had scared them away? Chief suspect immediately became, you’ve guessed it, me. I’d prepared for the Incumbent and some friends the world’s smokiest and smelliest barbeque, and had arranged the fire and the seating arrangements far too close to the bird box. THAT’S what scared them away! It was an open and shut case, apparently. My claim that they probably had a second home cut no ice whatsoever.

Yup, they look done!

Pic:FreeFoto.com
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What would you do if your tits disappeared? It’d be a worry, wouldn’t it? Well I guess if you’re Gordon Brown (finer temptress) you’d kneel at the altar in the church of St Alastair of St Campbell and pray that they never come back. But I fear that although Gordon’s final hope of winning, or even competing in, next year’s election has flown the coop, his Great Tits are never gonna leave his nest. The old devils are at it again. Poor old Gordy must be livid. It’s one unmitigated disaster after another, though half of them (of course) are due to his own shoddy judgement. No point listing all the cock-ups again but it’s like watching your doddery old maths master getting waterboarded by the lower fourth, lesson after lesson, day after day, term after term. His mouth’s so full of water he can’t catch enough breath to shout “I resign”. You wanna go help him but as odious as Blears junior, Beckett minor and Under-Clarke are, a little bit of you wants to shout “Serves you right, you manky Scotch Git: You’re supposed to be a Socialist!!”.

A Great Bearded Tit

Such is Gordon’s luck that he can’t even rely on Tory boy opposite to be a traditional money-grabbing, pissed, lard-bucket. Nope, our Dave not only seems to have been a good an honest boy with taxpayers’ cash, but he seems to be showing Gordon the way home by demonstrating he has, at least, some modicum of understanding of what the rest of us are so angry about. He uses phrases like “come down on them like a ton of bricks” and “won’t stand for it”. Cameron’s gonna make sure that we never see a bill for a moat cleaner ever again (did any of us really ever think we’d ever see one in the first place?). He can smell victory and no trouser-pressed pillock is gonna ruin his party. Gordon, on the other hand, seems to have faith in his lucky Gonk, Hazel, and chums to do the decent thing and admit to their “mistakes”.

Have yer seen me motorbike, Gordon?

Mistakes? These weren’t mistakes, they were crimes against the electorate. Their favourite phrase is that they acted “within the rules”. Yes, they acted within the rules which MPs themselves drew up. what next? Centre-forwards deciding there are no off-sides? Michael Barrymore appointing all the swimming pool attendants? I think I shall write my own rules that Guinness should be £1-a-pint. What do you mean you want more money than that? I’m living within the rules. MY RULES!!!! And, while I’m at it, I think I’ll take all those biros and staplers and Post It notes from the office cupboard and sell them on ebay. If I’m caught after a few years by the Personnel Dept I shall admit my “mistake”, apologise on behalf of ALL office workers and demand a committee be formed to see if I’ve done anything wrong. I’m writing my own lbw laws too, by the way. The old ones are far too batsman-friendly.

Anyway, just like a new series of Big Brother, the tits are back in their house, but unlike a new series of Big Brother they’re back making pleasant, heart-warming noises, and are not picking on the alleged gay, black neighbours, sunning themselves outside in the garden. They came back on Monday. Don’t know where they went, maybe went to treat their holiday home for dry rot? But like having Dennis Skinner back, the house seems complete again.

The Beast is back

Pope wears funny hat

Posted on April 26, 2009 by The Ed

Bear defecates in woods. Rose Kennedy owned black dress. Andrew Flintoff injured playing in the IPL.

Ernie was Only 52, He didn’t Wanna Die

Posted on April 16, 2009 by The Ed

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.
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The Sharp Single

All Done

Category Archives: Animals