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

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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

Going Upstairs for a Decision

Posted on July 20, 2009 by The Ed

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Take a note of the day you read this: I feel sorry for the Australians. I do, honestly. I had two clear LBW decisions turned down by the umpire yesterday, and at the other end, we had their opening batsman stumped by about a yard but their umpire refused to give it. Not even a referral. There is a theory (which I’m formulating) that no cricket match should take place without the setting up of cameras at either end, behind the bowlers arm, and square of both ends of the wicket.

Pub and village sides already have to supply the balls, stumps, umpires coats, even the sandwiches so would it be too hard to get four (six would be even better) of the team to arrive with a camera (with tripod, preferably) to position at strategic points around the boundary ? This would go a long way to banishing dodgy decisions from bent umps on the village greens of England (yes, yes, okay, and Wales).

Everyone has a camera (and therefore all think they’re photographers, especially writers) and most cameras these days come with a video mode. When an iffy call was made and challenged we could all troop to the boundary and study the footage. It wouldn’t take any more than fifteen minutes of argument, I’m sure.

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On the other hand we could just get on with the game, trust the umpires and players to be honest and decent. If we go down the video route and ask for each and every decision to be scrutinised by the fourth, fifth or sixth official we may as well get rid of the officials on the field altogether. We could call it Grid Iron Cricket, or somesuch.

For much of yesterday’s game we stood in light drizzle and strong, gusting wind. It wasn’t ideal, but we played on. We got the game finished and no-one was hurt (apart from a fielder who snagged his goolies on the barbed wire fence surrounding the pitch). Driving home last night listening to a phone-in on the radio one caller suggested to save losing time in Test matches and to make conditions “fair” for both teams the ECB should invest in a roof for Lords (and presumably all the other English (and Welsh) Test venues. I nearly careered of the M25.

Britain Open Golf

Apart from the small matters of cost, practicality, humidity and numerous other atmospherics, IT’S AN OUTDOOR SPORT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!!!!! Did anyone see Tiger throw is five iron out of his pram when a gust of nasty Scottish wind caught his approach shot?? Perhaps we should put a roof over Turnberry, St Andrews and Sandwich? Let’s get video referees to see if a blade of grass got between ball and club, which was why Tiger didn’t get backspin? Stop play when it rains or gets a bit chilly?? Thank Christ for Tom Watson. He showed a few of these powdered ponces how to play the game as it was meant to be played.

Golf, like cricket (and, while we’re at it, rugby and soccer) are outdoor sports. They were invented to be played in the elements. Anyone who’s ever played full-back at rugby on a cold and blustery afternoon in January will attest to how bloody hard and miserable it is. But that’s the game. If you don’t wanna feel the wind gusting around, carrying the ball off in all sorts of directions, and your fingers, frozen to the bone and numb to the tips, fail you as you try to grab hold of this bar-of-soap before the entire back row smash you into the icy mud below then I suggest you either play all your games in Cardiff or buy an X-Box.

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If your idea of golf is a windless day, with perfect greens and nice, flat, soft, fluffy fairways which allow one to float a wedge into within 6 foot of every pin then you can go into Tiger Woods 09 on the Wii and select “turn off elements”. It’s a pastime but it’s not sport. A bit like tennis. I blame Wimbledon for a lot of things, particularly endless Tiger Tim and Morbid Murray headlines, and the rise of the middle class woman into the assumed status of ‘sports fan’. Listen, darling, two weeks of stealing the best armchair in the house, painting your face with a union flag and understanding Hawkeye doesn’t suddenly turn you into Desmond Lynham or even Kirsty Gallagher (bless her). But now that you have your bleedin roof over centre court all the other part-time sofa-jocks think it’ll work for every other sport.

Watch Brian Glover in Kes playing the PE master pretending to be Bobby Charlton and you lot will realise how football AND ALL REAL SPORT should be played. NOT in manicured sports halls, NOT under the supervision of fifty tv cameras but outside, on grass under the clouds and officiated by proper humans, complete with all the frailties, weaknesses and mistakes that humans bring with them.

kes_1969_2

For the record, I hit 28 runs (16 of them off a 17 yr old girl’s bowling. It was her first ever game) and took 3 wickets (one of which was that of the girl’s even younger girlfriend). I feel it’s only a matter of time til I get a call-up for England. Move over Freddie.

T3

Posted on July 11, 2009 by The Ed

The-newsroom-in-the-final-001

Ok, I admit it. I’m knackered. Not physically, but mentally shot to pieces. No, mentally too— due to that poxy bed of mine— but both my brain cells have been spinning about all week trying to take it all in. My regular reader will have noticed the distinct lack of entries on these pages. I’m sorry— I haven’t had a minute to scratch my arse, let alone compose my flowery, illiterate prose. It’s hard to believe just a week has gone by since I was saying my farewells to friends and colleagues, leaving the office and the employ of a huge, American news organisation to take my seat in the office of a huge, American news organisation. Variety is the spice of life, so they say.

Telegraph, Time, Times. What next? Tatler or Take a Break ? Answers on a postcard please. Pity Titbits is no longer with us. When I finally throw a seven, and I’m called to meet the great Chief Sub up on the celestial back bench he’ll no doubt ask me to account for myself, and ask me what I’ve done.
“Who have you worked for, down on earth” he’ll ask, not bothering to look up while trying to come up with a pithy headline for a page seven lead (they never look up at you).
“Conrad Black, Jim Kelly and Rupert Murdoch”, I shall bleat, sheepishly.
“That doesn’t seem very many employers for one so old?” he’ll query.
“Ah, yes, well I did freelance for Richard Desmond on the Express for six months, and a couple of moonlight weeks on The Mail”
“Really?” he shall ponder “But it says here you’re a socialist!”
“Yessir, I am, but I was trying to bring down the system from within. Robert Maxwell had snuffed it before I got a chance to work for him”
“Piss off. You are shallow, unprincipled charlatan. You’ll have to work for our Sunday tabloid—The News of the Clouds.”

As I’ve often had to explain to my father every time I take another job with a less-than-liberal organisation: we can’t all work for the Guardian. Or the Co-Op, or Greenpeace or even Amnesty International. I never bothered to become a doctor, so Medicine Sans Frontiers is out (I even failed to get into Jeux Sans Frontiers as Stuart Hall’s replacement), and my application to succeed Ban Ki Moon has yet to be answered (I put myself down as Mi Ki Bee, as they all have silly names).

So, like most of us, I’ve just followed the fun and the money. Well, that’s been the plan—often it’s been bereft of much of either. I’ve applied ice-cubes to topless girls nipples (both professionally, and for my own amusement), covered Royal funerals (ditto) sent photographers to shoot wars and world cups, elections and erections, found pictures of tsunamis and toon armies, famines and farmers, operas and soap operas, child molesters and politicians*

And that’s why we all do it: for the randomness of it all. And the best thing about doing it on a daily paper is that the night before, when someone asks you what you’re up to tomorrow, you can honestly say “I haven’t got a clue”, it’s the fun of covering the news. 4 seconds before a plane hit the twin towers on 9/11 I’d put my jacket on in preparation for a pint of lunch. No-one could have ever predicted it (outside the CIA, of course). That pint came eight hours later. And it was good. The adrenaline that flows, and the beer that flows with it is something to behold and savour after a big news day. And that’s why we do what we do in this sometimes silly, often exciting, occasionally distasteful business of, what my mate Tom calls “The Never-Ending Quest for the Truth”. Hmmm.

My new colleagues at our sister paper The News of The World have been the story themselves this week, having allegedly been naughty boys when obtaining private information on celebs through the medium of Private Eyes and phone-taps. It’s all a matter of opinion, I suppose, but why you’d go to such lengths to listen to what Elle MacPherson, Gwyneth Paltrow, Boris Johnson and Gordon Taylor have to say baffles me. Taylor is as dull as gnu shit, and if you can translate anything Boris says into a coherent sentence, you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din, have a large wad of cash for your efforts. Trust me, I used to sub his stuff. Fluent Swahili.

So what has been my contribution to News International’s production this week? Well, I bought a round of coffee a couple of times, found a photo for a shopping story, had a row with the IT department (yes, honest), edited a photo shoot of a transvestite nurse (story killed), reshuffled the rota which fucked-off half the department, and got lost on the way back to my desk from the loo. Twice. Not a bad start to my career. But I’m in, I’m a coiled spring, waiting to pounce and source those snaps for the next proper story to hit the headlines. All the gardening stories, shopping features and late-breaking makeup covers act as practice and preparation for the big stuff when it comes, say Thatcher’s death or and England test win.**

So the real stuff starts next week. As soon as I get a pc that works and can remember anyone’s name, I’ll launch myself into action, and they’ll know what they’ve getting for their money. Oh bugger. Better polish-up that CV.

*delete where applicable
**perm any two from two

Nessun Dorma Windows

Posted on July 5, 2009 by The Ed

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It’s all gone a bit how’s-yer-father. Things are not how they should be, here at Railway Cuttings. Between us, the incumbent and I are managing an average of three hours sleep per night. The reasons are many and varied. For starters I have a crap mattress. I forget where I bought it, but by the feel of the springs poking though the sheet, into my left shoulder blade it would appear it came from the set of Midnight Express. My significant other has lost the use of her right arm and shoulder, and the mattress is in the frame as the chief culprit. There are other factors to consider:

Even on a pleasant, temperate night temperatures in my bedroom reach around 240 degrees (gas reg 9), but over the past several days London has been gripped by a heatwave. My bedroom has turned into an Aga. Lay down on my bed and after a couple of minutes you get to appreciate how a Pop Tart must feel during its last few in-tact moments. I tell you, it’s fucking hot. The sweat reaches Cool Hand Luke proportions. Windows need to be opened, fans need to be engaged. Sod it! I remember that I’d donated my room fan to Kate’s youngest son a few weeks ago— he was hot. Bugger. Pas de problem, windows at each end of the house are opened—get a nice breeze through. Ahhhh that’s better.

But there’s another snag: Although it’s not quite Elwood Blues‘ apartment, my house is located quite close to the local railway station—as my pet name for it implies. You don’t notice the trains during the day, nothing more than a gentle hum in the background when you’re grilling your bangers on the barbie. But lay down in bed on a hot, humid night, windows open, and it feels like you’re getting your head down at the far end of platform cinq, Gare Du Nord. They come in and out of the station about every 12½ minutes—synchronized brilliantly with the time I manage to position my body between the razor-wire springs and the boulders in my mattress, get as settled as I can, turn over the sweat-soaked pillow, and drift gently into the land of nod. The sound of the 12.21 from London Bridge sounds like that tank in the last scene of Saving Private Ryan. Terrifying.

Come here, there’s more. Once the last train (The Vomit Comet) carrying the piss-heads of South London home to their caravans has gone through, we then get treated to the heavy artillery: I don’t know what these night trains are they’re carrying, may be milk, maybe coal, maybe nuclear warheads or toxic waste for landfill, but these, slow-moving, creaking, rumbling fuckers make the window frames rattle, the half-full dishwasher dance around the kitchen floor downstairs, glasses rattling therein, and the toilet seat crash down to the closed position (yes, I know).

No matter, at least we’re not being slowly sauteed in our own perspiration. The breeze feels good, though I suspect that it’s the gentle zephyr through the window that’s also contributing to our cricked backs. It’s a price worth paying. When cricket umpires start collapsing at the wicket, as one did yesterday, you know that this global warming which we’ve all been hoping for has finally arrived. Around 4am I try another tack: BBC News24. If anything can induce sleep, surely that can? Well, in part. I drift in-and-out through the night and seem always to wake up at the same time past the hour, therefore catching the same news item, time and time again. Last night I saw brief highlights of the Ladies Singles Final at Wimbledon FOUR TIMES. I didn’t want to see it once. That can be a tad frustrating. I start getting angry with myself that I’m not asleep— which means I can’t sleep.

red_sky_at_night

So I get up, go downstairs to make a cup of tea and to help the garden greet the morning sun. Kate’s been up for hours, her back pain being too much to bear (she’s watched the same report on Michael Jackson’s memorial five times since midnight). We grunt sympathetically at each other and shuffle around the house. We wait for a decent hour to start functioning properly, when we can convince ourselves that it’s not Saturday night any more, it’s actually Sunday morning. Proper conversation starts at about 7.30. and we plan our day. Nothing is open til 10 o’clock when I’ll go get the papers and some eggs from breakfast. Then perhaps a stroll before lunch, and a mass newspaper-reading session in the garden this afternoon. It’s only to delay the inevitable: going back to bed to try to catch up on sleep. If I go to bed before 10pm I’ll be wide awake by 4am, at best (British Rail allowing), so I’ll have to hold out.

Perhaps a couple of sundowners or nightcaps later will help? I start a new job tomorrow and I’m as nervous as a Brazilian backpacker on a London Tube. Yes, perhaps a modicum of claret will chase away the nerves tonight, block out the pain of the springs, and the noise of the chuff-chuffs? But moderation is the key. Hungover, exhausted and walking hunched over like Marley’s ghost is no way to arrive on your first day of a new job.

Dunno, maybe I’ll sleep on it.

Time after Time

Posted on July 1, 2009 by The Ed

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Every morning in my office at 10.00hrs (ZULU) all the journalists in the office assemble in a meeting room to discuss the schedule for the day. We call it the Story Meeting, elsewhere on other publications they call this Conference (note no “the” or “a”, just “Conference”). It’s at these gatherings where ideas are tossed around and discussed and the magazine/website takes shape. Now I say “all” our journalists attend these 10.00 meets—they do eventually—but there is one guy who never EVER manages to make a 10am start. He bowls up at 10.04, 10.07, sometimes he even gets as close as 10.02 but never does he make it in for 10.00. Occasionally we meet at 12.00 and guess what? He can’t make those on time either. 12.10, 12.08— sometimes he doesn’t bother showing up at all! He’s not alone in this. Over the years we have had several serial offenders, those who struggle to make the trip from London to London for 10 o’clock. It can’t be that difficult, can it? A photographer once called me from his car saying he was going to be late for a 10 o’clock assignment cos the traffic on the M25/M4 junction was heavy. At 9.30 in the morning. Really??????? YOU CABBAGE!!!! After reading him his life story and suggesting he might have thought of getting up earlier to beat the traffic (if you’re an hour early for a job, you can go get a cup of coffee) I pulled the line on him. Never employed him again.

Let\’s think of something to write about

I hate being late. If I am ever late for anything I get all anxious, sweaty and nervy. I’m anal— at least that’s what I think the ex-wife called me. If a party invite reads “8 til late” I turn up at 8 o’clock —and more often-than-not 7.45. That’s not because I want to get there before the booze runs out (honest), it’s just because I treat tardiness as an insult to the host, and therefore when people are late on me I tend to get a wee bit peeved. Of course none of us can ever be on time for everything, but repeat offenders don’t cut much ice with yours truly. And everyone will know one of these types. You will all have mates or couples who are always late for appointments/drinks/meals/concerts etc. They leave you hanging around at the bar, outside the cinema or in an eaterie for minutes even hours. And they do it every time you arrange to meet, AND YOU STILL TRUST THEM TO TURN UP ON TIME THE NEXT TIME!!! They all do the same trick of gigling when they finally arrive, laughing it off “oh sorry, I fell asleep, tee hee”, “sorry, mate, the cab was late, ha ha” “have you been waiting long? Jesus you look pissed, snigger”etc etc . Well I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s fucking rude!

Late is very rarely a good thing: A late tackle in soccer or rugby is never to be condoned (unless you’re a South African, apparently); If your girlfriend tells you she’s “late” that usually focusses the mind; The Late Michael Jackson, doesn’t cheer a lot of people up; Andy Murray looked cream-crackered after his match went on late into the night; the US turned up late for the last two World Wars (been nice and early ever since though) and my postman seems to have swapped his morning delivery for one in the late afternoon. On the other hand if you get a “late one” in a pub, you’ve had a result!. But in general, late bad, early good.

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So we come to Andrew Flintoff. Master bowler, intimidating batsmen and an all-round piss-head. He turned up late the other day for a bus which was taking the England team to a bonding session as part of their build-up to the Ashes. Apparently there had been a players’ “dinner” the night before and Andy felt a little “tired” in the morning so missed the bus. He has previous with this type of thing and it’s getting worrying for us fans, annoying for the coaches and staff. A hangover is a self-inflicted injury, and not an excuse to miss work, whatever you do for a living. It’s definitely not the sort of thing you should be sporting a week before you face the Aussies in the series of all series. If you wanna go out and play in the pub on a school night then you have to face the consequences of feeling like shit in the morning. But GET INTO WORK whatever happens. I myself am not adverse to the odd one of a midweek evening, but whatever state I get into, I make it into work the following day and I expect others to do the same. The worse thing that could happen to me is that I stick all the photos for the magazine in upside down. A hungover or off-form Flintoff could LOSE US A TEST MATCH!!!!!!! For Christ’s sake !!!!

C\’mon Andy, you\’re in next

A worrying line that came out of official England channels was that Flintoff “working very hard to avoid issues fuelled by drink.” I put it to you, yer honour, that if you have to “work very hard” at not getting pissed you really do have a problem. I’m sure I must know lots of people who don’t have to work hard not to have a drink, I just can’t think of any at the moment. So enough, already. Come on, Andy, knock it on the head for a few weeks. Yes we all wanna laugh at you, rat-arsed, walking down Downing Street at the end of the summer, but try to keep the cork in the bottle until you’ve given the Strines a mauling. It’s really much more important than going on the piss.

I don’t believe I just typed that.

Saved By The Big Red

Posted on June 27, 2009 by The Ed

Thanks, Big Fella

It’s a wonderful thing, this old interweb. No Sooner had I posted the last blog about deleting my Jackson rant, then my old mate Jim in New York (who really should be asleep) somehow recovered it for me and sent it back to me (see below). His chilling opening line of “remember, nothing is ever deleted on the internet” does give me pause. Really??? Nothing at all? How does that work then? What if I have a spiritual moment and I discover I actually do like Hazel Blears, Jacko or Clare Balding after all? Say I suddenly convert to Conservatism, or start riding a bike into work? Does that mean I can never hide my tracks by deleting all offensive material I’ve ever written on here? That is scary. Anyway, without further ado here’s the original blog written, please remember, after several gallons of Dr Carlsberg’s cure-all on Thursday night. Apologies to those who are reading it for a second time. (And if you still want more of the same, go and see what Angry from Manchester has to say about it all)

Breaking news: any of you who bothered to enter my ” How-Many-Dates-Will-Michael-Jackson Play in Greenwich” sweep will be sad to learn that I’m keeping the cash. Oddly, no-one predicted “none”. Oh well, one less kiddy-fiddler wandering around the planet, I suppose.

Most perverts, of course, don’t have the money to pay-off their victims so they won’t testify against them, but this bloke (sic) did, so—how can I put it?— bovvered. Odd to say I’m sad I never saw him perform live. As a kid I (like everyone) had Thriller and Off The Wall and musically the bloke was a genius, obviously, (History is still a magnificent piece of work) but I wouldn’t want Mozart wanking-off my eight-year-old either. The only thing I’m amazed at is that, at this early hour, he seems to have died a normal death (conspiracy theorists and later news items may prove me wrong).

Farrah Fawcett is doomed to be the Mother Theresa to Jackson’s Diana. That’s sad. Apart from being an icon to hetros and gays alike, I adored FF and I was sad to here of her demise. She had a few grand moments which we’ll all remember, unlike Jacko who had thousands, but who would you like to babysit your kids? His skin at the end would almost qualify him as a BNP member (I’m guessing he had no Welsh blood?)

Eccentric Peter Pan of pop? My arse. I can say “My arse” now, cos he’s Out of My Life. And thank fuck for that.

Hold The Front Page

Posted on June 25, 2009 by The Ed

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Apparently we’re no good at tennis. In other news: Pilate washes hands, Bealing likes a beer.

Haven’t we always been crap at this game (since the days of long trousers, anyway)? Did anyone expect a Brit, apart from the miserable Jock (tautology), to do well at Wimbledon? There’s 15 year old Flora Robson, (sounds a bit of a Jock to me too) who Fleet Street have piled the usual pressure onto. Keep em peeled for that young girl’s head to pop off in the near future. Now that she’s fallen at the first, we’re left with young Andrew. The press seems to have him nailed on to win it, as is their wont, but that’s where our national charge on the Championship ends. As far as I can remember we’ve never had a mass of over-talented types in any one given year. Murray’s on his own, as was Tim before him. I suppose the Lloyd brothers offered a two-pronged attack—though they weren’t exactly world-beaters. Were Virginia Wade and Sue Barker contemporaries? I can’t remember, or indeed be arsed to remember. I can’t think about Virginia without that horrible image of Betty Stove honing into view, like Clare Balding’s big ugly sister.

Mottram

There was, of course, the great Buster Mottram, the darling of the National Front, who was only slightly less good at tennis than he was at being a politician. I mean who gets thrown out of UKIP for being too right wing? Not only did Mottram have no supporting Brits to play Davies Cup with (Mark Cox was about 78 and was still ranked higher than Buster) but he had no Mottramania to egg him on during matched on Centre Court. If it was Henman Hill and Murray Mound, I suppose he could have had Buster’s Bunker.

I suppose wherever he is today, Mottram will be content with the fact that his beloved BNP have done well in the recent elections. Though even they seem to be in trouble again. My teeth nearly flew out yesterday when i read that the Equality and Human Rights Commission have demanded the Nick Griffin’s mob drop their colour bar. I was shocked to read that the BNP has a “whites-only” membership policy. Really??? You’ll be telling me next that the Klan doesn’t allow in Pakistanis. What a complete waste of time that is. Is there really anyone in the UK from the ethnic communities who has been turned away from joining the BNP? If there is they should be taken around the back and flogged for a crime to their race. Don’t sue the BNP— ban them, beat them up, then lock them up. It’s not democratic, I know, but who gives a monkeys about democracy when it comes to that lot?

Here’s what you’re dealing with: In response to a question on whether a black Welshman would be allowed to join the BNP Griffin told Channel 4, “There is no such thing as a black Welshman – you can have a black Briton but you cannot have a black Welshman…Our party acts for the indigenous people of these islands. We will act for others but they are not allowed into the party.”
Well that’s ok then. I’m all for keeping the Welsh out of Britain (I’m collecting old bricks to rebuild Offa’s Dyke) , but there’s more than a whiff of Bavaria about this bastard. And anyway, what would Colin Charvis, let alone Shirley Bassey have to say about it?
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I don’t know if Arthur Ashe ever played Mottram, but one would like to think that Arthur would have stopped meditating, jump the net and thrash old Buster within an inch of his life with one of those lovely old wooden racquets. “Oooh I say” Dan Maskell would have said. “That’s a peach of an attack”

So I’ll leave you to settle down and watch the Scotchman fly the flag in his lone assault on the title. That flag would be the Union Flag. Which belongs to us (even the Jocks and the Welsh). Not to the Nazis.
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One For the Strasse

Posted on June 12, 2009 by The Ed

I used to like drinking. A lot. No, sorry, that wasn’t grammatically correct, let’s try again: I used to like drinking a lot. During my 20s and early 30s, when I was playing regular sport and was not fit, but a lot fitter than I am now, I used to enjoy the prospect of stupid and borderline-suicidal drinking-sessions. For example, I remember one Easter rugby tour to Limerick in 1994 when I can’t have slept more than a few hours and must have consumed at least 10-12 pints of guinness a day, for four days straight (though as we know from Greaves’ Rules we shouldn’t be counting after the second round). I must confess to having a slight hangover for the rest of the week when I returned home and to work, but the point is I got through it relatively unscathed.

Our lads appraise the facilities at a club in Ireland

Rugby tours were the fixture on the calendar when you knew that you and 50 of your closest mates would travel to some part of europe and get completely shit-faced, play rugby and get completely shit-faced again for four days and love every minute of it. No shirking was allowed, anyone caught avoiding beer was either punched or doused in ale—then handed a fresh pint, sleeping at the bar was a no-no and, for the youngsters, even eating was frowned upon. One year in Blackpool a mate and I, in attempt to escape the carnage in the bar, went to a local cinema to hide and slept through Reservoir Dogs. When we returned to the hotel bar and our deed was discovered we paid the price of mockery and derision from our peers. We brushed it off and, having had a couple of hours of shut-eye, continued to drink through the night— thus negating any benefit that our trip to the Odeon may have given us.

That’s all in the past now. It’s not that these booze-fests don’t continue at my rugby club, or any number of the thousands of clubs up-and-down the country, it’s just that I just can’t take it anymore. Drinking a gallon-or-two in a day still holds it appeal to me and is not beyond my talents, but having to get up the following morning and do it again, and again AND AGAIN scares the life out of me. But it’s not that I don’t like a sharp single-or-eight on a special occasion. I remember sitting in the newsroom at The Daily Telegraph one day in 1991 when the BBC news on tv announced the shares were suspended in the shares of MGN (Mirror Group Newspapers) pending further announcements. Robert Maxwell had thrown himself/had been thrown overboard from his yacht in the mid-atlantic, missing presumed dead. The howls and whoops of laughter that went up that day were only drowned out by the pop of corks and the chink-chink of glasses as the massed ranks of journalists celebrated the death of a crook. Fleet St being what it was, everyone knew someone who had been fired, turned over or shit upon by the Bouncing Czech and the party went on long into the night. It’s always easier coming into work with a hangover if everyone you work with has one too.

There have been some great leaving dos and wakes over the years too— when the drink has flown in the City Golf Club, The Punch, The Old Bell or any number of those lovely old boozers in EC4, or even E14, WC2 or SE1—in fact anywhere where we could raise a glass to the dearly departed or the damn-right-lucky to get out. The more I go to and the older I get, the less I drink and the more it hurts. Hangovers are a terrible thing at the best of times and I’m here to tell you that they don’t get any easier. It’s called getting old, I guess, but we mustn’t give up the fight. Only the other day I was involved in a Danny La Rue memorial session down my local. It lasted for no more than three or four pints, and in truth I was on my own but I was damned if having no-one to play with was gonna stop me from marking the life of the great man or woman.

Off for a Sharp Single now. Toodles.
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Battle-Scarred Galactico

Posted on June 11, 2009 by The Ed

It’s a funny thing, this working-your-notice lark. It just doesn’t seem right: I haven’t had a row in the office for ten days now. I’m not saying I’m walking around with a bloody great smile on my face ( I do have an image to maintain) but through a system of calm meditation, deep breaths and mantras I have, so far, been able to keep the lid on it. “It doesn’t matter anymore, it doesn’t matter anymore” I chant to myself as the next idiot lines up to make my life a misery. So with half a skip and a third of a jump and smidge of how-do-you-do, I inch my way towards my goal of getting out of here. Walking around, trying not to to engage in anything too heavy, with that thousand-yard stare usually adopted by characters in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, or by Charlton fans at 4.45 every Saturday afternoon. I feel drugged. I feel distant. I feel detached. I feel thirsty.

To be honest, most of the chaps (and chapesses) around here are all-round good eggs, and welcome to marry my sister (or brother) any time, if indeed I had a sister and I knew where my brother was. Yes there are a couple who I would gladly insert an Hewlett-Packard inkjet printer into, but by-and-large they are top people. If I’m frank, this is where the similarities between me and Christiano Renaldo end. I’m not sure he’s gonna leave too many friends behind, and he’s been detached from anything that doesn’t directly concern him and his ego for years—not just since this morning. Wayne Rooney will be treating himself to an extra pie-and-a-grannie Happy Meal as he looks forward to next season when he realises that someone might actually pass him the ball. Let’s hope Wayne manages to get in just one more stamp to the goolies before the Portuguese ponce departs.

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There are obvious differences, of course: I’ve not been poached for £80m to join another team, for starters. No! Not even close, honest—even though some might say I’m worth it (others differ). My remaining weeks here will involve what to take, what to leave, what to transfer to my old office to my new one. Obviously I won’t be stealing from my present employers, but there are a few things here I own, have bought or have been given that will be just as useful in my new life—so bollocks! There’s a leaving drink to sort out, of course, I doubt if Ronaldo will have one of them. If he does, do you reckon it’ll be down his local boozer, with him stumping up 50 quid for ham sarnies (just in case there are women there) ? No, nor do I. I bet he’s not worrying, either, if there’s any way he can get Chas n Dave to play at the pub to give him a right good knees-up for his farewell.

Yes, I do hope I’ll be a little more missed from here than Ronaldo will be from Utd. I would like to think I haven’t upset quite as many colleagues over the eight years I’ve been here as he has in his term in Manchester. (okay! no-one count em up). We’re obviously two highly-skilled professionals and have rightly gleaned many awards and plaudits from our peers. But whereas he is and big-headed, self-centered, selfish, earringed, one-trick-pony little arsehole, I have never worn earrings.

Everyone would get a little bit grumpy after 8 years in the same job ? Trouble is, I was like that after the first fortnight.

The Sharp Single

All Done

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