That’s what I want

Posted on May 1, 2009 by The Ed

76 million-to-1. No, not the odds of Gordon getting back in next year, nor your chances against surviving a fortnight in Cancun, but the odds on scooping the jackpot in tonight’s EuroMillions draw. On the upside if you are the sole winner you stand to gain £89 million— that’ll keep you in tamiflu and Mariachi bands for a couple of weeks. It’s about now you start hearing people say “Oh I wouldn’t want all that money” or “winning the lottery wouldn’t change me” or even “I’d carry on working at Lidl“. Well, excuse me. Give me the money and I’ll show you how it can change me. You’ll recognize me instantly as I’ll be in a purple quilted smoking jacket , jodhpurs and a monocle, queuing up at the bank every morning checking my balance (and if I drink as much as I intend to when I win, my balance won’t be as good as it should be). “I beg your pardon!” I shall yell at the top of my voice, “89,274,693 pounds, forty-nine pence? Are you George Bernard about that? Please check it again” And if I don’t like the cut of the teller’s jib I shall take my business and my money elsewhere. This will, of course, mean I won’t be spending quite as much time in the office as I’d like to but, hey, them’s the breaks.
42-15535702

They tell me the interest on 89 million is about £1,524 per day. I don’t think I could drink that much so the trick would be to think of new and exciting ways to spend it. I thought I’d found a perfect solution this lunchtime when an old biddy beside me at the bar ordered a JLo. I waited with baited breath and sweaty palms to see if the pub actually did sell actresses over the bar, but sadly they don’t. Not even as Off-Sales. The landlord suggested to the old girl she might mean a J2O. How disappointing for us both. Imagine the fun you could have with Jennifer Lopez and a pickled egg? “Oh and a Kelly Brook top, please barman. Nah, I’ve gone off the Kelly McGillis—think it’s on the turn.”

I suppose with some of my winnings I could sort out the mortgages of friends and family—but who needs friends when you’ve of wads of cash ? I shall buy new ones, and the family will get it soon enough what with the kidney failure and all. But there must be a more fun, if no worthy way to get rid of it? It’s not gonna make much of a dent in Gordon’s debt, is it, so bugger that. It would be enough to run an F1 team for two years, but you’d spend half as much again on suits for court appearances. I could invest it into Charlton Ath.. oh fuck it, I’m gonna do what everyone does. Play golf, drink champers, follow the English Cricket/Rugby/Netball team around the world. Get fat and pissed watching sport, and why not? I’ve been doing that for 25 years now. See—winning the Lottery won’t change me. Arriba Arriba

We don't need no schtinkeen badgees

Because William Shatner

Posted on April 27, 2009 by The Ed

Whoever said “nostalgia ain’t what it used to be” was living in the past. Nostalgia, dear friend, is where the big bucks are. Everywhere you look there’s a movie or a tv show set in the recent past as that mythical beast, the Baby Boomer and his offspring, relive their youth. The new Star Trek movie is filmed in that stark, 60’s style of the original series. Ashes to Ashes— the follow-up to Life on Mars—is a tv show in which, from where I sit, the idea is how many Austin Princess‘s they can prang in any given episode (I don’t watch this load of old tosh, of course, but I’ve seen the trailers).

Last night the Beeb aired the story of George Best‘s relationship with his mum, and hers with a bottle of Sherry. The attention to detail was perfect, from the grubby state of the Belfast boozers, the thick wooly Man Utd shirts Georgie Boy wore, to the depth of the gusset on his dad’s trousers—could have got the whole team bus in there. Turns out that Mrs Best enjoyed a sharp single-or-three long before her son was lapping champers out of beauty queens’ navels. Who’d have thunk it?

George on the physio's bench. Hard tackle, presumably

At the weekend I watched the movie The Baader-Meinhof Complex: a rip-roaring romp of the 70’s left-wing German terrorist cell and their attempts to blow up the Fatherland, grow ridiculous facial hair and shag each other senseless. If you like your period drama with a lot of blood, guts and sideburns, this is the film for you, thoroughly recommend it.

On stage Mamma Mia, Jersey Boys and Grease are packing them in up West, and I’m sure I read the Pete Townshend‘s giving Quadrophenia the theatrical treatment for the first time. He probably had to do a hell of a lot of internet research for that one.

My influences were Lee Thompsoin from Madness and Ginsters Pies

Music fans also have plenty of old stuff to feed on: I’ve been watching Madness comeback concerts for nearly 20 years, me and thousands of balding, bloating clones, that is. Next month I’m going along to Brixton next month to see the Specials on tour, and I suspect the crowd will be of the same stamp: 40-something blokes reliving their past. The good news is Terry Hall now looks older than I’ll ever, ever be. I wonder if these bands care about the age of their followers? Are they looking for a new audience or content to take the money from the old fan-base? (Chas Smash looks as if he’s eaten a few dozen stragglers from Madstock). I keep force-feeding my daughters my old music (in scenes reminiscent of the IPCRESS File), but I fear they’ll be listening to McFlea and Justin Timberland the minute my back and ipod are turned.

Spandau Ballet announced they were reforming and to embark on a world tour, Duran Duran‘s attempts at similar last year kinda got off to a bad start when Le Bon forgot the words to “Hungry Like a Wolf” (I bet Chas Smash knows them) causing the bassist to throw a hissy fit and storm off stage.
I would include Chas n Dave and Status Quo in this list, but as you know, dear reader, they’ve never gone away and their careers go from strength-to-strength.
So it’s official: The past is here to stay and all the while us old fatties chuck money at them there will always be 70’s and 80’s band lining up to reform and tour again (though Mel and Kim are gonna struggle). So dust off your staypress, box jacket and winklepickers, dig out those legwarmers and bore another hole in that boogie-belt; slip into that cable-knit and wear that titfer at a jaunty angle: we’re gonna work til’ we’re muscle-bound in this ghost town and there ain’t no stopping us now cos we’re the wild boys. Or something like that.

To cut a long story short you look an arse

Masters of None

Posted on April 19, 2009 by The Ed

DV490084 The weather forecasters got it wrong again. They told me it’s warming up, yet all I keep seeing are photos of Policemen in balaclavas—must have been freezing at that g20 demonstration. Silvermans must be doing a roaring trade in wooly headgear for Constable Savage, poor love obviously feels the cold. They also sell duct tape for covering-up those annoying shiny lapel numbers. It’s nice to see there are some retailers who have inadvertently benefited from the financial collapse. I shall wait to purchase my cold weather gear til the bitter gales off the Thames rip around the Valley of Lost Dreams and nibble about me vitals. It’ll be sad enough watching a season involving the likes of Yeovil and Hartlepool, let along enduring a north-easterly unprotected. I’m sure that nice Bobby behind the goal will lend me his if I ask him.
It’s 1981 since we were in the 3rd tier of the english league and, to be brutally honest, it’s no more than we deserve. Playing against the best was great while it lasted but let’s get back to what we know best: pub football, where the only use of ‘wonder-goal’ is when someone wonders if we’ll ever score a goal again and the rotation-system is the one used by fans queuing for the urinals, not by the manager for the squad. There are many upsides to third division football, one of which being you’ll always get in, another is there’s plenty of room to stretch out, and if you get to the ground early enough you get a game.

A packed Valley awaits the teams

If only the Charlton back four obeyed orders as well as the boys-in-blue did on April 1st. Someone (could it have been Daisy Boo of they Yard?) gave the ‘balaclavas on’ order, the bugle played “Tape-Up”, then came the ’99 call’ and a beautifully choreographed sortie began into the massed ranks of 3rd Battalion Swampy. I’m sure there were a lot lot of herberts there, spoiling for a punch-up in the demo that day—there usually are—I just, as yet, haven’t seen footage of a copper getting a pasting. As in all conflicts there were civilian casualties as a policeman with a truncheon and a riot shield has never been a precision weapon of war. If the end hadn’t been so tragic it’d be almost laughable that a large number of these acts of brutality were caught on CCTV — the very same ones that so many have called an invasion of privacy, and those that the Old Bill use as part of their own daily life. I’m sure there’s absolutely no connection between the Hendon Brigade trying to mask their id numbers and faces and the fact they knew that they’d be on camera. Charlton have been on tv camera for years and they’ve never been as devastating in attack as Her Majesty’s Finest were on that fateful day.
I notice that in a last ditch-effort to recover whatever credibility she has left, Jacqui Smith has released the Hillsborough disaster “secret files” ten years earlier than is necessary. Quite why they weren’t released immediately, and why the South Yorkshire Police will still have control of the documents (and not an independent inquiry) is beyond me. They’ll show that Liverpool fans were originally investigated for what happened that day, following the knee-jerk accusations of crowd trouble and football violence that spread like wildfire that day and over the following days. What they won’t show by the time any independent body gets its hands on the files is who in the SYP was to blame, what conversations and interviews took place between officers, and which were hushed-up. Will this new info allow for prosecutions for 96 deaths? Have the police really changed in 20 years since Hillsborogh (twelve of which under a supposedly socialist government) ?
Let’s hope the family of the G20 victim Ian Tomlinson won’t have to wait 20 years til they get their answers. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.

كيف-كان-ذلك؟ *

Posted on April 17, 2009 by The Ed

What a week we’ve had? The shenannegans of F1 continue on the track and in the courts, climaxing with Ron Dennis jumping overboard to save the McLaren team from further punishment over Liargate. The Diffusergate inquiry found in favour of Eva Brawn’s mob and a bloke called Jenson (a fine old English name) still leads the championship. Any day soon the back pages will be full of something called Racegate or even Interestinggate when a Grand Prix is actually more enjoyable AFTER the race starts. What a farce it all is? I’ve actually seen grown men leave a pub to go home on a Sunday afternoon to watch the latest parade from the Nurburgring or Monza. LEAVE A PUB. Honest.

Hands up who's bored with F1?

Meanwhile, in the world of sport, David Dunne was sent off for the third time this season as Man City bid a fond adieu to Europe. Dunne, desribed to me this morning as a “Sunday Morning Lummox”, has the turning speed of your average oil tanker. It’d be no surprise to this reporter if at City’s next home match Somali Pirates were spotted sitting behind the goal, waiting to board him.
Terrific news from Seth Efrica that Andrew Flintoff ISNT playing in the IPL for the money. No, no. He’s playing to hone his 20-20 skills for the upcoming World Cup. Thank heavens for that, then. I guess there’s the added attraction of the probability of him getting injured so he can sit out the poorly-paid Ashes series. On the other hand if Freddie can get hold of the Aussies that are down there and take them out for “just the one” of an evening, maybe we still stand a chance against them, as they won’t have sobered up by July. Our reader with Setanta has promised to keep me up-to-date with the scores from the IPL, not that I give a monkeys.

Gonna be good n hot down there, under the lights. Having played a lot of cricket abroad (albeit to a rather lower standard) I can vouch for the complete shock of playing in a very hot climate and what it does to your system. My military-medium-pacers have been spanked over boundaries from Adelaide to Antigua and I’ve always been able to blame the heat or the altitude for my complete lack of competence with ball-in-hand. On one occasion in Nairobi (5889 ft above sea level) I wobbled and waddled to my mark at the end of my run up before delivering the fourth ball of my spell, when with sweat-filled eyes and a thumping head, I turned and started charging (sic) towards the square leg umpire before collapsing in a heap. “Take a blow, Bealers” came the exasperated voice of the skipper. At least they didn’t score a boundary of that delivery. In Mombassa I didn’t even manage to bowl a single ball as an excruciating pain shot up my left leg after I’d taken but three strides towards the wicket. The doctor said it was cramp, but I’m pretty sure it was cobra-bite.

A rabbit by his hutch

Anyway, never ever again will I throw beer cans at the TV as I watch the English tourists falter and collapse against the Indians/Pakistanis/Sri Lankans as I fully understand how harsh foreign conditions can be on us Poms (playing in Colombo was like playing in a wok). I would, however have donated my left testicle to watch last night’s World Cup Qualifying match between Scotland and Afghanistan, where the Afghans romped home by 42 runs. Played in Benoni, Sef Efrica (presumably the Kabul Oval is undergoing a refurb?), the Scotch were chasing 280 to win but lost their last 8 wickets for 50 runs. Now I know a lot of you will be surprised that Scotland play cricket (it’s staggering popular in the gorbals), but how much fun do you reckon you’d have playing a match in-between US bombing raids in Helmand Province?? I reckon your opening bat may lose concentration every-so-often, deep backward square regularly gets kidnapped before tea, and there’s a land-mine just on a length outside off-stump. I suspect there’s a few short legs around, but that’s another story.

*Arabic for “How was that?”

You’ll Never Walk Alone

Posted on March 26, 2009 by The Ed

News item:
A disgruntled Newcastle United fan has failed in a bid to get himself banned from St James’ Park by invading the pitch.
Kevin Southerton, 26, ran on to the field after Djibril Cisse scored for Sunderland in February’s Tyne-Wear derby.
He told police who pursued and arrested him: “I hope I get banned. I’m sick of watching this.”
Although Newcastle magistrates could have imposed a three-year banning order, they opted to fine him £200.

Now who amongst us hasn’t felt like that at least once in their lives? Anyone who’s spent any time standing in the covered end at The Valley knows that urge only too well. In the 70’s I once watched Charlton draw 0-0 in three consecutive matches, a Saturday-Wednesday-Saturday thrill-fest. It was like undergoing root canal work.

Rubbish

A colleague once wrote of a crusty old fan in Scotland (at some team like Hearts, or Arbroath—you know the type) who every single Saturday took his place in the stand by the players entrance, resplendent in a grubby old mac and woolen bobble hat, and booed his team ON to the pitch. He never missed a home match. Furthermore, after one mid-week away fixture, the team were on the club bus driving home through the pouring rain when they spotted this same fan trudging a lonely trudge through the storm, having been to watch his lads lose away. They took pity on him and picked him up. No sooner had the coach pulled away that our hero stood up at the front of the bus and delivered a long stream of abuse, punctuated by profanities, on what a useless bunch of wankers they were. After 75 yards of this the bus pulled in and the players threw off the old git again.

The Traditional Way to Watch Charlton AFC

Football fans have a bad rep, but there’s always occasional characters like the examples above which give you renewed hope for mankind in general. At this stage I’d like to draw your attention to to a lovely little book by Jack Bremner entitled “Shit Ground No Fans” a collection of football chants collected from around the country. Many are predictable and repetitive, but there are a few little gems within its 256 pages. One example from Boston United goes (to the tune of John Denver’s Annie’s Song:

You fill up my senses
Like a gallon of Batemans
Like a packet of Seasalt
Like a good pickled egg
Like a night out in Boston
Like a greasy chip buttie
Like Boston United
Come fill me again

Beautiful.

Oddly the great Andy Goram song isn’t included in its pages. Readers will recall when Goram, the then Rangers goalie, had been “exposed” in the press as having a mild form of schizophrenia. Shortly after, opposition fans started chanting “Two Andy Gorams, there’s only two Andy Gorams”

And they say there’s no humour left in the game.

This Sporting Life

Posted on March 22, 2009 by The Ed

Spring has sprung,
Da grass has riz,
I wonder where da boidies is?
Da little boids is on da wing,
Ain’t that absoid,
Da little wings is on da boid.

There’s something different about this morning. It maybe that, for the first time this year, I’m able to sit in my garden with a cup of tea without the fear of losing several digits to frostbite. It may be that the new European Champions at Rugby Union are Ireland. (4th place. FOURTH!! How d’ya like THEM leeks?). It may even be that the blue tits in my garden (no, nothing to do with the cold weather) seems to at last be taking an interest in one of the several bird boxes I nailed up over the winter months.

But no, there’s a spring in my step this morning because yesterday IT arrived, just as he promised it would. It came in the post yesterday morning (well, lunchtime—my postie likes his lie-ins nowadays) and was accompanied by a piece of paper on which he’d written “Drool Away”. “He” is my long-time pal Andrew, and “it” is my ticket for the first day of the Lords Test Match against the Australians this July. YES.

I can hear monocles flying out all over Tunbridge Wells, teacups smashing in the Garrick, and a million expletives uttered under a million breaths as a large proportion of the population come to terms with the fact that the tickets are out only a lucky few will get them.

I’ve been going to the Thursday of the Lords test with Andrew for nigh on 20 years now. Through thin and thin we’ve supported England as country after country have turned up at HQ with the press predicting they’ll be over-awed by playing at the Holy of Holys, only to teach the home side a lesson in, well, pretty much everything. I think we speak about six words to each other when we’re there, and we certainly never talk during overs. It’s heaven.

Hook THAT one, yer bastard!

Supporting English cricket is not for the faint-hearted or the easily-disappointed (being a Charlton Athletic fan, you’d think I’d suffered enough unpleasantness), but addict and Addick as I am, I just can’t help myself. Imagine the thrill of seeing 2 out of the first 3 Aussie batsmen get clattered on the head when they were last here. It was hilarious beyond words. We stuck it to ’em alright. So they decided to return the compliment and rout us when it was their turn to bowl.

It happens with an almost predictable regularity but nothing can dampen the goose-bumped optimism for my team’s chances as I pass though the gates and enter the Great Place, awaiting those flanneled fools in their Green Baggies to skip down the pavilion steps. Anyone who’s been on the Nou Camp, the Augusta National, the Oval Office or the Taj Mahal must surely recognize that feeling. (In the Taj Mahal I always order the Doipaza and the Taka Dal, very tasty, and remember, they stop serving at 11.30 sharp). Twickenham is always a bit of a disappointment—it has to be the coldest , soul-less ground on earth, and oddly The Millennium Stadium, Cardiff knocks it into a cocked hat (have I mentioned that the Welsh came in 4th?).

So now the long build-up to that great day begins: There’s the Lions Squad to be announced (PLEASE DON’T TAKE THAT POWDERED PONCE HENSON), Charlton’s Oozalum season will come to it’s inevitable conclusion, and the drone of millionaires parading round an F1 track will soon be interrupting my Sunday lunchtime pint. But I have my ticket for Lords and that means cricket’s back in town, and the world seems a better place for it.

Now where did I put my lucky jockstrap?

A terrifying site for any Ozzie batsman

The Sharp Single

All Done

Category Archives: motor racing