Category Archives: motor racing

Who’s Been Naughty, and Who’s Been Nice?

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So, in the immortal words of my old Night News Editor, as we progress “out of one shitty year, into another shitty year”, what have we learned ?

Well, we know that a 3-iron is as good at getting you at out of the rough as it is at getting your old man out of his Mercedes. Being 106 years old doesn’t preclude you from competing in international sport- as Tom Watson, Ryan Giggs and Kevin Poole have taught us (look him up!). Google Street View hasn’t become the burglars favourite tool, and they STILL haven’t been down my road.

All MP’s are wankers. Most are theives and crooks. I will never make a 50 in a competitive game of cricket. Or an uncompetitive one for that matter. Newcastle Utd and Man City are still big clubs. Apparently. I don’t want to go to work any more. There is far too much conversation in men’s toilets. It’s nearly time for me to win the Lottery (I’ll see you alright, don’t worry). Fat unattractive women can sing rather well. Rage Against the Machine can’t.

Michael Jackson didn’t die a natural death. Remember to hold that front page. We still haven’t a clue where Bin Laden is, but they’ve found the rest of his family. In general, I don’t like people. Policemen don’t like being photographed when they’re hitting people, but they do like kettles.Obama has been a bit of a disappointment, to be honest, but my poster I bought of him on ebay is not coming down. Life is better with Malcolm Tucker and without Hazel Blears

. Jade Goody will soon be beatified. Clare Balding should be. I’m not as fit as I should be, but about as fit as I thought I was. Ricky Ponting can’t win the Ashes in England., but he’ll manage it in Australia. F1 is still an interesting sport all the way up to the start of the race. Renault drivers are naughty boys. Blackheath still doesn’t have a decent boozer, but I’d like to think I contributed to the recent glut of lemons. Gordon Brown is still the PM of Great Britain (I can always Tipex that out if something happens before I go to press).

I’ve had a cold for 8 weeks in the last 52, and no matter how many channels you have to watch, there’s never anything decent on between car insurance adverts. IPL will ruin cricket as we know it. Football is already a shambles. It’s not the Chinese or the Indians, the carbon footprints or the motor cars: It’s the bankers who have fucked up the world. We want our money back.

It doesn’t matter how loathesome the BNP are, how ridiculous Nick Griffen was made to look on TV, there will STILL be stupid and nasty people who will vote for him at the polls next year. Andy Murray is a miserable bastard, but one day he’s gonna win something big. Apparently. When entering a Nepalese restaurant, plump for the mismas.

And the war won’t be over by Christmas. Or even next Christmas. Turns out they lied to us. But we knew that already, didn’t we?

May all your Christmas’s be white, and all your doughnuts turn out like fannies.

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Winter Rules Apply

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What a great couple of weeks to be a dentist. Firstly the Incumbent Mrs Woods decides to launch Tiger’s Iphone at her hubby’s choppers and Tiger gets a hole in one. It went straight down the middle, as Bing used to sing. The toothless Tiger will presumably be on Medicare and is, as we speak, sitting in a smelly waiting room along with six miserable kids and their scoulding mothers, , patiently waiting for the injection to kick in. I guess he’ll be pouring over copies of Punch and Readers Digest while listening to ‘Diddy’ David Hamilton on the dentist’s radio. Well, that’s what used to happen if I visited my dentist (called, I kid you not, Mr Nash!). Friends will know it didn’t happen that often.

Not to be outdone by this precision assault on the molars, a man described as having ‘mental problems’ hurls a small metal paperweight in the shape of Milan Cathedral in the general direction Snr Berlusconi, breaking two of Il Duce’s incisors. Must have been a bit of a blow to Silvio, as he’d only just finish paying for them. He now has the choice of affording a new set of pearly-whites, or a ten minute knee-trembler with that naughty from Naples.

It’s a pity Berlo’s assailant appears to be a nutter, cos my opinion of the Italian people would have sky-rocketed had it turned out that the Cathedral Chucker was none other than, say, the head of the Civil Service, or Cardinal Fang or a manager at the local Benetton. You really want him to be completely sane and an upstanding member of society cos when loonies start throwing shit around the powers at be dismiss it as nothing more than the act of a lone fruitcake, though this is hardly Oswald and Dealey Plaza, is it? I would imagine when he gets released from the straight jacket he’ll never have to by a limoncello again.

No such Bonkeroonyness about Mrs T. One quick scan of her dear Eldrick’s text messages and it became obvious to her that the old man had gone off course and was currently shooting 11 over-par (on the inward nine anway). Tiger was clearly better with hands than his Gillette chum Thierry was, and had been using them, along with other parts of his body, to great effect.

So Elin did what any woman scorned would have done in the circumstances-, and given the apparent absence of testicle-cutters and a twelve-bore: After the mobile-in-the-gob incident, she asked her caddy for a seven iron and went looking for a couple of balls to thwack about. Tiger drives out-of-bounds and ends up in the long grass. Ian Woosnam was once punished for having too many clubs in the bag. Tiger has been done for having too many bags in a club.

What was he thinking of? At least Silvios many hookers and tarts had the appeal of being 40 years younger than he. But Tigers mob?? Have you seen them?? Soiled old tabbies, many looking like Steve Williams in a frock… Wait a minute !!!!!.

On the Button

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More great words of wisdom from Giles Smith, The Times. December 15, 2009

Jenson Button undone as victory and viewers desert him

The BBC Sports Personality of the Year Awards at the Sheffield Arena
Giles Smith: sport on television

Poor old Jenson Button. There he was, on his final lap, seemingly coasting towards the chequered flag that would signal the first BBC Sports Personality of the Year victory of his racing career, only for a startled-looking Ryan Giggs to appear in his wing mirror, pull out of the slipstream and somehow scream across the line ahead of him.

So close to glory, then, for the Formula One world champion — and yet so far. And we all know how it plays, personality-wise: nobody remembers who came second.

Here’s the good news, though: almost no one was watching. Only 4.7 million tuned in for the BBC’s sports review, down from 10 million in 2008, the audience laid waste by the final agonies of The X Factor, which peaked at a near Morecambe & Wise-esque 19.1 million viewers.

Surely the old philosophical conundrum about the tree falling in the forest applies here. If a racing driver finishes second in the Sports Personality of the Year contest, but almost nobody in the country witnessed it because they were watching ITV, can it truly be said to have happened?

It did happen, though, I swear. It only felt like it didn’t. Giggs, remember, made only 15 first-team starts for Manchester United last season and, accordingly, he must have gone to the Sheffield Arena on Sunday night fully expecting to be a sub. At the most he must have imagined he would get on for a brief cameo in the final quarter of an hour if things weren’t quite going to plan. Yet, incredibly, he found himself the first name down on the teamsheet.

Talk about a schoolboy dream. Never has a decent run in the Carling yielded quite so much.

The temptation is to put it down to Manchester United fans, weighting the voting. But for that to happen, surely, the show would have had to kick off at lunchtime, to catch the market in Asia. In the event, when the phone lines closed, it was merely 5.45am in Tokyo — too early, surely, for a Pacific Rim-effect to take hold.

Or maybe everyone thought it was meant to be a lifetime achievement award. But no, again, because that went to Seve Ballesteros, in a moving ceremony conducted via satellite. And how nice it was, in the closing days of 2009, to go to the home of a professional golfer and find a scene of comfortably upholstered bliss, with nobody menacing anybody else with a seven-iron.

Rueful times for the BBC’s sporting flagship, though — and with more to come, given that The X Factor clearly has no intention of shifting its tanks from the lawn any time soon. At present rates of attrition, it won’t be many years before everyone who wants to see the Sports Personality of the Year elected can go along to the Sheffield Arena and witness it in person. And not long after that, they’ll be holding the ceremony round at Sue Barker’s place, over a couple of bottles of white and a plate of mini chicken kievs.

The show has a choice: give up, or fight back. We say, fight back. Make some changes, and then go to war. Let’s get the old stunts going again, for starters. Who will ever forget the sight of Desmond Lynam clamping his finger in the faulty Aintree starting gate, or that terrible indoor penalty shoot-out they held one year? This year’s show was the lightest on extraneous gimmickry for ages — just a bit of gymnastics from Beth Tweddle on a mat, and nothing else. In all honesty, we prefer it that way, but there’s a light-entertainment battle being waged here, and if that means getting Phillips Idowu to jump over a Transit van pulled by Kauto Star, then so be it.

Another thing: let’s go to more people’s houses. The section chez Ballesteros was easily the best portion of this year’s show. More sitting rooms, please. Let’s see the year’s big sporting performers put in a few final hard yards where it counts — among the scatter cushions.

Better still, let’s go to people’s houses and make them play Twister.

Moreover, if the consequence of turning the contest over to the public, in the form of a phone vote, is anomalies like Giggs’s victory — or Zara Phillips’s in 2006 — then the BBC should abandon that way of doing things and simply go back to rigging it, the way it always used to (we tended to assume).

Above all, the show needs to take pride in its own, hard-won stature — to hold firm against the barbarian hoards from the other side, and remember what it is, and what it has come to mean. OK, so nobody remembers who came second. But, some years on The X Factor, nobody remembers who came first, either. A victory on the Sports Personality of the Year show, on the other hand, is for ever. While the show survives, that is. And survive it must.

Hahaha@teeheehee.com

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As mentioned here previously, I’m no expert on soccer (there has to be something I’m not a world authority on, and this is it) but I do keep a lazy eye on what goes on in the land of “Backdoorbackdoor”, “Manon” and “Onmeheadson”. Having been born into a long line of Geordies (can’t you tell by my accent ?) I’ve always kept an eye on the lows and lows of Newcastle United, and if Matt Groening had written something similar about the Springfield Isotopes it would be hilarious, though highly unbelievable. Until he does, we must make do with Mike Ashley and his comedy business brain. You gotta feel sorry for the Toon army, they’ve had their fare share of footballing disasters. But on the other hand I desperately don’t want it to stop, cos whatever’s happening up there is always worth a chuckle (and helps a fledgling blogger out when he’s short of anything else to post). So I bring you the following from this morning’s Times. If you find the whole situation as funny as I do and crave more, there’s a link at the bottom to a funny Comment-piece by the same author (think he’s a little bit angry). I thought about writing myself, but as George is paid for writing this stuff (and I’m not) I thought why not? I also thought you might like to read at least one post without the word ‘fuck’ in it. Oh shit, I’ve just spoilt that.

From The Times
November 5, 2009
Newcastle United rename historic stadium sportsdirect.com@StJames’ Park
George Caulkin

In 1892 two football teams joined to form Newcastle United and to play at St James’ Park, and what was once a sloping patch of grazing land became one of Britain’s most famous football grounds.
The passing years and the legendary players who graced its turf burnished the old name into something more than a stadium: the title spoke of a proud history, of 1950s’ cup victories, of Alan Shearer scoring, of Sir Bobby Robson pacing the touchline, of Kevin Keegan urging his team forward.
Now the title speaks of an online sportswear company. For the next six months the cathedral of Tyneside football shall be known as sportsdirect.com@St James’ Park.
The names of newer stadiums have been sold for the purposes of sponsorship. Bolton Wanderers play at the Reebok Stadium, York City play at the Kit-Kat Crescent. But the rebranding of St James’ Park is being seen as one more insult in a long period of humiliation that began in 2007.
That was the year that the man behind the rebranding assumed control of the club. Mike Ashley, the billionaire businessman and founder of Sports Direct, paid £134 million. Fans were cautiously optimistic. He seemed enthusiastic about the club, he was in the stands at games and he certainly knew how to make money.
He had, however, completed the purchase without undertaking due diligence and did not realise that a change of ownership meant that much of the club’s £70 million debt would need to be repaid. (continued after this advert.) 

FatteeSALE Advert


His new regime declared that it would take a long-term approach to running the club. Then it sacked Sam Allardyce, the manager, after half a season, and replaced him with Keegan. A heroic figure on Tyneside after an earlier spell in the dugout and his time as a player, Keegan walked away when players that he did not wish to sign were forced upon him.
Keegan, who had been told to view a new signing on YouTube, was subsequently vindicated in his case for constructive dismissal.
In his place Mr Ashley hired Joe Kinnear, an out-of-work manager, but when he fell ill, Alan Shearer was appointed on a short-term basis. In spite of Mr Ashley describing it as his “best decision” at Newcastle, the former England captain was not off- ered a full-time contract. Poor results led to relegation and redundancies and attempts to sell the club failed.
Demoted from the Premier League to the Coca-Cola Championship, fans have gained a brief respite from the troubles under Mr Ashley’s fifth manager, Chris Hughton. Out of the discontent Hughton has forged a team that is top of the Championship.
But even as the club was confirming that it was no longer for sale and that Hughton had been given a permanent contract, it gave fans another reason to be tearful. At the bottom of that official statement, Newcastle announced that offers for the naming rights to the stadium would be welcomed.

It unleashed a wave of resentment from fans, who had shown their support in the previous home match, when almost 44,000 attended the game against Doncaster Rovers.
Petitions have been set up — the Newcastle United Supporters Trust (NUST) has collected more than 16,000 names — and demonstrations are planned for Saturday’s game against Peterborough United.
Derek Llambias, the club’s managing director, said that the St James’ Park name would remain and that they “could have worded” their statement better. He added that Mr Ashley’s running of the club had been “nearly spot on”. The form that St James’ remains — prefaced by the website of a company of which Mr Ashley is still the majority shareholder — is both peculiar and an affront to most supporters.
“We strongly believe the name and the soul of our ground is not theirs to sell,” NUST said. Newcastle will also not receive a penny from Sports Direct in branding fees.
But it is questionable how many companies will want to be linked with a club suffering such agonies.
Llambias issued a rallying cry to fans: “The negativity around the city, it needs to stop. You need to concentrate on supporting the team.”
At the famous sportsdirect@St James’ Park. Or whatever it is called.

For more on this click here

A Couple of Little Darlings

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Here’s a rare thing: A British F1 champion with wit, charm and charisma. No honestly, they did used to be fun to watch both on-and-off the track. Of course, since Nigel, Damien, Lewis, Jenson and the like arrived, you could be forgiven for thinking that we only produce motor racing drivers as dreadfully boring as the races themselves, or perhaps an afternoon grouting the bathroom. But once upon a time, they were spontaneous, humorous and with just that tiny little bit of class. So anyway, to mark the end of yet another season of dull and tedious processions around the asphalt circuits of the world, below is just a snippet of when Dick Dastardly ruled the roads, and everyone’s mum went gooey in the middle when he flashed his choppers, looked the camera in the eye and spoke in those magnificent clipped tones. Have a look at these few seconds of Hill, laid up in hospital after a crash, just one of many clips of his naughtiness you can find on Youtube. And check out that tash.

A loveable rogue, a cheeky chappy with a glint in his eye, Graham Hill was unmistakeably one of those chaps who you’d be proud to shake warmly by the driving gloves and by a warm pint of beer (or a cold bottle of poo) in the local village pub. As kids, when we played Scalextric on the front room floor, everyone wanted to be Hill. As we wedged our plimsoles and mum’s shoes under the the corners to hold up the banking, we mimicked Murray Walker commentating on numerous dogfights betweeen Hill and Stewart or perhaps Rindt (extra shoes were used when Jochen was on the track).

It was a time of heroes and feats of derring-do, of flat caps, pencil moustaches and men reminiscent of Spitfire pilots, rather than boys who pretend to be Airfix models in TV adverts and no-one spots the difference. Lewis wanders around in his dull way, with his dull, identikit dad, and they’re all very-nice-and-all-that, but I get no indication that they have any sense of fun, enjoyment or achievement from their titles and riches, or the wish to contribute anything more to the social fabric or culture of society than driving around Monza or Monaco.

Is there a spark of of the boy-racer left? or are they the driving equivalent of Yul Brynner in Westworld, plodding automaton-like between one scene to the next? (to be fair, Brynner spent the whole of his acting like plodding between one scene to the next, he didn’t need to play a robot). They go from corporate sponsor’s event, to press photocall, to TV appearance flashing their perfect sterile grins and their faultless thumbs, before the PR girl whips them off to the next function. Maybe the enormous G-forces have sucked all personality out of them.

Yes, they enjoy a fine line of beautiful girls on their arms (Jenson seems to have a conveyor belt of them), which all rich young sportsmen seem to have at their disposal, but what else do they bring to the table? A naughty smile at the camera? A feeling that they are enjoying life, reaping the rewards of their craft ? That sense of a Lucky Jim? Not a bit of it. They’re more like accountants, less interesting than merchant bankers. And that’s a real shame, cos they’re probably very nice chaps and don’t deserve such an attack on their characters (not that they probably care one jot- they’re not Stephen Fry, after all).

Now as you will understand, I know sod all about F1 and care even less about it, but if I could walk into a pub and at one end of the bar was Mansell, Button and Hamilton (and even Damien Hill) and at the other end of the bar was Graham Hill having a quick snifter with James Hunt there’s no doubt who I’d go and join, and yoiu’d be with me. And I bet Hill and Hunt would hang around for more than just-the-one.

Graham

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Man Flunited

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Just a quick update on my Man Flu: Despite all the the drugs I pumped into myself yesterday, I had a terrible night’s sleep last night. Must find out what Rio Ferdinand takes, he seems to be able to nod off whatever the situation— even through a fireworks display. I have a feeling his mate Ashley is dipping into Rio’s stash too.

Don't count sheep, count Ukrainian shots on goal.

Don't count sheep, count Ukrainian shots on goal.


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Green Army!!

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Not a single TV company bothered to bid the rights to cover the match, or if they did, they offered a pittance. The papers have dubbed it a national disgrace. It’s a bloody long way to go to a miserable, bleak corner of the world to watch 90 minutes of football, and few will fork out and endure such a long journey. However, I’m gonna go, and I have a plan so we can all watch it:

I’m taking my camera.

It’s got a pretty decent lens and a video mode, and I have 2 batteries which I reckon should last long enough to cover the whole match, barring long injuries. I’ll post it here just as soon as I get back, if you play it smart and avoid news broadcasts you could watch it as live. Get a few tinnies in, arrange the furniture accordingly, invite a few mates round and sit back and watch Gravesend U13 Girls vrs Dartford U13 Girls, live from Dogshit Park, Gravesham. (Kent Girls/Ladies Football League, U13 Div.2)

Why? Which match did you think I was talking about? England ??? Pah!

Apart from the fact that England have already qualified for next year’s World Cup, did anyone really expect the BBC or ITV to show live coverage of their match vrs Ukraine at the time when, traditionally, the nation sits down in front of Strictly Come Dancing or The X Factor?? Do you honestly expect them to replace Calzaghe for Capello, swap the obvious talents of Cheryl Cole for the unobvious ones of her ex Ashley? Have you not worked out that this country has gone to hell in a handcart? that our collective national taste is shot to pieces??? THAT THE WORLD HAS GONE BLEEDIN MAD!!!!???????? I had a dream the other night that I thought I was playing football with Wayne Rooney, but was really on Strictly with one of the male professional dancers. It all went horribly wrong when I shouted “backdoor, backdoor”.)

Often Beaten Around the Ring. And Joe Calzaghe

Often Beaten Around the Ring. And Joe Calzaghe

Last Sunday 3.2 million people (I shall repeat that THREE POINT TWO MILLION PEOPLE) tuned in to watch a show called Hole in the Wall (“Bring on The Wall”). On this 6 celebrities are pushed into a pool of “ice-cold” water if they fail to take the correct shape or a …er…hole in a wall (the rules are too complicated to go into). Now I say celebrities, but you be the judge: Kelly Dalglish, Lil’Chris, Gemma Bissix, Matthew Chambers, Joe Swash and Austin Healey.

3.2 million people watching a wall, a hole, a pool.

So stuff all that, next weekend you’ll have the chance to sit down and watch a real competition, real sport with a real, meaningful outcome. Dartford have had a great start to their season thus far having beaten Woodpeckers twice (once in the league, once in the cup – and on both occcasions Dartford had ten men…er…players) and smashed home 10 goals in the process. Now the team, led by their stunningly beautiful captain, centre back Kate “Katie” Bealing, (great touch for a tall girl) meet top-or-the-table Gravesend in what the Dartford Times isn’t already calling a ‘six-pointer’. And as a loyal reader to this column, you won’t miss any of the action, well not much anyway.

Bealing (centre) chases hard. The ref doesn't

Bealing (centre) chases hard. The ref doesn't

Go “oooh” as the shots rain in from the Dartford attackers peppering the Gravesend goalie. Go “Aaaah” as the game is held up for three minutes for a dad to wipe away the tears of his daughter who copped a ball straight in the face. Go “shuddup you prat” as you hear an aggressive dad on the touchline scream abuse at the girls on the pitch. Go “to the toilet” as my battery runs out and I have to change for a fresh one to carry on recording.

Yes, there will only be one camera, but as I expect none of the 20 outfield players to be any more than ten feet away from the ball at any time, you won’t miss a thing.

And watch it all in glorious, mono lo-res!

All this and much, much less for 3 easy payments of 2.50* (plus p&p). Please send your payments in unmarked, non-consecutive bills (no cheques) to:

The Bald Bloke in the Suit in the Corner
c/o The Manager
O’Neill’s Public House
Tranquil Vale
Blackheath SE3

…and if you’re not watching low quality video of a high quality local girls soccer match very soon, I’d be most surprised.

(*offer subject to conditions, and whether I can be arsed)

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Send Me Victorious, HD and Glorious

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I’m back, kicking and screaming, into the 21st Century. I took the decision based on how much I’d missed. I took the decision because I was missing out. I took it because there’s too much coming up which I didn’t want to miss, and because I was drinking too much. And I took it because I’m a gadget-freak and I believed all the hype and the adverts.

pub

Having fallen out with Sky TV (see Lions, Tigers and Beers previously) over the standard of their service, I’ve had a summer of watching my chosen sporting events from the bar of my local. No great hardship, you might think, supping a cold one as the footy, cricket or rugby is on the box? We’ll yes, and no. If the soccer is on, all four tvs in the pub show the match, sound up high and no-one moving off their stools or in front of the screen. A boozer packed with replica-shirted herberts all ooh-ing and ah-ing in unison is a fun place to be. Rugby matches, especially the internationals, are often accorded the same level of respect and attention as is the round-ball game, except on the whole the fans are bigger, drink more and are much better behaved.
Cricket on the other hand, even though it is the nation’s summer game, is often begrudgingly switched on to a couple of screens with the volume either right down or off altogether (though god help you if Man Utd or Chelsea are on the other channel, then cricket doesn’t get a look-in at all). There’s something distinctly unsatisfactory in watching a England vrs the Aussies to the sound of Puff Diddly or Lady Goo Goo blaring out over the sound system, when all you really want to hear is Botham seething in the comm box, or Bumble laughing at the fancy dress costumes in the crowd. No, unless there’s a packed mob whooping en-masse at an Australian collapse, or multilaterally despairing at the ineptitude of the English bowling display, the pub’s not the place to enjoy the great game. It’s also difficult to concentrate on anything when Dan Dan is looking at you.
So enough is enough, and I’ve gone all Cable TV on your ass. Step forward Lord Branson and his Virgin Media TV. Andy the tv engineer has this morning arrived to install it. I get, movies-on-demand, catch-up tv, recordable, pauseable, fast-forwardable tv AND Sky Sports AND much of it in “Glorious HD”, as the Sky advert would have us believe. And this time it’s not Sky equipment which I have to deal with and which will inevitably go down on me, it’s a Virgin Box. It’s a schoolboy dream, nearly. Fnarr fnarr.

virgin_vbox_epg

So then, HD. How exciting is that? Truth is, I’m not really sure. Yeah yeah, I’m sure sport and movies will be stunningly (or should that be gloriously) enhanced when watched in HD, but surely they can be only as glorious or as stunning as my TV will allow? You’ll be fully aware of my technophobic tendancies and I have no idea how good or bad my telly is. It’s a couple-of-years-old Toshiba and it may well be ( and knowing my luck, it probably is) a bag of old shite, no more likely to give me the full, glorious, HD sensation than one of those wood-clad, 14-inch, 1970’s jobbies on which whole indian villages watch the world cup. Do I need to tramp down to Comet and spend wads of cash on the latest LED/LCD/Plasma box to make my new service worthwhile? Bloody hope not. Maybe I just go and get my eyes tested? I’m long overdue a visit to the opticians and I’m convinced my minces aren’t what they were. Gotta be cheaper than buying a new telly, hasn’t it?

You won’t have missed the fact (especially if you’ve been reading me) that The Beatles back-catalogue has been re-released having been digitally remastered. Will I really notice the difference if I play these CDs on my little mini-system? Granted, if I had a 3 grand, state-of-the-art hi-fi, with speakers the size of Belgium I might well be able to appreciate the cool clean repro on these new discs. But I have a cd player the size of a teasmaid, so I doubt that I’ll feel the benefit. And anyway, my ears need syringing. Poor old sod. Pardon ?

For those of you who feel a bit flush, this new Beatles stereo box set retails at £169.99, mono at a cheeky little £200. That doesn’t Please Please Me either.

Looking down the tv listings, there’s another thing that puzzles me. Do I really care that I now have the capability to watch Friday Night With Jonathan Ross in High Definition? I mean, next week he’s interviewing Ant n Dec. How glorious would HD have to be to make me enjoy that experience?

woss

So while I’ve been tapping away here, Andy the Virgin man has been and gone. I’m hooked up, tuned in and watching a Steven Fry documentary in yes, GLORIOUS HD. It seems (and this will shock you) that I may have to upgrade my subscription if I want to be able to watch all the channels I thought I was getting, but Steven Fry will do for now. He looks pretty good in Hi Def, I suppose. I’m started playing with all the new gadgets and toys on my new cable service because England have just collapsed against the Australians at Lords. HD or LD, they’re still a bunch of wankers.

The Last Night of the Proms is on later. Pomp and Circumstance in crystal clear sound and vision. Try asking to watch that in your local.

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Nowhere Men

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I heard the news today, Oh Boy: Oasis, the world’s 4th best Beatles cover band, have split up. Words cannot accurately express how totally underwhelmed I am to hear that. The Gallagher brothers will perform no more together on stage or in the studio, with Noel, or is it Liam, citing irreconcilable differences with his brother Liam, or is it Noel? Expect to see fans crying all over Manchester, floral tributes outside their posh London homes (do they still live down here? dunno, don’t care) and the Man City players wearing black armbands in memory of the gruesome twosome. The brothers will presumably continue to support their beloved City from their seats at opposite ends of the ground, presumably so they don’t have to hear each other’s voice as they sing “who’s the bastard in the black?” Personally I’d want to be a lot further away than 150 yards from either of these two once they start warbling. My kids were in the crowd at the recent V Festival when Oasis decided not to show up to headline the gig. My girls were mortified, though if I’d have known they weren’t going to play I’d have bought a ticket myself.

finger

Nearly 100 years ago two miserable bastards, Burke and Hare stole bodies and went on a two-year rampage of murder, selling the corpses of their victims to the medical profession. When they were found out, Hare confessed all and shopped his partner Burke thus escaping the gallows. Since 1991 these mono-browed Mancunian Brothers Grimm have plied their own miserable trade, stealing ideas and murdering songs, selling the corpses to gullible children, teenagers and, worse, adults. Liam may well shop Noel, or vice versa, but let’s hope no amount of clemency is shown for their crimes against my inner ear. If you’re gonna copy another band, at least have the good grace to look like you’re having fun spending our money and have the courage to admit you haven’t an original idea in your head. Even off-stage, walking around with a face like a slapped arse, flashing V-signs and flipping the bird at all and sundry is hardly ground-breaking rock-n-roll behaviour. The charm of a Panzer division, the wit of Margaret Thatcher.

In the next few weeks magazines and newspapers will be full of features and specials on The Beatles as the AppleCorp machine churns out the re-digitalized versions of the Fab Four’s back catalogue. This will be another chance to fork out several of your hard-earned Quids, Bucks, Yuans or Euros on The White Album or Sergeant Pepper. For those of us who have previously bought these on vinyl, cassette (cartridge anyone?) ,and cd (twice, but that’s divorce for you) it’s a tough ask to splash out all over again, but don’t think that this will be the last time you’re asked to make that call. For starters, this latest issue comes in a choice of stereo or ‘original’ mono versions ( a mate at work has already stated he’s gonna buy both), and further down the line they will be uploaded onto itunes. What a staggering franchise it is. I guess it will help Mr McCartney’s keep up with his alimony payments.

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The Beatles industry shows no sign of slowing down. There are hundreds of tribute bands making a healthy living out of mimicking the Mop Tops. Most will struggle to reach the heights of Oasis, but at least they’re honest about it. Normally rolled out during the holiday season for Christmas or New Year parties The Bootleg Beatles, The Paperback Beatles and the like have a more-than-decent stab at reliving the great days of the world’s first true pop phenomena. I once to stood at the back of a crowded club where the Bootleg Beatles were playing and watched with some amount of mirth as kids in the audience sang along to Hey Jude and She Loves You. But who am I to judge? I was a year off being born when Please Please Me was released, and only 6 years old when the band finally split up so I hardly own them myself.

Now that John and George are no longer with us, and Ringo (sorry, Mr Dontcallmebymystagename Starkey) has washed his hands of his legacy (apart from the royalties, of course), none of us will ever get the chance to see the real Beatles perform live (let’s be honest- you wouldn’t go and see McCartney perform, would you?) and the tribute bands are the only way to get anywhere close to the experience. But there’s always the Rutles, of course. I know they no-longer perform, but there’s still great fun to be had watching All You Need is Cash as I did again recently.

The story of The Prefab Four- Dirk, Barry, Stig and Nasty still stands-up as a piece of Eric Idle genius, with as good a selection of Neil Innes Beatles parodies as Oasis’ Definitely Maybe ever was. In a prime example of art-imitating-life the film documents the frosty relationship between the band and their manager, Leggy Mountbatten, a domineering, half-mad, nasty bastard with a wooden leg. Remind you of anyone in Paul’s later life?
There are even Rutles tribute bands, one called Ouch! and another The Mountbattens who, apparently are “Tokyo’s top Rutles tribute band”. So we now have tribute bands’ tribute bands. Check out The Mountbattens on Youtube below, they’re bloody awful, but I’d rather sit through a night of them than having to listen to 2 bars of Wonderwall ever, ever again.

Not mad for it.

The Punter Problem

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Look carefully at the above. I’ll wager those of you reading from overseas may just about have heard of Leeds Utd, a famous old club from the north of England, famous for cheating, foul play, Eric Cantona and the location of that film about Brian Clough.

A few of you who’ve been following these pages regularly might just recognise the name Charlton too. They are, of course, my local football team, the team I follow, the team that has caused me a little pleasure but a lot of heart-ache of the over the years. And the top of the table. Top! Ok, they’re top of the third league in the English game, but top of the league nonetheless. Four wins in a row. Four! The last time that happened there were Zeppelins flying over South East London.

The fact that we’ve beaten teams who most of you have never heard of matters not one jot to me. Walsall, Hartlepool, Leighton Orient and the mighty Wycombe Wanderers may not be regulars on your screens in New York, Paris or Honkers, and you may not have read anything of them on the back pages of Corrire dello Sport or in the back pages of The Sydney Morning Herald (those of us living in Blighty would even struggle to find them on an A-Z or an O.S. map) but Charlton Athletic Football Club have beaten them all and, because they’ve scored more goals than Leeds, are sitting proudly on the top of the tree.

Do not read any further. Bookmark this page—you’ll not see them on top again. Now let us continue.

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It is the nature of most sport fans to believe their team to be world-beaters when they win, and utter tripe when they lose. I am not one of those sports fans: I believe my teams to be utter tripe whether they win, lose or draw. I always want them to win, but I never expect them to. As mentioned previously here, being a pessimistic supporter means you are rarely disappointed. Charlton may win another game or two but, in the end, will wither away into mid-table anonymity next to the like of the MK Dons (who they???) and Milwall (ditto). Don’t put your life savings on them winning the league. I bet on them once. What a complete waste of money that was.

A bloke on the radio this morning, of a similar mindset to me, said he was gonna pay the bookies a tenner to help England win the Ashes (we’ve gone on to cricket now, chaps). He reckoned if he could get odds of, say, 10-1 on Aussie and put a bet on them, then with his luck England were sure to win but if somehow they managed not to, he’d be 100 quid to the good, thus sweetening that bitterest of pills. I like that kind of thinking. There are many who wouldn’t dare bet against their own team, but I see nothing wrong with it: patriotism is patriotism and betting is betting.

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Example: I have a friend (to protect the innocent, let’s call him Trev) who has lost the equivalent to the Mexican National Debt by persisting on betting on his beloved Welsh Rugby team, regardless of all the evidence and odd stacked against him and his Boyos. Throughout the nineties the sluicegates of Trev’s bank account opened up and spewed the contents therein into the gaping reservoirs of Messrs J.Coral, P Power and S.Index, Turf Accountants. Yeah, ok, a resurgence in Wales’ rugby fortunes means he’s been able to recoup some of his losses, but Trev suffered long and costly Saturday nights as the points mounted up against his team and the cash made its merry way out of his wallet. Great fun to watch though.

It’s now 12.20 on Sunday, August 23rd and England are, or at least seem to be, romping home to regain the Ashes at the Oval. Everything points to an England win. They are miles ahead in the game. The pitch resembles the crust of a semolina pudding. Any given bowl thrown at an Australian batsman could either go through the surface of the pitch and dribble along the floor, bruising his big toe, or hit a lumpy bit, rear up and knock the batters block off. They cannot possibly predict what’s gonna happen next: Big Advantage England.

Just two things stand in the way of an England series victory: The England players themselves and Australian Captain Ricky Ponting.

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Ricky “Punter” Ponting is possibly the best batsman around at the moment. He’s technically excellent and mentally tough. Like many great men (Napoleon, Nelson, T.E.Lawrence, Mickey Rooney) he’s rather short and perhaps this focuses his mind. Short-man syndrome is well-known and perhaps this one compensates for his lack of height by wielding his bat and smiting the ball to all corners. Whatever the reason, he sure is a tough little bugger to get out. He gets boo-ed on and off the pitch and that only seems to strengthen his resolve to protect his wicket. His nickname “Punter” was given to him for his love of a betting office. As a young man he loved a bet. Loved a bird too. A bet and a bird. And he took a drink. A bet and a bird and some booze. Now, though, he’s a reformed man and a superb cricketer, free of distractions (apart from his little legs). He knows his odds, and he knows that while he’s still at the wicket, even the London bookies wont be giving a decent price against an improbable Australian win. He knows that if anyone can do it, the Aussies can, and the bookies know that too.

Anyone who’s watched and supported England play football, rugby, cricket, you name it has seen us throw away much stronger positions than this before. We seem apologetic for winning. A lack of killer-instinct. Somehow we seem to think winning well, stuffing the noses of the oppo into the dirt is not the done thing (hence the phrase “just not cricket”). We like a competition, a near-thing, a close-run race. The whole of the English sporting psyche is built around the “it’s not the winning that counts, it’s the taking part”. What a load of cobblers. If we ever do trounce an opposing team, the first thing said in the pubs and the papers is that the opposition were “not very good”.

Perhaps because of the many times we’ve lost, we’ve always had a very different view to the rest of the World of what constitutes a victory or a defeat. Dunkirk is taught in english schools as a victory, for Christ’s sake. If the Charge of the Light Brigade had happened to any other country’s military, the story would be torn out of history books in Russia, China and parts of the Conservative American West. Douglas Haig and Bomber Harris would be filed under ‘E’ for ‘Embarrassment’ if they were German. Not here: we erect statues to them. Scott was beaten to the pole by Amundsen and died a heroes death, freezing his nadgers off in a tent. Our history books are chock-full of dead heroes. Why can’t we have a few more very old codgers walking around who once beat West Germany by 11-0? or who captained the European Ryder Cup team which beat the yanks 28-0? or was 100 Olympic 100 meter champion for 16 straight years. I’ll tell you why: it’s cos we don’t like winning, and if we do, we don’t like winning well.

Rorkes_Drift

In 1879 just under 150 Welshmen from the 2nd Battalion, 24th Regiment of Foot successfully defended the mission at Rourke’s Drift against about 4000 Zulus, winning umpteen Victoria Crosses, (and providing us with a great story for a movie, 85 years later).

Trevs’s Great Grandfather was there. He bet on the Zulus.

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