Phew, Wot a Scorcha !

Posted on June 2, 2009 by The Ed

1440x900_Blue_Sky_Flowers_HM030_350A

As the sun beats down on the ever-increasing skin atop of me old bald ‘ead and another bottle of Pimms is drained of its contents, I sit in my garden and think to myself that life ain’t so bad. (No—you haven’t clicked onto the wrong page, keep with me). The garden is in full bloom owing to a shed-load of cash, the helpful staff at Homebase and The Incumbent’s hard sweat and toil. She’s not bad for an old bird, and to watch her lugging dirty great sacks of topsoil from the car to the back garden just goes to show how committed to the cause she is. I’d offer to help but from where I sit on the sun-lounger she looks as if she enjoys it. Though if she’s not careful she won’t have enough energy to do the washing-up.

The blue tits are still busily feeding the nippers in the bird box, while in the opposite hedge the swinging blackbirds continue their orgy of cross-gender malarky which would make your mother blush. At the bottom of the garden the regular punch-up between two woodpeckers momentarily takes my mind off the fact that my drink has finished. I am left with several options: 1:Go without (yeah, right), stay put and watch Woody and co flap shit out of each other; 2: Get up and go to the fridge for a replacement beverage (not tempting); 3: Wait for The Incumbent to finish trimming her bush, come down off that ladder and go get me a brew. Being the new man I am, I choose option 2 (which also spares me from having a set of hedge-cutters inserted into me).

As evening approaches, we head for one of the locals in the village for sundowners. The boozer we choose has recently had a change of landlord and for a while us customers thought we were to enjoy an upturn in fortunes. For years it had been run by a drunk, rude Celt. I can’t get any more specific than that as his thick accent was augmented by a litre of scotch and 70 cigs-a-day. This made him not only completely incomprehensible but it was also impossible to know from which part of the country he was from. I say Glasgow, others think Belfast. Who knows? Who cares? He’s gone now, and good riddance, miserable old bastard.

So the pub got a new coat of paint a few weeks ago and looks pretty good, and we had high hopes for the new faces behind the jump. Alas I fear the new, presumably married couple may not come up to snuff either: He has taken to wearing a football shirt in the bar (Man Utd, for those keeping score) and I swear he’s inches away from serving customers in his vest, or some other sweat-stained undergarment. She on the other hand is always reasonably turned-out but has a face like a slapped arse. I came very close to getting served by this lemon-sucker the other night but was fortunate enough to be headed off at the pass by a young girl who helps out behind the bar (I give her about 3 weeks before she flees).

However on this glorious summer evening, nothing is going to scupper my good mood. We sit sipping and bathing in the late-evening sun streaming through the window, engage in jolly banter and idle persiflage with several friends and even when I am informed that the sun had gone down hours ago and that it is time to leave I care not one jot. Back home, where usually on a Sunday evening I am pacing the carpet, worrying about work the next day, we repair once more to the back garden to have just-the-one before retiring. I hold and ice-cold bottle in my hand and watch as the insects buzz around the garden light before biting lumps out of me. Unflustered, I take myself up the wooden hill for a long, uninterrupted slumber. I have a smile on my face.

I wake up to even more hot sunshine slapping me round the chops, I leap to my feet like a young gazelle (albeit a slightly hungover one) and prepare for the day ahead. An hour later I am in work. Two hours after that an envelope arrives by courier. I open it, read its contents and smile to myself again. My boss is on holiday so I call him on his mobile. I say the words which I’ve dreamed of saying for a long time, but hadn’t actually said to anyone in seriousness for nine years: “I resign”. He takes it well (it isn’t exactly a surprise to him) and we agree to have a beer and watch some cricket on his return. I’ll spend the next month working my notice with a spring in my step, a song in my heart and a glint in one of my piggy little eyes before I leave for pastures and boozers new. The limbo of working one’s notice is always an odd feeling.

But I resigned yesterday and that felt very good indeed.

When in Rome, Roam as the Romans Roam

Posted on May 27, 2009 by The Ed

Sleep ok last night, did you? No, nor me. I’m so excited. Hey, you too? Not long now and the match will be upon us. It has all the potential to be a classic. Two teams going at each other hammer-and-tong, let’s just hope it lives up to all the hype. Anyway, before all the excitement of The Ashes is upon us we will have to busy ourselves with lesser pastimes. There seems to be an awful lot of re-born Man Utd supporters around me recently and it’s been very difficult to get through ten minutes in the office today without someone asking “where you watching the match tonight?” (answer: in the office—I’m working). The excitement is tenable—not that there’s a Mancunian in earshot— but everyone seems to be stirring themselves up into a frenzy, convincing themselves that this is gonna be a classic.

Well perhaps.

I had the great misfortune to watch the first leg of Barcelona vrs Chelsea, one of the dullest, spiteful and nasty performances I’ve seen on a football pitch for a long time (and I’ve seen Dartford Ladies Under 12’s), so I’m not getting my hopes up. The Law of Sod will apply: If I watch it, it’ll be crap, if I don’t it’ll be The Game of the Century. Either way, I’m far too interested in the Lions and The Ashes to really give a toss. Now THAT’S proper sport.

I was in the pub last night, for just the one, when a conversation struck up between a few lads beside me.
“So what are we ‘aving for us tea later then? Caaaarbonaaaaara, Tapaaaas or Cooorry, and if you say Cooorry I’ll fooking kill yer.”
The Henry Higgins in me led me to deduce these were not from round these here parts. My guess was they were from some part of Mancunia. The conversation continued: “Ah could ‘ave fooking killed that little bastard in that coorry house laast night. ”
It emerged that these lads were down south on business (something involving a hod, I’ll wager) and had been involved in a lively discussion over the bill in one of the local curry houses (see previous rants). The bill had arrived with the service charge included. They paid it but vowed never to return, with the obligatory two fingered salute as they left the premises. I leant over and told them that they didn’t have to pay it (that’s right, isn’t it?) and they could scrub it out and pay the balance. If they wanna give anything, give a cash tip to the waiter. It’s discretionary—a bit like a Government Minister’s tax bill.

I hope I haven’t spun them an urban myth and I’m right about all this. They were a nice enough bunch of lads and I wouldn’t like to think I’ve sent them into a row when they visit The Cactus Pit, DeNiros, or any other of the wittily-named eateries in the village. Mind you, they didn’t look like the kind of blokes to shy away from a row.
“Where you watching the match tomorrow, lads? Utd should romp it, eh?” I offered by way of ingratiation.
“Fook off yer fat bastard” they retorted, almost as one.

City fans.

When the Boat Goes Out

Posted on May 25, 2009 by The Ed

Taylor going for the treble vodka

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

H'away, Pet. The Toon are doon>

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

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

Start the Car

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

Victor Borg

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

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

BRITAIN SOCCER

Just One More Question, Sir…

Posted on May 2, 2009 by The Ed

So I’m sitting in my garden, soaking up the rays while flicking through the papers, when I’m stopped in my tracks by an advert on page 12 of The Times. Dunno why, as I’ve always felt I don’t look at adverts. As any fule no, adverts are just there to make photos smaller in papers and magazines, or to give you something to doodle on while in morning conference. In these dark days of credit crunch and the collapse of the advertising industry, I suppose we should all thank Evans for small Murphys (some more than others) and embrace whatever adverts actually make it into print, and thus keeping us in the poverty to which we’ve so readily become accustomed, but I do fluctuate between annoyance and agnosticism when I see a dirty great Halfords or Waitrose ad where a perfectly good story, or even better, a photo should be.

howard-with-tash1

Anyway, I digress. So the offending item this time is a Samsung colour half-page ad for mobile phones. An attractive young couple grapple with each other next to insets of two mobiles, underneath the legend “Ourselves. Together” whatever that means. But something struck me about those words—they felt rather familiar. So off I popped to the wonderful web world of Wikipedia. Something in the back of my pickled mind led me to believe that Sinn Féin was a translation of just that: Ourselves Together. Was this electronics giant really a front for Irish Republicanism ? Would Chelsea soon be playing their matches in shirts emblazoned with Gerry Adams’ hairy boat ? As I should have known only too well after the week at work I’ve had, the answer was no. I was wrong. But only just.

Here’s the entry:
Sinn Féin:…The name is Irish for “ourselves” or “we ourselves”,[3][4] although it is frequently mistranslated[5] as “ourselves alone”.

Now given that around 64% of what’s on Wikipedia is a load of old cobblers, I still could be right. Wikipedia is about as reliable as a Jacqui Smith expense claim or an Ant n Dec phone-poll, so perhaps my memory has served me better than I think. Maybe not.

But where did I glean this little nugget of half-truth? Well I knew all those hours on the sofa would pay off in the end: It came to me that there’s an episode of Columbo where he investigates a murder of an Oirish (you should hear the accents in the show) republican sympathiser. The episode was full of begorrahs and to be sure, to be sures and ginger-haired young men, drinking whiskey and stout, wearing aran sweaters. The do-er is an Oirish wroiter who is undone by the fact he inscribes the inside cover of a book at a signing with Together Ourselves (I thought). There, I’ve gone and ruined the ending for you now, haven’t I? No matter— as it’s the wont of the series, you always know who the killer is during the opening credits and the fun is to be had by the in-jokes liberally sprinkled through each episode: his signature whistle of knick-knack-paddy-wack; his endearing habit of ‘just one more question, sir”; his battered Peugeot and the fact that Mrs Columbo is never ever seen on screen. Often she was mentioned in dispatches but the producers occasionally had fun with us by dangling the carrot in front of us that she was about to appear— but she never did. Mrs Columbo is one of man tv spouses who remain unseen: Dad’s Army‘s, Mrs Mainwaring; Rumpole‘s She Who Must be Obeyed; Arthur Daly‘s Er Indoors; Porrige‘s Mrs Barraclough to name a few. What a lovely way to be married— to an anonymous, faceless woman who’s never around. Perhaps that’s where I went wrong?

This old man, he played one...

Peter Falk’s shambolic detective never carried a gun, didn’t even have a truncheon (night stick, y’all) and always showed his badge as identification. Remember those days? The Wire it weren’t. If it wasn’t for his willingness to identify himself, and his lack of violent tendencies Columbo could have joined the Met.
It’s a chilling thought that had Big Crosby not turned down the part when he was offered it, the famous mac might have been replaced by a straw trilby and a pipe, and each case would have revolved around a golf course. Falk, of course, eventually made the part his own (it had been played by 2 other actors in the 60’s) and he became tv’s highest-paid actor for a while. Like Grandpa Simpson and his MacGyver I’ve been addicted to the show for years and was stunned to see one on tv the other day which not only hadn’t I seen before but in which the killer was neither Patrick McGoohan nor Robert Vaughn. McGoohan and Falk were best mates and not only did the former star of The Prisoner win two Emmys for his roles, he also directed quite a few shows. I know there are those who are horrified that USTV has remade The Prisoner starring something called a Jim Caviezel as No.6 and Dame Serena McKellen as either No. 2 or a number 2, it’s not clear. Why do they insist on doing this ? I’m not great fan of the original, but some things surely are sacrosanct ? I’m sure somewhere in managerial meetings within HBO or ABC there’ll be plans to remake Ice Cold in Alex starring Hugh Jackman, or Casablanca with Cate Blanchett as Rick Blaine. If I get a whiff that they’re tee-ing up Owen Wilson to don a scruffy raincoat and play LAPD‘s favourite homicide detective in something called Columbo: the Party-on Years I shall invite you all to join me in a violent bout of civil unrest. Together. Ourselves.

l-r: Hanks, Aniston, Jackman and Ferrell

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

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