Category Archives: Pubs

The Git & The Galla

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Sir Ivor Cullen and his wife Betty had ham hock for supper last night. I know this because yesterday afternoon I was sitting in front of a guy that was off to dine with them later and I overheard him telling his friends.

In Buenos Aires (that’s in Argentina) a salad starter, followed by a 400g lomo steak (that’s spelt l-o-m-o), with sauteed potatoes, a glass of red wine, then finally rice pudding washed down with a desert wine costs £12.45. Were you aware of that ? No ? Oh well you should have been with me yesterday because you would have learnt all this and more, all from the same dull bloke.

Carluccio’s in St John’s Wood don’t take reservations for lunch – they don’t get very busy. A bottle of Wolf Blass Unoaked Chardonnay costs £22 in Tescos, yet one’s able to buy a bottle of, albeit a plastic bottle here today for just £19. I think that’s very reasonable, don’t you ? He did. It was, he said “one of my favourites”.

So where was I yesterday ? At a meeting of my wine club ? No. Cookery class ? Afraid not. Dining with friends at the Savoy Grill ? Not even close. I was, in fact, watching a cricket match at Lords cricket ground. Or rather I was trying to watch a cricket match, but my concentration and enjoyment was constantly ruined by this bloated English dullard sitting behind me, ‘entertaining’ friends or clients, though who could have been entertained by this fat git, Thomas Lord alone knows.

Ever been at the cinema when a bloke sitting behind you comments or commentates on every scene, recites every punchline or preempts every key scene ? Well you get the gist of my morning at the Home of Cricket. This bloke was boring. I mean he was DULL. Every shot, every ball, every catch, every run: not only did he have a comment or opinion on it, it was clear he knew absolutely sod all about cricket (though I guess I would have to bow to his gastronomic expertise. Judging by the size of him, he worked hard at it). He was wrong or boring or both on a number of subjects. When he produced his holiday snaps from his trip to Buenos Aires, my jaw hit my knees.

I lost count of how many facts and laws of the game he got wrong, and how ignorant he was, well, about everything really. I just know that when he explained what made Shane Warne “one of my favourite swing bowlers” I went for a pint. On my return to my seat he was waxing lyrical about the time in South Africa when he shared a whole bottle of sherry with “some coloured chaps” who were “frightfully charming”, then segwayed into an explanation of the apartheid system and why the coloureds and blacks had come out of it all right in the end. I got up and went for another pint.

The day didn’t going well from the get-go. The Aussies were in town and that only ever means one thing: legions of yellow-coloured cobbers, lugging eskis of laaager around with them bellowing encouragements and insults to their team in equal measure. One such groups of individuals had parked themselves near me. Within a couple of tinnies their leader (another fatty) was droaning such gems as “C’mon Ricky, yer big Galla !” or “Nurdle, nurdle ! Nurdle, nurdle! ” It was as if he’s swallowed a vuvuzela. He was painful to listen to.

He also fancied himself as an authority, not just on cricket, but on the Lords ground itself. He’d obviously been here once before and didn’t hold back taking his companions on a virtual tour of the ground, all conducted from where his fat arse was perched in row 2 of the stand and punctuated by gulps of the amber nectar. Again, his knowledge of the history of the ground was less than spot-on, but that didn’t stop him relaying the ‘facts’ that the Ashes were brought back to England by WG Grace (nope) and the ground was named after the House of Lords who used to play cricket matches here in the 1800s. Wrong again, mate.

Thankfully for all in the vicinity, he and his mob decided to move to a more sparsely populated part of the stand, presumably so they could spread out their cheeks in comfort, and my sanity and eardrums were saved. Until Sir Bufton Tufton sat himself behind me, that is.

Then came the last straw- he started telling jokes.
“One of my favourite examples of chitchat on the field – the Australians call it sledging- is the one when there was a rather rotund bowler bowling at some batsmen-or-other when the batter asked the bowler how many jaffa cakes he ate? ‘I have one every time I sleep with your wife’ retorted the bowler. Very funny, very funny”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone cock-up a story quite so spectacularly. As sledging stories go, that one’s probably the funniest and most famous, and only a complete berk like the bloke behind me could have fcked it up so completely. It really took the biscuit. Or the jaffa cake.

I made my excuses, picked up my rucksack, and watched the rest of the match on the tv in the bar. As I stood there watching the match, in peace and content to be 200 yards away from the Git & the Galla, I wondered how Sir Ivor Cullen and his wife Betty were getting on? I reckoned they’d probably made good progress with the meal preparations as they had been without the distraction of their evening’s dinner guest’s fascinating stories, a pleasure enjoyed by us poor sods in that section of the stand at Lords today. I just hoped that when he finally arrived at their house, if he was as charming and as entertaining as he’d been to us, Sir Ivor would insert a ham hock into him. I suspect that wouldn’t be one of his favourites.

The Rock Hitters

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Well what did you expect ? A sporting contest ? A great spectacle ? A fair fight ? It was a fight but it didn’t look very fair to me. Last time I saw anyone drop-kicked in the chest Kent Walton was commentating on it. I, like so many others, turned up at the pub to watch it, not giving a monkey’s who won, just as long as I watched a great match. Ok, ok, so nobody wanted Arjen Havey Robben to win, but apart from that I was pretty uncaring as to the final result. By the end I was pleading for the bald Tyke with the whistle to send any or all of them off, and to be fair to Mr Webb, he did his level best. If that was soccer’s showpiece I think I’ll start watching showjumping or women’s tennis (no, not really).

So I woke up this morning feeling pretty flat (silent ‘l’), in need of something to cheer me up. The sun had disappeared after a week of sweltering weather here in Railway Cuttings, my body aching like buggery from my sporting excursions on Saturday (yes, I survived) and still no signs of any work on the horizon. Still, there was cricket on the telly today, and the Open Golf Championship is only a few days away.

So, I turn the tv on for the cricket, except there isn’t any. Rain in Birmingham had delayed the start of the England vrs Bangladesh match. Since you ask, it’s the deciding match in a 3-match series, which on Saturday saw The Tigers beat England for the first time ever. Saw the highlights on Sunday morning and it was a terrific encounter, full of passion, guts and sportsmanship with a fantastically entertaining finish. A bit like the football apart from the passion, guts and entertainment. It was also conspicuous for the lack of chest-high attacks by the wicket keeper on the batsmen.

So with no sport to broadcast, SKY reverts to lengthy chats and analysis and serveral, long commercial breaks. I notice HSBC have re-released that great advert where the Russian washing machine salesmen is sent to India to find out why the company sales are doing so well down there. Superb ad, not least for the music, so I went searching for it. Meandering my way through Itunes, various forums and Youtube I bagged myself Eena Meena Deeka by Asha Bhosle (bear with me) which got my feet tapping, with the occasional Bollywood sideways nod of the head (currently one of the few movements my frail body will allow). The lad in HSBC’s ad agency who found this deserves a house point. (Now there’s a job I could do.)

But the real prize was the video below. There’s so much to enjoy here, from the trumpet which sounds suspiciously like 3 clarinets, to the magnificent performance by the singer, called Kishore Kumar I believe. He out-Ronnie Barkers Ronnie Barker. Never mind The Bay City Rollers or the Flip Flop guy, this is a true classic. I’ll be singing it all day, but I’ll do myself a mischief if I attempt the dance.

Taking My Eye Off The Ball

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A note from The Ed: This piece was written back in 2010, as it happens, a couple of years before what I thought was my first significant stroke (which I seem to have completely recovered from). It now appears that what I was undergoing in this instance below was my real first stroke, albeit a mini-stroke, as my Doc calls them. I clearly had no idea at the time, and treated it with some mirth. Be warned. The Ed. 2014—

 

It was 31.7 Degrees Celsius in Gravesend yesterday. That’s 89 in old money. And the infallible BBC weather service informs me that today will be similarly toasty. Frankly I’m a little concerned. No, I’m not planning to go to Gravesend today, as lovely as it is, and I’m not further demonstrating the Great British obsession with the weather. No, I’m worried about me.

I’m off to play cricket today somewhere north of London and, let’s be honest, 89 degrees is far too hot for someone like me to be running around a field, playing a game like that. A few weeks ago, during one of this summer’s previous heatwaves, I had to excuse myself from the field of play as I suddenly went blind. I’d been ‘charging’ in, doing my thang, trying to knock the batsmen’s heads off, and it was hot work, I can tell you. In between overs, for every bottle of water I drank, two were poured over my head.

After half an hour-or-so of this, I was standing in the outfield, watching my bowling partner toil away in the stifling conditions, and preparing myself to bowl again when things started going all hours-yer-father. With my hands on my knees, sweating audibly, and vainly attempting to get enough air into either lungs to enable me to emit a whimper, I looked towards the batsmen in case the ball was coming in my direction. It was then I had my Donald Pleasence moment: I couldn’t see a bloody thing. My sight was pixelated in my left eye and a complete blur in my right. When you’re standing 20 yards from a man hitting cricket balls around the park, it’s best, I always find, to have both minces in full working order, lest one of the aforementioned missiles hurtles in your direction.

Now I’ve made my leave from a sporting field for many many reasons- broken bones, pulled muscles, drunkenness to name but a few, but going blind was a new one on me. I waved in the vague direction of the skipper, who having suppressed a titter, led me from the arena, like a man leads his 90 year old myopic mum into a nursing home. I was clearly not well. More water was poured over my head, litres of Dioralyte were drunk until, eventually, my sight returned. (It says on the dioralyte packets they should be taken after “each loose bowel movement”, which means I ought to have been drinking it every half hour for the past 30 years.)

Now I’m not a doctor (no, really, I’m not), and I don’t know if my temporary loss of HD was due to the oppressive conditions, the rather convivial week I’d sent in the boozer the night before, or indeed the Chicken Chili Masala I’d devoured just hours before the match. Whatever it was, it rather scared me. And true to form, my preparation for this week’s sporting encounter has followed a similar path. I even ache typing this, so god knows how I’m gonna feel in three hours time when I’m asked to weave my magic with bat and ball. I do know it’s gonna hurt. I can’t make my mind up if this is a post or a last will and testament.

So forgive me if it all goes quiet over here. I don’t have BUPA and I’m not sure what the broadband speed is like at St Albans General Hospital. So I post this in the hope the skipper is reading and takes pity on me. I’d happily stand under the shade of a tree on the boundary, breaking sweat only to clap a wicket or an incoming batsmen. I fear, though, he’ll toss the ball to me and ask me to bustle into the wicket all afternoon until I drop. Perhaps I’ll be saved and the match will be rained off and we can spend all afternoon in the boozer ? The weatherman says it’s gonna be a scorcher, and I’m hoping they are up to their usual, useless accuracy.

So pray for me, pray for rain, or pray I bowl so badly that the captain takes me off after one over. My pride will be dented, but at least I’ll survive to see the match tomorrow.

Pint of Order, Mr Chairman

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To keep in line with our competitors (News International, The FT, Which Outboard Motor), The Sharp Single is considering the option of a charge to view these pages. A full internal inquiry is under way to discuss the cost to our readers, but early indications are that it will be in the region of two pints of Guinness-per-day or a gallon-a-week. Obviously the whole industry will be watching closely, and the board hope to announce it’s findings by the end of the year or December, whichever is sooner.

Readers are asked to send their thoughts, suggestions or cases of beer to:

The Thirsty-Looking Fat Bloke in the Corner,
The Crown Public House
Tranquil Vale
Blackheath
London SE3.

Please remember to mark the envelope Gasping for Knowledge

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Course of Life

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To paraphrase Baldrick, I don’t have a cunning plan.

As wonderful as June was, as much football and cricket I watched, as much time I spent in the garden, burning me ol’ bald ‘ead and finally laying to rest the myth that ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’, the time has come to tout myself. All play and no work makes Mike a fat, poor boy. The answer is simple. I need to throw myself at the mercy of the few remaining employers out there and ask for a job. Due to current fiscal restraints, this doesn’t mean I’ll start taking journos and editors out for long liquid lunches, crossing their palms with lager in the hope they’ll drunkenly offer me work, as much as that approach appeals to me. No, I’ll be doing what everyone else ends up having to do: tickling-up the old CV and getting it out there.

Funny thing, a CV. For starters curriculum vitae is one of the few latin phrases I use in everyday speech (along with ad nauseam, et tu, Brute ? and the ever-popular Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant – though I don’t use that one as much as I used to). Curriculum Vitae, as any schoolboy knows, is the Latin phrase for “2 Sides of bullshit written on A4”, or “Résumé ” in American. It’s the document that causes more stress and strife to bored office workers than any other, and one that more office PAs have to type up for their colleagues in return for a cup of coffee and a bun from Starbucks at lunchtime. Statistics prove that in any one working day, 20% of newspaper workers are working on their CV. The other 80% are fiddling their expenses (one for our older readers, there).

I’ve never been one for lying about myself (on a CV anyway). The way I look at it, if I go for a job in the Commandos and my CV says I’ve been a helicopter pilot, a Navy Seal and a Ghurka, I’m likely to get found out sooner rather than later, especially when on my first mission I start crying cos I’m afraid of flying, can’t swim and faint at the sight of blood (especially my own). No, I think the trick is to be completely honest in everything you write down, just leave out all the stuff you don’t want people to find out about.

For instance, I might put down that I picture-edited the definitive newspaper pull-out on the life of Diana, Princess of Wales on the morning after her death, but may leave out the day I stuck in a photo of a Harrow schoolboy for a story lauding the young men of Eton (oh how my Editor laughed when the Headmasters of both Eton and Harrow called up to complain). On the other hand I will mention with pride last year’s Beatles supplements for which I researched and picture edited for The Times. Using many rare or unseen images of Paul, George, Ringo and the other one, these books are real collectors items. They looked fantastic and I was very happy to have worked on them and boasted the same to anyone still awake in the pub. Then again, my contribution to the same publication’s 30 Best Summer Salads will go with me to my grave.

As you get older, you find the other problem is to judge how far back in time you go. Nowadays I don’t list my education or ‘qualifications gained’. I see no possible advantage in bringing up old wounds, or taking the blame at the age of 45 for what I didn’t do at 19. No, let us not dwell on such matters. However, my first real job was at a photographic studio and agency, who’s chief photographer regularly shot Page 3 Girls and Starbirds. Oh how I hated the days I studio-assisted for him. If you’re ever 19 again, offered a similar job in a photo studio, and where you’re in charge of light meters and ice-cubes, grab it with both hands (I know I did). It was often difficult to know where to look. The first words Samantha Fox ever said to me were “Oi ! Stop looking at my fanny!”. We were on a nude shoot for a German magaine. I was quite hurt. As I’d seen every other bit of her in the British press, but never seen her nude, what was I supposed to look at ?

But the question is, although this first flash and exposure to photography obviously aroused my interest (quiet at the back !) in photography, is it relevant to my next post ? Probably not, unless I get very lucky. I had to leave that job in the end as, apart from anything else, I was going a funny shape. The beginnings of the deterioration of my eyesight can be traced back to those three-and-a-half happy years with one hand on the light meter and the other on my ha’penny.

Apart from “Professional Experience”, there’s also the section at the end of a CV which comes with the heading “Outside Interests” . Over the years I’ve realised, having had hundreds of them submitted to me, this is the part of the CV which can reveal all about the candidate, the way of separating the ‘possibles’ from the ‘improbables’.
I once advertised a vacancy on a picture desk, I needed a junior researcher with a little bit of spark and nous. One applicant, having listed her places of work, qualifications gained (cow) and universities (plural) attended listed her ‘Hobbies and Interests’ as: “Taking and developing photographs; going to photo galleries; reading photographic books”.

NO !

I put it to you, that she was either a consummate bullshit artist, or the world’s dullest woman (and I’ve known a few). Possibly both. Why would you do that ? I don’t want to work in a photographic office where the only conversation is “Ooh did you see that documentary on Diane Arbus last night ?”
“No, I was at the Tate for the exhibition of contemporary Slovakian Romany black and white photography”
“Were you ? I wanted to see that, but my Rolleiflex is on the fritz and I had to get it repaired before the deadline to World Press Photo expires”
I tell you, it can get that exciting, I’ve heard them.

Wouldn’t you want to give the impression to your prospective employer that you’re a well-rounded, multi-faceted individual ? Someone who’ll bring a little bit of colour into the office ? Someone WHO HAS A LIFE ??? When I get to this part of the form I’m always tempted to copy Monty Python and list my interests as “golf, masturbation and strangling animals” just to see if anyone actually reads this far down. I know I do, and if I ever saw that sort of entry I would hire that person on the spot, but I suspect most just read the headlines at the top. I haven’t got the balls to test out this theory, of course. I shall probably be pretty vague and put down “Sport, movies and entertaining”. They don’t need to know what I really in my spare time, do they ?

So here I go. A day at my Mac, trying to remember what I did and when, avoiding professional disasters, bigging-up meself, as we like to say down these parts, and spreading the word that I’m back on the market, you lucky, lucky people. And hurry up with those job offers, I’m skint. Carpe Diem !

Now, here’s the job for me ! Who can I put down for a reference ?

Pity it’s in Wales.

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Turned Out Nice Again, ‘Int It?

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Well, this is a bit more like it. The start of the third week of my freelance, er, career, and the sun has decided to join us. The BBC’s Rob McElwee tells me it’s gonna last all week “The summer is a-coming” he announced with less enthusiasm than you’d hope for. Rob is the longest serving of the BBC weather men, and I always think he takes sadistic glee when informing us of impending floods/hurricanes/blizzards. No, I don’t get the impression Rob’s favourite season is the summer, and he’d much rather it was a-going than a-coming.

But I can’t help liking the bloke. There’s a sort of Milliganness about him. His eyes alost merge into one, and the tuft of hair atop of his forehead is reminiscent of some character from Puckoon. I half expect, when he speaks, that his jaw will stay were it is and the top of his head will go up and down. But that’s probably just me. Long may he rain. (see what I did there?)

So here I sit, in the garden, cup of tea by my side, Norah Jones warbling in my ear and nothing to break the tranquility of it all, save the drip, drip, drip of my oxters as the temperature reaches 25 degrees, and it’s only 11 o’clock. The Incumbent asked if it was odd yet, whether I’d gotten used to being off work yet? To be honest, no I haven’t, but that’s not to say it’s all bad, or even all good. It’s just all different. Example: Isn’t Sainsbury’s empty at 9.30 on a Monday morning? I was in and out of there this morning like a French football team at a World Cup (and without the arguments).

I reckon there were about 20 shoppers in the whole supermarket, mostly mums having done the school-run, a few pensioners and me. The booze section was completely deserted, up until I arrived at least. Being without an income gives one pause, of course. With a week of England vrs Aussie cricket to watch, Tennis to avoid and then Wednesday’s soccer match to endure, I knew I’d need something to numb the pain but, at the moment, bottles of malt whisky are a bit of a luxury.

I needed something just below prescription strength but to suit the budget of the unemployed. Being the day before that bastard Osborne delivers the budget, I guessed that this time tomorrow anything except Bollinger was gonna reach gold-standard prices, so I needed to stock-up fast. Moving swiftly past the Diamond White (I do have some standards) I toyed with the idea of treating myself to a plastic ‘barrel’ of ‘draught’ Grolsch before plumping for a case of bottles of the same, for a mere ten of your english pounds. Not bad, I thought, and if I could chomp through half of them before kick-off, the match vrs Slovenia might just be bearable.

Of course, I could have bought a couple of cases, had it not been for an incident on my doorstep last Friday. No-one ever calls at my door. I don’t really know why I paid good money for a door-bell a couple of years ago. For all the use it gets I may have well bought a hang-glider or an exercise bike. Nevertheless, there I was on my sofa on Friday lunchtime, preparing myself for an evening of cheering on England and their inevitable victory against Algeria, when the bell did indeed ring.

Remembering to put some trousers on first, I went and opened the door. On my doorstep was a fella of about 50, with a cigarette hanging at a jaunty angle from his bottom lip, a mobile phone in one hand, and a spiral-bound notepad in the other, leaning against the door frame.

“Oh ! You’re in !” exclaimed the stranger.
“Evidently”
“No, it’s just that you’re never normally in when I call” he said by way of explanation for his opening gambit.
Still not knowing who this bloke was, I nonetheless found myself justifying why I was at home.
“Well I’m usually at work, I suppose”. Even as I said it I wondered why I was having this conversation at all.
“Ah, day off for the footy, is it?” He said in that nudge-nudge, wink-wink, you-lazy-bastard sort of tone.
“NO” I barked, “I’m out of work”
“Oh sorry, pal, I didn’t know”
“It’s ok, why would you?” I said with mock grief. Was this bloke a door-to-door counsellor, a freelance gloater, or just some nosy neighbour whom I’d been, up to then, blissfully unaware of.

He segwayed.

“You want your windows done?”
“Pardon?” his change of tack had caught me flat-footed.
“Want your windows cleaned? We do all the others around here and I wondered if you want yours done? A fiver for the front, a tenner for front and back.”
“erm…”
“did you get our card through your door ?”
“Er, no” I was struggling to keep up with the pace of this dialogue.
“oh fuckin’ ‘ell !. He told me he’d done this road.” With a slight shake of his head, my new acquaintance wrote something in his notepad.

“So what do reckon about tonight then?” We were back to the football.
“Oh they should be alright, don’t you think?” I offered, pretending I knew about football.
“Those Algerians ain’t as bad as people think, you know” he retorted
“Well, no..no, you could be right” I said, not wanting to start an argument.
“So do you want your windows done or not, mate?” he asked, clearly having had enough of footy-talk.
“Oh yes..why not? Er, hang on, I’ll get some money”
“Tenner mate, please” he called after me as I retreated to the sanctuary of my house.

I only had a 20 quid note in my wallet.
“Have you got a tenner?” I asked
“I’ve got bundles, mate”. I knew he would have. “Here you are then”

The financial exchange completed, he told me I was paid-up til August- something I didn’t quite understand but ignored.
“Right, we should be back here about 4 o’clock. If you’re not in, just make sure your windows are shut and locked.”
I knew I wouldn’t be in at 4 o’clock as I’d be nestled somewhere in front of a pub TV ready for the big match (well, you can never get there too early). As he turned on his heels, my tenner in his pocket and his mobile in his ear, I knew it was a bit extravagant doshing out tenners to unknown men to do I job I should be doing myself. I was also fully aware (and slightly ashamed) I’d been bullied into having my windows washed against my will, and that I’d panicked and crumbled in the face of stronger and faster opposition. But, hey, it keeps the local economy going and, anyway, my mum would be pleased with me having sparkly-clean windies. I started to muse about becoming a window cleaner knowing that, for a nosey parker it’s an interesting job. But I soon decided that that way a plagiarism suit lies.

So that was Friday. It’s Monday afternoon now. Haven’t seen him again. No ladder has been parked up against my wall, no soapy waters or squeegee has touched my glass. My tenner, like Nicolas Anelka, has buggered off, never to be seen again. I’ve been deficient in the chamois leather department to the tune of one. Like one of those old biddies on the local news, I’ve been had over by a local ‘rogue trader’. I’m ten pounds lighter, but not in the way I’d prefer. I should put it all behind me and clean them myself. But, true to Rob McElwee’s word, it’s about to rain. That’ll keep him happy.

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Binge When Your Winning

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It’s now less than two weeks to go before the massed-ranks of the world’s piss-heads meet in South Africa for the FIFA World Cup. 32 countries will be represented by some of the fattest, drunkest, worst dressed and worst-behaved sports fans as the bars and bistros of Cape Town, Jo’burg, Durban and Rustenburg are held hostage by squiffy Swiss fans,  paraletic Paraguayans, arseholed Argentinians and spannered Spanish.

The Sharp Single presents it’s definitive , cut-out-and-keep guide to who’s-drinking what, who’s likely to fall over first, and what your team is likely to come up against in those all important opening rounds.

Rainbow Chundering Beckons

 

 

GROUP A

South Africa. 10-1.Ones to watch: Amarula, Windhoek, Castle, Lion

Mexico. 25-1.Ones to watch: Margarita, Negra Modelo, Mezcal tequila

Uruguay.100-1.Ones to watch: Patricia, Zillertal

France. 8-1 . Ones to watch: Champagne, Claret, Kronenbourg, Desperados

There’s bound to be a few champagne moments as the hosts take on the wine capital of the Old World. Windhoek vrs Claret promises a great competition and a few squeaky bum moments, while dark horses Mexico will fancy worming their way into contention and rubbing salt and lemon into the wounds with their star player, Tequila, especially in sunrise kick-offs. With the ageing Kronenbourg making his 1664th appearance for his country, expect more headbutts late on. Uruguay are rumoured to be fielding Patricia, one of the few world beers with a girls name, though she’s likely to be left at home.

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Can't See Nothing from Here

GROUP B

Argentina 5-1. Ones to watch: Quilmes, Isenbeck, Scottish Ale

Nigeria 50-1. Ones to Watch: Wilfort Dark Ale, Guinness

Korea Republic 150-1. Ones to Watch: Taedonggang

Greece 150-1. Ones to watch: Ouzo, Mythos Beer

Past champions Argentina hope that Quilmes lives up his reputation of packing a punch, especially in front of goal. If he links well with Lemonado look out for his Shandy of God.  Minnows North Korea put their faith in the frothy Taedonggang, an unknown quantity, but thought not to travel well.  Tensions were high at this beer’s recent launch when South Korea retaliated by launching a premium lager of their own. While the Greeks will hope to be causing a few headaches with their ancient Ouzo, the Nigerians will hope their Irish import Guinness doesn’t cause them too much trouble at the back.

 

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Double Up for an Extra Quid

GROUP C

England 10-1. Ones to watch: Pimms, Gin, Boddingtons, Shepherd Neame

USA 100-1. Ones to watch: Budweiser, Coors, Miller, Daniels (J), Beam (J)

Algeria 1000-1. Ones to watch: Submarino, Mint tea, Orange Juice, Milk

Slovenia 66-1. Ones to watch: Lasko Pivo, Celjski Grof

 

Violence is Golden for perennial under-achievers England, and with this line up you can see why. The country which gave the world white garden chair throwing and pitch invasions know they have to raise the bar this time. “Boddy” Boddingtons and “Old Shep” Neame are likely to start up front, but watch out for the suprise selection, Pimms, to provide a tonic for midfield-partner Gin around 10.45. The USA’s midfield of Budweiser and Miller look weak on paper (and taste even worse in the glass) but the old heads of Daniels and Beam at the back are likely to take anyone’s legs away, should opposition take liberties, like not leaving  a tip. Slovenia look to have a straightforward, no-nonsense line-up with a strike partnership which not only can’t you drink, but are unlikely to be able to say by the final whistle. Teetotal muslim outsiders Algeria’s plan to play four non-alcoholic beverages across the middle seems doomed to either miserable sober failure, or ultimate victory. Inshallah

 

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For You The Beer Is Over

 

GROUP D

Germany 5-1. Ones to watch: Hefferweizen, Eiswein, Bitburger, Dom Kolsh, Stroh

Australia 200-1. Ones to watch: Victoria Bitter, Shiraz, Coopers Red, Fat Yak Pale Ale

Serbia 66-1. Ones to watch: SRB Niksicko Pivo, BIP

Ghana 150-1. Ones to watch: Star, Club

As someone once said “Soccer is a game for 22 people that run around, play the ball… and in the end,  some German drunk bores the arse off you in the bar” Ever a threat in competition drinking, Germany once more lines up with a familiar-looking muscular attack. Old hands such as Bitburger and Eiswein team-up with the unpredictable Stroh, “an artificial rum with 80% alcohol content which should be avoided at all costs” and who is favourite of many to walk off with the coverted Golden Puke.  Others in the group hoping not to be Mullered are a plucky Australian team who’ve selected the stubby Victoria Bitter up front with Shiraz making up the team, in case any Sheilas show up. Serbia’s BIP looks set to save fans thousands of  SA Rand in replica shirt letters, while Ghana will rely on a Club half.

 

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An Arse Like a Japanese Flag

 

GROUP E

Netherlands 5-1. Ones to watch: Blue Curacao, Grolsch,  Amstel

Denmark 25-1. Ones to watch: Elephant, Tuborg, Carlsberg

Japan 50-1. Ones to watch: Kirin Ichiban, Sapporo

Cameroon 100-1. One to watch: Castle

Group E has been labeled the “Group of Belch”, and with good reason. The Dutch’s brand of Total Drunkeness may well pay off this time round. Groslch and Amstel — the hard-hitting double act up-front for “The Orajebooms” have been tucking them away all season. But the workmanlike Danes hope to upset the tray in South Africa. Hopes are high in Copenhagen, especially for Elephant. As one supporter said: ” I ride a small bike but this beer makes me think its a big bike. It also puts me in a mood to listen to my favourite polish opera” Praise indeed. However, in Carlsberg they have probably the most overrated beer in the world. Japan’s Kirin may well be the surprise package of the tournement. In the heat of South Africa, with sweat dripping down your back, drink enough of this and you’re sure to get an Ichiban.  Finally, don’t discount Cameroon as their Castle may take a bit of breaking down.

 

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GROUP F

Italy 3-1F. Ones to watch: Limoncello, Nastro Azzuro, Moretti, Peroni, Grappa

Paraguay 100-1. Ones to watch: Baviera, Dorada

New Zealand 150-1. Ones to watch: Steinlarger, Tui, Miners Dark Brew

Slovakia 66-1. Ones to watch: Kelt, Zlaty Bazant, Saris

 

Group F looks like a done deal. Few can see past Limoncello,  Moretti and Peroni staggering away with the honours here. Even fewer can see anything at all after Grappa weaves his spell. New Zealand look like a one-drink pony with Tui at the helm, while the unknown Dorada hopes to to force the odd hiccup for Paraguay. The best the Slovaks can surely hope for here is they return hope completely Zlaty Bazant.

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Is that A Sugarloaf Mountain in Your Trousers...?

Group G

Brazil 4-1. Ones to watch: Cachaça, Caiparihna, Knot of Pine

Korea 500-1. Ones to watch: Cass, Hite and OB

Côte d’Ivoire 250-1. Ones to watch: Mamba

Portugal 12-1 .Ones to watch:Superbock, Sagres Bohemian, Port

 

According to one Portuguese reviewer “Superbock super star, gets you more pissedd than Stella artois.” That’s as maybe, but everyone’s favourite producer of brandy accompaniments may have to pull something more out of the cellar than just brut strength rocketfuel. The subtlety and guile of the Brazilians is always pleasing to the eye, as are the enourmous knockers of their fans in the crowd. Add to that the odd gallon of Caiparihna and midfield general Cachaca, then it’s difficult see anyone but the South Americans being in the chair. One hope for the Ivory Coast is that the Girls from Ipanema are distracted by their large Mambas. Korea’s offerings sound, frankly, a bag Cass Hite

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Time to Put the Skis Back On

 

GROUP H

Spain 10-1. Ones to watch: Sangria, Orujo, San Miguel

Switzerland 500-1. Ones to watch: Cardnial, Feldschlösschen Original

Honduras 500-1. Ones to watch: Garifuna

Chile 150-1. Ones to watch: Kunstmann, Piscola

 

Spain are forever accused of choking on the big occasions, but if all you had to drink was San Miguel, so would you. Losing their bottle may not be an issue this year as Sangria has been selected to lead the way, in the hope that it won’t be the Spanish peering into their navel oranges. Switzerland may rue the day they made the Cardinal sin of taking up football in the first place, while little is known about Garifuna, except he has a kick like a club-footed mule. Chile, like the Germans, put all their faith in Kunstmanns. But that’s another story.

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Great Touch for a Big Man

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Paul Collingwood, having just captained the English cricket team to its first ever victory in a world final (albeit in pyjamas), is reported to have been given a few months of to recoup. He says he feels mentally drained and physically exhausted. It’s been a long season and he’s picked up a ‘couple of niggles’ along the way which ‘aren’t getting any better’. With the Ashes coming up in the winter, the English cricket authorities have begun a rotation system, having rested Andrew Strauss and Jimmy Anderson last winter, Collingwood along with Stuart Broad looks set to recharge his batteries before the main business begins in Australia in November. Broad would certainly need to rest his jaw, given the amount of bleating and whingeing he does on the playing field.

The rotation system of course is a favourite of soccer managers, and Fabio Capello is not different. He may well have to do a bit of it while shepherding his 23 young men through to what he hopes is an appearance in the World Cup Final. He’s not against rotating his opinion as well as his team. He’s already picked unfit players (something he said he wouldn’t) picked players out of position (which he’d previously ruled out) and those out-of form (ditto). Still, so far he’s not budging on the WAG question. The players will only get to see their loved ones once-a-week during the tournament, thus preserving their natural bodily fluids to sweat on the pitches of South Africa rather than in the bedroom/the balcony/the back of a limo. Colleen’s had the first result of the Cup, I reckon, and at least John Terry will be close enough for his team mates to keep an eye on him.

Capello is running a tight ship at the team’s high-altitude training camp in Austria: Peter Crouch has to sleep in the same size bed as everyone else this time round, and has been bollocked for wearing slippers around the camp. Capello likes his boys smartly dressed. It must be some relief to all that King David isn’t in the squad as Christ knows what the boss would have made of him swanning around in a sarong, Victoria’s drawers and slingbacks. The games room is off-limits for most of the side, so Wayne, Rio and company will be barred from playing as themselves on the PS3. Diets will be monitored at all times.

Austria was chosen as the venue for the pre-tour training camp as Capello wanted to replicate as near as damn it the conditions in the High Veldt where the English will be playing their matches. This is where we see the Italians genius: Not only is the atmosphere similarly thin to that in South Africa, but there are almost as many neo Nazis in Austria as they’ll encounter among the farming communities when they arrive down south. Once the competition begins England will make their base in Rustenburg, SA, not to be confused with Rastenburg, Poland where A. Hitler‘s Third Reich XI set up camp during their own quest for world domination.

Historians point out that Hitler’s men may well have succeeded but for the fact that, although they possessed a devastating attack, they were a team packed with right-wingers, and were vulnerable in the air – which an RAF Select XI exploited in the quarter-final played at Biggin Hill.

Hitler's back three discuss zonal defence during summer training at Rastenburg

But I digress.

So taking a leaf out of the books of the great minds from cricket and football, I have decided to rest myself, to recharge my batteries, to get my mind straight. I’ve picked up ‘a couple of niggles’ over the season (which, let’s face it, has lasted since 1983) and they’ve shown no signs of getting any better. In fact I get more niggly as the years pass. My week’s low-altitude training in Amsterdam didn’t pay the dividends I’d hoped for, but I can’t blame the fact my WAG came along with me. No, a strict rotation policy is what I need. I know you think rotating a squad of one is gonna be difficult, but I have a carefully planned strategy to get me through the closed-work season. Playing in a solid 0-0-1 formation, I shall alternate between The Crown, O’Neills and, when I really want to punish myself, The Railway.

In the games room (my couch) I shall play no more than three hours per day, switching from Tiger Woods Golf , FIFA 10, and Red Dead Redemption, which I’ve just had a couple of hours on and is quite superb. Tiger might get squeezed out (not for the first time).

A strict diet from the Sun Bo chinese takeaway (chilli beef me-up), Khans curry house (mismas every time) and the imaginatively dubbed Blackheath Fish and Chips (all major credit cards accepted, and at these prices highly recommended) will keep my girth at the diameter to which it’s accustomed.

I have promised myself the bathroom will be painted, the banisters sanded and the bushes and hedges in the garden kept neat and trim. If I can’t find a source of income soonish, I may have to rent (or even sell) Railway Cuttings, so a month off is a great opportunity to get the house in top shape to impress any potential buyers.

But with 3 World Cup matches every day and villains and varmints to shoot on a video game, I may have to break a promise or two. Now where are my slippers ?

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A 10-Point Plan for Real Reform

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Now that Gideon Osborne has apparently ended the recession (the jury is still out, of course) , here’s my cunning plan which would really make life worth living in this country. This is no death-bed conversion, this is a manifesto years in the planning, months in the consultation, hours in its plagiarism and minutes in the typing. I give you:

A SPORTING CHANCE

1. Association Football

Can I suggest what all us egg-chuckers have been pleading for for some time now?: A yellow card means being sent to the Sin-Bin. Let’s see how long Jose or Arsene and their like will put up with playing with 8 men for 10 minutes. It’d take two weeks before all that swearing at the ref, formation falling-over and waving pretend cards at the ref ends in a melee of teacups at half-time. Bring back the orange ball and all games to be played at 3pm on Saturdays.

2. Golf

I propose two innovations to the PGA and European tours:
a) Dickouts:Any player not making the ladies tee with his drive, or more realistically in professional golf, driving the ball out-of-bounds from the tee should play the rest of that hold with his willy out.
b)Gotchas: Each player will have two Gotchas per round (one on the front nine and one on the back.) This allows anyone to shout “Gotcha” at the top of his playing partner’s backswing, in an attempt to put that player off his stroke. (The reader will note that a Gotcha often results in a Dickout). Tiger Woods will be exempt from Dickouts as it’s felt he’s been playing that game for far too long for his own good.

3. F1 Motor Racing

Before each and every Grand Prix, water tankers on corners 1, 5 and 7 should be emptied onto the track every 10th lap, thus ensuring some form of mild entertainment in the form of, dare I say, overtaking, would occur, thus eliminating the boring processions witnessed in Dubai, Barcelona and probably Monaco. In times of drought, the water could be replaced by oil sourced from the gulf of Florida. BP could do with a hand with getting rid of some anyway. Also only one pit open at any time. If you mis-time when you come off for new tyres or fuel, queue like the rest of us poor sods have to.

4. Athletics: 100 Meters

Let’s stop worrying about drugs. Come one, come all. Stick into your veins or up your nose whatever you like before you compete. Can’t wait to see your head pop off after 75 meters. It’ll give Sue Barker something else to talk about and Brendan might even sober up.

5. Rugby Football (League)

Northern rugger chaps: Let’s get of rid of your pointless, lame scrums.How about a nice hand of rummy instead ? Or maybe Rock/Paper/Scissors ? It’d more competitive. Oh, and play rugby during the winter months.

6. Rugby Football (Union).

Banned: Yellow cards, red cards, lifting in lineouts. Reinstated: Wheeling in lineouts, lifiting in scrums, 16-man punch-ups, touch-judges in blazers. Let’s get back to when you got a slap for cheating, not a yellow card. Second Row: if you don’t want to jump in the lineouts, ask for a ladder. Opposition props would then be allowed to shake it at the base to put you off your catch. Hookers: Our jumpers are in the same colour shirts as the one you’re wearing.

7. Snooker/Pool

Bring back heavy smoking and drinking for that real pub atmosphere. Encourage drunks in the crowd to shout “How much fucking longer are you two gonna be, mate ?” TV Adverts only allowed when it’s one of the players turn to go to the bar to buy a round for him and his opponent. If he hasn’t been served by the time the ad break is over, have another ad break. Also, one side of the table must be no further than 1 meter away from the wall. A half-length or child’s cue will be in a rack (underneath the dartboard) for when the cue-ball is near the cushion.

8. Tennis

Exile all TV coverage to UK Living. It’s not proper sport.

9. Darts

See 7.

10. Cricket.

Get rid of the dancing girls, helmets and pyjamas and wear white flannelled trousers. All games to last a minimum of three days. Uncover the pitches, give the bowlers a chance again. Give all cricket coverage back to the BBC and Channel 4. Also, compulsory South African lineage for all England cricketers. If you’re not called Pietersen, Kietvanwesser or Van der Kochderschmidt, fuck off: we don’t need you any more.

So there you have it. A sensible manifesto for a sensible country. A grand coalition of ideas.

VOTE BEALING, VOTE OFTEN

Browned Off

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“Ooh, you do look well !” she said
“You should see it from my side” I replied, unconvinced
“Been anywhere nice and sunny ? you have a tan”
“Not really”
“Didn’t you go to Amsterdam? Did you get stranded?”
“Yes. No”

I wasn’t really in the mood for idle persiflage. It was my first day back at work and I had more on my mind than how well I looked. The longer you take off work, the harder it is coming back. Perhaps I should take every other day off ? My colleague went back to her desk and I settled down at mine, turned on my pc and surveyed the scene. It was all exactly as I remembered. Same desks, same pile of work on top of mine, same people. Bugger.

Another workmate approached. “Christ you look well ! Where did you get that colour from ?”
“South East London” I said, not looking up.
“Ha ! Yeah, right”

It was partly true. The only real exposure to any sun I’d had over the past fortnight’s holiday was in my garden on Saturday and standing on the touchline on Sunday, watching a rugby match. Last weekend was the first time this year the UK has been blessed with warm sunshine and I decided to get me some of it. It’d been a long while since I’d had the chance to potter in the back yard, tending the plants and chatting with my old mates the blue tits and blackbirds, returning to my little patch of land to make merry, like old mates who’d been away on their hols for the winter. The return of my old mate the sun on my back was more than welcome.

Sunday, of course, saw the return of The London Marathon- a huge event in my part of town as 36,000 runners run around and along the streets, with plenty of vantage points to cheer on the Elite Ladies and the Complete Nutcases. It’s also long been my particular social event of the year and once again I was stood in a bar at 9am, this time with The Incumbent and keen ‘sports’ enthusiast, Shaun.

We managed to get a couple in before the lead women sped by the pub (in truth we missed the leaders as I’d mis-timed my-round) but thereafter we spent the morning, Guinnesses in hand, cheering and clapping on the masses as they jogged by. I met a couple of other old mates, Matt and Andy, who seemed pleased to see me, but neither would come in for a pint, try as a might to persuade them. Maybe it was too early on a Sunday morning for them, or maybe it was simply that they were trying to complete a marathon, I just don’t understand people.

Once the runners had all passed, and we’d taken advantage of a roast Sunday lunch, I suggested we finish off the day down at the rugby club, where there was a chance to meet more old friends, and maybe, just maybe, the bar would be open there too.

I’m happy to report I was correct on both assumptions. The sun shone, the beer flowed (we even watched a bit of rugby) and the gay badinage and repartee with the old gang went long and late into the evening. At least it would have done if our designated driver not been summoned to pick us up at 5.30. It was a fair call. We’d been on the beer since 9am and although a time of 8 hours 30 wouldn’t threaten any record books, our marathon had clearly run its course.

Back in the office on Monday. “Morning Mike, cor! you look well” chirped a happy voice passing.
“Well it’s either the blood pressure or adrenaline” I huffed, already tired of these alleged compliments. That bloke is a crawler anyway.

After a few hours the effects of the day before, coupled with first-day-back blues, had started to kick in. I popped some ibuprofen to clear my head. Ibuprofen is a double-edged sword for me: It’s the only drug that cures my headaches, but there’s something in it which I’m allergic too. Within an hours of taking it I come out in hives. Red blotchy lumps start appearing all over my back, my head and my face. It’s not a pretty sight. At their height, and to coin a popular phrase of the moment, I look like a beekeeper’s apprentice.

The afternoon wound on, with all the pain and sorrow I remembered so well from when last I was in the office, two weeks previously. I was beginning to wilt.

“Hello Mike, CHRIST you look awful ! You alright, mate?” came the assessment from the bloke at the coffee bar. My hives were in their pomp.

“No, not really, I need a holiday”