One For the Strasse

Posted on June 12, 2009 by The Ed

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

Our lads appraise the facilities at a club in Ireland

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

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

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

Off for a Sharp Single now. Toodles.
.

It’ll Never Stand Up in Court

Posted on June 8, 2009 by The Ed

Was Carradine killed by kung fu assassins?
Yahoo: Mon 08 Jun 11:17 AM
David Carradine was killed because he was investigating kung fu crime lords, his family have suggested. The Kill Bill star, 73, was found dead in a Bangkok hotel room last week, with a rope tied around his neck and manhood. While Thai police initially suggested it was a sex act gone horribly wrong, the actor’s family have claimed that he was killed for investigating secret societies in that area.

The lawyer to Carradine’s family, Mark Geragos, was asked on Larry King’s US chat show if the Kung Fu star was “interested in investigating and disclosing secret societies?”
To which, Geragos replied, “Absolutely. And so there is a suspicion that if there was some foul play, that may be the first area they should look.”
Geragos has also revealed that the actor’s family have urged the FBI to investigate Carradine’s death.

First up, the answer to that headline is : No

Secondly, if I ever end up dead, and my body is found next to a copy of Wisden and I’m wearing a mink glove, please do not call in the FBI to investigate my death. I am not investigating any secret societies in the Blackheath area, and the only contact I have from Asia is the delivery bloke from the Golden Dragon who never fails to add free prawn crackers to my weekly delivery.

It never ceases to amaze me what people are doing to themselves (and others) in the comfort of their own homes or hotel bedroom, and indeed how many of these deviant sexual practices end up in someone snuffing it. It’s true that I do experience some arousal at the sight of a cover-drive, or a leg-spinner plying his trade at The Oval, but I’d like to think that whatever the degree of excitement I thrash myself into, I would pull up short, as it were, of coming to a sticky end.

MP Stephen Milligan’s body was found in rather embarrassing circumstances after his apparent penchant for electric flex and satsumas had done for him. But, again, there are those who believe he was the victim of foul play. I’m sorry but if I’d murdered someone, I think I’d be getting away from the scene of the crime soonest, rather than dressing up the corpse in stockings, relieving the kettle of its lead and raiding the fruit bowl. And anyway, did they run out of bananas—the pervert’s friend???

You can’t legislate for what people strap onto and insert into themselves to get their kicks, and anyone who says you can deserves a good spanking. I remember Carradine had to put his wrists on a red-hot bowl every week while Kung Fu was on, so presumably his pain threshold was higher than most. Please leave us with the image of him in that ridiculous bald wig, as well as the memory of his nasty bastard Bill. If he happened to like a little bit of how’s-yer-father, that’s his funeral.

Anyway, must dash—Australia vrs Sri Lanka is on the telly. Oh God!!! Quick Nurse, the screens! It’s happened again.

263985~David-Carradine-Posters

If I Were a Betting Man…

Posted on June 6, 2009 by The Ed

They were taking bets on what colour hat The Queen would wear to the Derby today. Bookmakers Paddy Power had lilac as odds-on favourite. Yellow, light blue and white all had interest from the punters, but her Maj—a dark horse herself— turned up in the paddock wearing some sort of pink bush-hat and the bookies had a field day. I’ve lost count how many times someone in my office (it’s usually a bloke from the post-room) has come to me with inside info from a trainer, a coach, a stable-boy, an insider (though rarely a milliner) telling me that a certain horse/dog/hat is a dead-cert, then I stick a crafty fiver on it and imagine the riches of the Indus coming my way via the Turf Accountant. A few hours later the race is run, the match is over or the hat donned and I’m left counting my losses, vowing never again to listen to any more ‘tips’ from that berk who delivers the Evening Standard. Jeffery Bernard once said “One way to stop a runaway horse is to bet on him” and I am living proof that the fine old bugger was, as on so many things, absolutely right.

Five Pounds to win on "The Bastard Sarkozy" please

.
It’s a mug’s game, betting, unless your surname happens to be Coral, Power or Hill, yet the vast majority of us have been guilty of handing over our hard-earned readies at the drop of a (pink) hat, a nudge from a tipster or purely because the name of the horse makes us laugh. Anyone who uses the phrase “if I were a betting man…” usually is just that. Indeed I treat those who don’t bet with the same suspicion as I do vegans, teetotallers, and policemen—not to be trusted. (By extension, my mate Trev is possibly the most trustworthy person I know—just don’t bet on the same horse he’s on.)

If I were a betting man I would have walked down to the bookies and had a shilling on Susan Boyle to win BGT, Alastair Darling to lose his job as Chancellor and England to stuff Holland at cricket. Except I wouldn’t. As we know from our reading and viewing, betting on England is for the deluded or the clinically optimistic. You may as well put your money on Andrew Symons turning up for training as expect any return for your bet on our national teams prevailing over minor opposition. A mate at work (an Australian) said on Friday morning ” England vrs The Netherlands??? What’s the point in you lot playing minnows like that?” He hasn’t been over here long, young, naive, boy.

No-hopers and also-rans. But better than us.

Remember when San Marino scored within seconds of the kick-off? Or how about those “nailed-on” victories which were never to be against the Jocks at Murrayfield and Twickenham, when we only have to turn up to win the Championship ? Or when Eddo Brandes, a Zimbabwean chicken farmer, took us to the cleaners in a One Day International ? We’ve always been crap against crap opposition. Yeah yeah yeah, the Dutch played well, blah blah blah, the lesser nations are catching us up blah blah blah, 2020’s a great leveller, blah blah blah, THEY’RE DUTCH, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!!!!! Clogs? yes. Spliffs? yes. Tulips? yes. Gay policeman? almost certainly. But CRICKET???? DO ME A FAVOUR!!!

Yes, they deserve to celebrate and deserved the win, mainly because they scored more runs than us, but FOR CHRIST’S SAKE. Why don’t we just admit we can’t play this sodding game? I don’t know why I get so upset about it because it isn’t proper cricket and should mean nowt. But it just does. The bowlers were hapless, the fielding hopeless and the batting order made as much sense as a Gordon Brown cabinet reshuffle. Rob Key coming in at six? Jesus! Open with him and make him skipper. Is it any consolation that the West Indies are, as I write this, making the Aussies look like a pub team? Well of course it is. But fuck knows what the Paks will do to us tomorrow night. We’ll be lucky to lose. Oh for a Botham, a Flintoff or even a Symons (born in Birmingham) to save us. Even if all three of them had been out on it for a fortnight (as is their wont) and were swimming in claret, they’d surely have fielded and bowled better that shower did last night.

Middle stump and bottle of chablis please, Umpire

Still, we have the certainty of our national football team doing us proud against Kazakhstan in somewhere called Almaty. Christ Almaty, what’s the point in playing minnows like that? I’ll wager ten of your English pounds we’ll put 6 past them, if I were a betting man…

“Lord Nelson! Lord Beaverbrook! Sir Winston Churchill! Sir Anthony Eden! Clement Attlee! Henry Cooper! Lady Diana! Maggie Thatcher – can you hear me, Maggie Thatcher! Your boys took one hell of a beating! Your boys took one hell of a beating!”
Norwegian TV commentator Bjorge Lillelien after Norway beat England 2-1 in Oslo in a World Cup qualifier in Sept 1981

Dan Dan the Lavatory Man

Posted on May 27, 2009 by The Ed

urinals

One night last week a bloke talked to me in the pub toilet. Yes, exactly, that’s what I thought. He actually tried to hold a conversation with me while I was going about my business. Yes. He did.

Most of you reading this will fully understand the distress this caused me, but in case a woman has accidentally logged in, I shall explain: Blokes don’t talk to each other in the loo. Never. Never, ever, ever. It’s just not done. I could be standing there at the urinals with my best mate to my left, my dad to my right and my long-lost brother washing his hands at the sink behind me and no words would be exchanged until we left the Gents. Protocol is to have one hand (or in my case two hands) on your willy and stare straight ahead reading the graffiti or the very amusing adverts for online poker on the wall in front of you. But whatever happens KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT, YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF AND YOUR EYES FRONT !!!

A public lavatory is a place where we men feel at our most vulnerable. We’re not the greatest communicators at the best of times, so the chances of indulging in idle persiflage fly out of the window the minute we get our winkles out. Surely, ladies, you recognise that in your man? I put it to you (if you’ll excuse the image) that if he gets his thingy out in your presence he’s unlikely to want to talk to you about last night’s footy results, or the queue at Tescos. I hear tell that, while in the Ladies, the fairer sex do indeed partake in friendly chat and banter (of what nature, I know not) and they seem to get along just fine in there. Maybe it’s a little sanctuary, free from those arseholes outside, where girl can speak to girl without being interrupted or patronised by boy? Bless her pretty little head. No such conversation does, or rather should take place in a blokes’ khazi.

So this bloke—let’s, for the sake of looking for another joke, call him Dan— so this bloke Dan spoke to me in the Gents. I have no idea what he said, I was in shock. All I know is that it wasn’t “Alright, mate?” or “Ooooooooh, that’s better”. No, it was in the form of an opening line of a conversation. I just heard noise, my brain couldn’t process the information. Virtually all of my body froze, though part of it went limp and shriveled. I zipped up, nodded politely (I’m British, after all) and left immediately and quickly, and what I had started in the urinal was left to dribble down the inside of my trouser leg as I fled.

So what was I afraid of? That the man was a homosexual? That he was about to “lend me a hand”? That he was the Barrymore of Blackheath and I’d end up emotionally and internally scarred for life? Don’t talk so much Tommy Rot! I have no leanings in that direction. I’ve always been a big hairy hetro (whatever I look like to you) and have no wish to catch the other bus. I don’t even know if this bloke IS gay. My Gaydar doesn’t work. He may just be very friendly, though a tad inappropriate. Having said that, I’ve never either been worried by or about gay men or women. I have several openly gay friends (yes, I know they all say that, but I actually do) and have never felt threatened by them or had the inkling that they were gonna goose me at any minute (their loss, actually). I like to think I view them with the same contempt as I do all my friends. It’s still your round at the bar, mate, even if you ARE a bit light on your loafers. You’re all the same in my eyes, as long as you do your bit in the office, laugh at my jokes and understand the lbw laws. It’s not as if you’re Welsh or anything.

But maybe this is all a front? Maybe, deep down, I’m scared? A long time ago I spent the night round a mate’s flat after we’d gotten a bit squiffy that evening. I was woken up in the spare room the following morning by my pal delivering a cup of tea. Having placed the cup by the bed, he left the room saying, “There you go mate” says he “I’ll just go get myself sorted, then I’ll give you a shower”
“WHAT!!!!!!”— I’d sat bolt upright in the bed, my head thumping, back in spasm, legs shaking like leaves, willy recoiling into my body. Fortunately I’d misheard him. What he’d actually said was “I’ll give you a shout”. Phew! He’s a big bloke and could have quite easily showered me against my will.

It annoys me, my reaction to these situations. I’ve always considered myself a good Socialist, with a capital ‘S’ and a liberal with a small ‘l’, inside this beer-swilling, rugby-loving, pickled-egg eating oaf, there’s a kind, sensitive, modern man screaming to get out and mince about a bit. I remember getting severe stick from my city mates when I wore a red ribbon pin badge for world AIDS day, and got accused of being either a “faggot” or a “poof-lover”. Well, what would you expect from that lot? But I’m surely above that, aren’t I? I sure am. Perhaps it was just that on the two occasions above I was taken by surprise ? Or maybe it is just what we’ve discussed: that no man feels safe with his penis al fresco? I’ve been mulling over this all week, about how stupid my immediate reaction was, and how I shall make every effort to change.

Dan was in the pub last night again (hiding behind three Mancunians). I didn’t spot him until he was standing right next next to me, when I turned to be almost nose-to-nose with him. “Hello mate, alright?” he asked.
I blushed “Yes mate…great… thanks”. I left for another pub. I have a new friend and I’m being an arse about it. What a wanker.

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

Age will not weary them

Posted on May 24, 2009 by The Ed

I had followed the same training schedule as the previous 20 years—I’d done nothing, and I’d been out for a curry and a few pints the night before. I’d packed as many surgical supports as I could fit in my kit-bag, I’d shunned a sandwich for lunch and opted for just-the-one pint (pre-hydration) before the game. But still, as I arrived at the ground for our first cricket match of the season it was clear it was going to be a long, hard day.

SE150-Cricket

My first worry was that our influential skipper was not, as is usual, inspecting the wicket or warming-up on the boundary, but was in fact on assignment in the Hindu Kush. Bugger. But good news came when someone mentioned a young-ish, fast-ish, swing bowler had been selected and was on his way. Excellent! someone to do most of the donkey-work. Then more bad news: another one of our member was stuck in traffic somewhere somewhere between the South Circular and the Guilford bypass and was gonna be late. If at all. Christ.
When we gathered in the visitors’ changing room the full horror struck me: I was 44 years old, overweight and overhung, short on muscle and hair, but long on girth and ralgex, and I calculated that at least six of my team-mates were older than me!. Admittedly a couple of them looked a good deal fitter than I did, but it was clear that I was part of the youth policy. Someone had blundered. My mood didn’t improve when the young fast bowler showed up with his leg in plaster, having gotten injured playing soccer last weekend. Oh poo.

Pic: Freefoto.com

We took the field having dragged a mate out of the pub to make up the XI. Ten of us were resplendent in albeit rather snug-fitting cricket whites, the eleventh (he who was enjoying a quiet half-gallon in the boozer til press-ganged into playing) in my spare cricket shirt, a pair of cargo pants and brown hiking boots. Less WG Grace, more WC Fields.

We bowled. I bowled. It hurt. The batsmen tucked into our bowling like Ranulph Fiennes in a Katmandu Curry House. The opening attack (myself and an Aussie called Jeff) had a combined age of 94. My eyes bled, my calves seized up, my lungs screamed and my head thumped. Between overs I stood in the outfield gasping for breath, my big fat red head sweating audibly. I looked like a fat Swan Vesta.

Catches were taken, many more were dropped. Play was occasionally punctuated by a clatter of stumps, but more often the ‘ping’ of a lump of leather coming of a plank of wood and hurtling over the boundary. One of their young guns scored a hundred as the runs flowed, lbw appeals were turned down and the fielders’ good-humoured chat, banter and yelps of HOWZAT ?? turned into coughs, moans, and yelps of pain.

At the end of their innings it was clear they’d scored approximately 100 more runs than we were happy with. But no matter. TEA! Sandwiches, pork pies (like we needed more) doughnuts (ditto) and lashings of hot tea had been provided in the pavilion. We devoured. A condemned XI’s last meal.

Our Turn To Bat

Cargo-pant guy (50-odd), now having borrowed the bottom half to his kit, took to the crease with his batting partner (who just might be under 30) and our innings began. Whack, ping, wheeze, clunk. The pair got off to a flier. If the elder of the two hadn’t pulled a muscle in his arse who knows how many more runs they could have run? But it was a great start. All the way up until it wasn’t. The young lad was bowled out when we’d scored 89.

But that was ok. Happy with that. A much better start than usual. In walked our no.3 batsman (more than 50-odd) who really did look the part. He looked comfortable at the crease (both his arse muscles were still working) and started to knock a few balls around to all parts of the field. Very much the man in form. But no sooner had we in the Pavilion got comfortable and ordered more tea when he was hit smack-bang in the face by the ball. Lots of blood. Lots. Quite put me off my fifth sarnie. Our number 11 batsman took him to hospital and we were down to 9 men again.

Our batsmen nudged and nurdled and smacked and smote the ball into gaps in the field as we crept towards the total required. Our ill-clad, aged opener scored 93— ON HIS OWN!. Gradually, two things dawned on me: a) we could win this; b) I might have to bat. Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck! Then it happened: the bloke in front of me was, disaterously, given out LBW (by the then-umpiring Cargo Man) and I was in. I protected my stumps, head and goolies and we sneaked a sharp single. My partner at the other end was caught out. Then I ran-out my next partner. Bugger. The last man in (he’d returned from delivering our man to hospital) joined me in the middle and we needed 14 to win with 2 overs left. Then 13 needed. Then 11. It was tortuous. It was pathetic. Two men who hated batting (combined age 99), swishing and swatting and limping up and down the wicket. One ball left. One run to win. SWISH, PING. The ball shot between two fielders and we ran like buggery (if buggery is very, very, slow and painful, which I suspect it is.) and we’d won. Stone me!

2 Pints

I left the field very gingerly, very sweatily and very happily. Every bone and organ ached like hell. We went to the pub. I had to sit down. Our hospitalized mate was having an x-ray and I was having a pint. Every cloud. This report was typed with the two digits I possess that can actually still move. Silly old sod.

High Life, Low Life

Posted on May 21, 2009 by The Ed

mount-everest

A few years ago someone I was then related to asked me if I’d like to take the trip to Mount Everest Base Camp with her. She’d done it a couple of times previously and wanted to show me the experience first hand. I looked in my diary and noticed I was busy for the foreseeable future so had to turn her down. I’m not sure if she believed me. You will be well aware of my sporting prowess and my enthusiasm for breaking sweat over anything more vigorous than opening a bottle of port, so climbing up a mountain, albeit a little bit of one, didn’t seem like fun to me. But at one stage in my life I would have actually considered such a trip.

You see I always imagined Base Camp to do exactly what it says on the tin: it would be at the base— at the foot of the mountain, somewhere you could get a cab or a bus to. How glad I am that I’d learned my mistake before I took up the invitation: Base Camp is at an altitude of 17,600 ft. When I’m at that height I traditionally expect to be tucking onto my fourth scotch and settling down to a movie. 17,600 ft, as far as I’m concerned is for the birds and crimpelene-clad stewardesses. She said that to reach Base Camp you set off and ascend 3,000 ft but then descend 1,000 to avoid altitude sickness, go to sleep, then wake up and do it all again—up 3,000, down 1,000. Yeah right, I’m gonna do that. I tell you what, I’ll go down the pub and pour away a third of each pint I buy to avoid getting drunk.

No, I shall leave all that and much, much more to stone-cold, certified nutcases such as Ranulph Fiennes who, at the age of 65, has become the oldest Briton to conquer Everest. That’d be the whole mountain—not just Base Camp. You really do have to raise a glass to him (just don’t pour any away). One of the last great Brit eccentrics and one of the last true loonies in the world, Fiennes is a Boy’s Own Hero, complete with the SAS training, but not with a full compliment of toes, thanks to frost-bite. Makes me whingeing about bowling two overs of dross on Saturday seem a little silly. (Read any of Fiennes’ books— they’re just sensational).

A severe bout of frost-bite seemed to be running rampant through the West Indies Cricket team last week as the cold, geordie winds nibbled about their vitals as they succumbed to a drubbing by an England XI. The poor sods, resplendent in seven jumpers each, must have thought Montego Bay was a very long way away (it is). They looked as happy to be in Durham I would in a tent half-way up a mountain. Each to their own, I say. Caribbean Cricketers are at home in the heat of Antigua or Barbados, no the sub-zero temperatures of Northern England, any more than the Poms can stand the heat of the tropics of Port of Spain, or Columbo, Malaya or Bombay (yes, I know, stop it).

I wonder if anyone will feel out of place at that Buckingham Place Garden Party? Reports suggest the guest-list will include a couple of kamerads from the BNP. It’ll be nice for Phil the Greek to have someone who he can speak to on his own terms, and I’m sure there will be lots of tutonic twittering about the Fatherland between Nick Griffin and Der Saxe-Coburg-Gothas. Oh what fun it will be. I wonder what Harry will wear?

Anyway, I need to get into the garden and clean the duck-house. Lend us a fiver, would you?

Short Square Legs

Posted on May 19, 2009 by The Ed

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I once had a row (no, honestly) with the bloke who taught me history. He stated that nothing was inevitable. Nothing. I took issue with this and, as is my wont, argued the toss. As I recall it was in a lesson that had supposed to be dealing with the outbreak of WWI—you know the stuff: The Serbs, The Austro-Hungary Empire, Rio Ferdinand, etc etc and after we’d gone through all the build up, I had noted that war was, therefore, inevitable. A debate/row ensued as Mr Lepine (for that was his name) listed the many different ways and points in time when war could have been avoided. Nothing, he repeated again and again, is inevitable.

I only mention this as I’ve just watched our glorious leader, Mr Brown (with my mind he runs), look the camera in the eye and state that no MP who has defied the rules on their Commons expenses will be allowed to stand for election as a Labour Party candidate. Defied the Rules. Hmmmm. Has anyone out there read anything by any MP who has actually admitted to breaking or “defying” the rules? No, of course not— they’ve all made “mistakes” or “errors of judgement” but all of them, of course, were working “within the rules”. I put it to you, Mr Lepine, that it is INEVITABLE that these shitbags (or is that manurebags?) will get away with the fraud and the skulbuggery because they were acting “within the rules”. Also, just look of the smugness as one-by-one, MP after MP queue up for the BBC and Sky News as they celebrate the demise of Speaker Martin— as if we’re supposed to believe the HOC is a good clean-living honest house again. One of them (faceless tory/labour backbencher) actually said “I’m relieved that we’ve put all this behind us”.

A wee dram afore ye go ?

Inevitably (see!) Martin will be blamed for everything from trouser presses to to ghost mortgages. Between them, the election of a new speaker and Gordon turning a blind eye (oops) to the robbers in his own party AND the imminent parliamentary recess will go a long way to the disgraceful behaviour of MP’s becoming a faint memory sooner rather than later. Yes, GB will get a kick up the arse at next month’s elections, but he was gonna get that anyway. Knacker of the Yard is having meetings about having meetings about whether to meet about investigating the scandal. Sir Christopher Kelly’s Committee who are looking into the scam doesn’t report back to the house until November— that’s six months away. So we’ll be left with the corpse of Michael Martin, who seems to be carrying the can for the lot of em. Sure, Douglas Hogg is stepping down to spend more time with his moat and a couple of instantly-forgettable Labour MPs will be shown the door over their houses-that-never-were. (Why didn’t Nick Brown eat the evidence?—he seems to have eaten everything else), but the real news is that they’ve hounded out the fat wee mon, to pay for the sins of others. Dodgy little sod? Yes. The most dishonourable man in the chamber? Not even close.
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In other news, this weekend sees the start of the cricket season for yours truly— time to oil my bat, apply the liniment, strap-up the knees and squeeze into the flannels. Think of me this weekend as I wobble about a corner of a English field that is forever foreign to me, while younger types run around chasing, throwing and hitting balls. I always greet the start of a season with a mixture of glee (I get to see all my mates again in lots of nice pubs) and dread (it fvcking hurts). Thank god for the upcoming bank holiday monday—it gives me one more day to recover the power of walking after I will inevitably be asked by the skipper to bowl several overs (I reckon he’ll get two out of me). As I plummet inevitably towards my 45th birthday Captain David still believes I can bowl quick(ish) out-swingers for over-after-over. I was sure that my puny performance last season would finally prove to him that I’m fat, flatulent and fragile. My little legs no longer have the strength to carry me around at anything faster than glacial pace. I should be making the sandwiches and opening the biscuits, not opening the bowling. Season after season he cocks a deaf’un to my entreaties. Surely he’s found a 20 year-old quickie to take over the duties? Or is he really just trying to kill me? If it happens again this season I am thinking of tabling a motion of no confidence in him. I fear it’s inevitable.

Right arm over(weight)

Tomorrow belongs to the BNP

Posted on May 14, 2009 by The Ed

Pic:FreeFoto.com

How am I expected to keep up with all this? Truth is, I just can’t. Andrew MacKay and Julie Kirkbride, Elliot Morley and John Maples etc etc etc: You win. I shall revert to rants about cricket and rugby and booze and the police and shopping and gardening. Anything really other than MPs’ expense claims. You lot are much funnier than me on this anyway. The only thing that won’t be funny is that people are going to be so off-pissed with the major parties that the rascists and the loonies will gain ground at the ballot box next time round. You fraudsters and scheisters should hang your heads. And I’m sure they’ll be lots more like you along any minute.

I was once hauled up in front of the beak—a particularly nasty, petty editor— who questioned my claim for a lunch with a friend on another publication who’d helped me/us on a really big story. He’d passed me phone numbers and details without which we couldn’t keep up with the then breaking news. Partly because of his help we looked sensational when we published. I took him out one afternoon and I treated him to a curry and a pint in a local restaurant. The bill came to 70 quid, 35 of which was treating myself (I wasn’t gonna let him eat alone).
An ex-colleague once tried to claim for mileage of 40 miles for a round-trip from Canary Wharf to The Millennium Tent in Greenwich. I wondered if he’d gone via Heathrow? Claim refused. Another ex-colleague tried to put her weekly visit to the hairdressers on expenses. Her ruse was discovered and she was shown the door. I’ve been using my own camera for and at work for 6 years now as I was refused funds to claim the cost of buying it, even though my job requires one. (Guess what’s coming out the door with me when I leave?). That’s ok—it’s dead money, but I was miffed at the time. There are always swings and roundabouts in the whacky world of expenses. All trades and professions deal with this. Some we win, some we lose.
Point is, even those jolly journos who are masters of the Dark Arts of dodgy expense forms, the Shakespeares of the blank-receipt have been left open-mouthed at the scale and brazenness of the Commons’ Claims Chronicles. They’ve been out-Shakespeared and want their pound of flesh. Well they’re getting it now, by the moat-load. But if you listen very carefully you’ll hear the unmistakable sound of the BNP and UKIP Nazis marching in tight formation into Brussels and towards a council chamber near you as the undecided are conned by their rhetoric. Not so funny any more, is it?

“I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!” Peter Finch—Network

The Sharp Single

All Done

Category Archives: Sport