Good old Gabby Logan. She’ll do anything to keep the England players’ spirits up, and bless her little heart she tweets it to the world.
Better Than a Half-Time Orange
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Category Archives: TV
Crowd Trouble
I was always a big fan of Ann Margret. Who wasn’t ? Many long, happy hours growing up were spent admiring her undoubted talents in movies like The Cincinnati Kid, Viva Las Vegas and Carnal Knowledge. I once had on a loop the scene from Tommy when she swims around in baked beans. Movie magic. This woman had everything: she was beautiful, fit as a butcher’s dog, had the stars of Hollywood and Rock n Roll drooling after her, and was the pin-up of boys and men the world over.
But I wonder, when she was jumping up and down with (and on) Elvis Presley, sipping champers at the top table, or removing Heinz 57 from her navel, if this Swedish sex-kitten ever dreamt she would end up performing on stage with dreadful jock-popsters The Bay City Rollers. Her career was clearly on the slide and she must have thought things couldn’t have gotten any worse.
Then she saw the audience.
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45 Year Old Man Gets Hurt
Long before helmets, without a thigh pad, an arm guard or a chest pad to protect him, 45-year-old Brian Close was selected by England to face Whispering Death, Michael Holding. Terrifying
Here’s what wikipedia has to say about it:
In 1976, the 45-year-old Brian Close was called up for the first three Tests in England’s five-Test series against the West Indies. In the second innings of the third Test at Old Trafford, Close’s final Test innings, Close opened with the 39-year-old John Edrich. Michael Holding, Andy Roberts and Wayne Daniel, a trio of fast bowlers, pounded them for two and a half hours. It was one of the most brutal displays of fast bowling ever seen. Wisden said, “Close and Edrich defended their wickets and themselves against fast bowling, which was frequently too wild and hostile to be acceptable”.
Close himself said, “It must have been the worst wicket I experienced in Test cricket. The faster the West Indians bowled the worse it got because the balls broke through the surface of the wicket. They exploded and flew at you.” With this innings of 20 runs off 108 balls in 162 minutes Close completed his Test career, under a vicious barrage, standing tall and taking the damage as he had against the West Indies at Lord’s 13 years earlier.
After that, both Close and Edrich were dropped for the fourth Test.
Thanks, chaps.
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Binge When Your Winning
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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False Tooth Economy
Ok, I had better start planning. As much as I’m enjoying a rare three-day weekend (somehow they’ve given me Bank Holiday Monday off), there’s no getting away from the fact that, come Friday, I’m gonna be unemployed…er, I mean freelance. Things have gotta change, and they’ve gotta change fast. The Incumbent is busy going through the house and sticking half of it up for sale on eBay, and I’ve started cutting down on essential items.
I reckon if I cut down on luxuries, such as food, I can still afford beer and cable tv. There is, after all, a World Cup and a couple of Test series to watch this summer. The veg and herb patch is coming along nicely, but it’ll be a few weeks off before I can start harvesting the beetroot, onions, and chillies, so I’ll have to make do with what’s already in the cupboards.
When we went to the supermarket yesterday for what could be the last monthly shop for a long time, try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to put in the trolley ‘value mince’ or ‘economy sausages’. Lord alone knows what goes into such products, but I’d rather starve than find myself sucking on the toenails and nostrils or some generic beast the next time I make a chilli. I have a crown which has come loose in the back of my mouth. I’ve been holding out in the hope that it gets..er..better.. but you can bet your life that chewing on an economy banger is a one-way ticket to the dentist, at best. At worst it’ll end up in me sitting in trap one waiting for nature to take it’s course. I’ll then, of course, have to go through the motions.
The booze cupboard has been subject to more scrutiny than usual. There are bottles of stuff in there which I’ve been given or picked up over the years and which, in normal circumstances, I wouldn’t touch with yours. However, with a month of footy upcoming, and funds bound to be a bit squeaky, that bottle of Ouzo is looking quite appetising, as is the Bols. Have asked The Incumbent to remove the litre of Absynth lest I get a taste and start imagining England can actually win the competition.
As I write this, our fine boys are struggling to beat the titans of Japan. We’ve seen it all before. The billionaires of the English league, being shown how to play by men a lot poorer than they , and a good deal shorter to boot. Ferdinand suffering from occasional bouts of consciousness, John Terry looking like his mind’s elsewhere (probably wondering where he left his underpants) and Wayne’s getting a bit niggly with the oppo. Again.
Even Fabio is picking a fight with the Japanese manager, though in which language I know not. Young Frank has missed a penalty, and the Japanese have gifted us two own goals, one of them a brilliant header by the defender who flew in like a Zero pilot with a death wish. The crowd is comatose and I don’t blame them. I can’t watch this bag of shite for a month. It’s like pulling teeth — even loose false ones.
Oh god, now he’s brought on Heskey.
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The Official Weedkiller of The England Football Team
Am I the only one not to have one ?
Driving around South-East London yesterday I became aware that I was sitting in the only car in a ten-mile radius not to have an English flag sticking out of it. World Cup fever has taken hold of the country, and in my little bit of it, there’s an epidemic of England soccer team-related merchandise threatening to turn every car,pub and terraced-house window into something which resembles BNP Headquarters.
As The Incumbent and I wandered around the supermarket yesterday it became more and more evident that, not only was the World Cup but two weeks away, but that we would be shirking our responsibilities by not purchasing some tacky item adorned with Cross of St George and therefore damaging our team’s chances of winning the whole bang shoot.
England Mars Bars, England CocaCola, England lager, England deckchairs, England flags, England cups, England mugs, England spoons, England dishwasher salt, England loft-lagging. I think it’s getting a little much, don’t you?
I like to think of myself as a patriot (though actually typing that feels strange) and proud of my country. Back in the 80s and early 90s I used to envy the Dutch, Scotch, Irish and the like who felt no embarrassment wearing their colours, donning the badge or flying the flag for their homeland. Us English had a problem with all that (at least us decent English did). Our flag had been stolen by the nazis.
The National Front, a collection of neo nazis, dullards and skinheads, had during the 70s somehow stolen our flag and national emblems. Back then, flying the English flag was tantamount to shouting Seig Heil and goosestepping down the high street. Euro 96 changed all that for good, thank goodness and since then English Football fans, the Barmy Army cricket followers and Shake ‘n’ Vac producers have been able to wear the colours with renewed pride and bandwagonjumpiness.
But why can’t we show a little class or decorum? There’s something rather elegant about the way a lone Stars n Stripes flutters outside American schoolhouses or government buildings. There’s nothing classy about two flags sticking out of your car, one plastered onto the bonnet, and your ugly fat missus having the Cross of St George plastered over her white, flabby back. Very sexy, I’m sure, love.
So we resisted the temptation to buy England flags, England shovels or England house insurance, much to the disappointment of the official check-out girl to the England Football Team. Money’s getting a little tight in Railway Cuttings and if I do have to sell up or rent out the place, I think I might improve my chances of getting a fair price by not putting a flashing “Come on Ingerland” sign in the window.
During the election I didn’t place a VOTE LABOUR poster in my widow either, for similar reasons but I kinda now wish I had. I take no great pleasure in seeing the fledgling QuisCon Coalition beginning to unravel….no, no who am I kidding? Of course I take great pleasure in it. Uncle Vince is looking as guilty as a puppy sitting next to a pile of poo, and he has the face of someone who deep inside is screaming “What have I done? What have I done?”. Suddenly all that Liberal support has disappeared like Saddam’s Republican Guard. Where did they bugger off too? There was Storming Gordon bracing himself for the mother of all fights, and when it came to it, it was all a mirage. Still, scheisters that they are, they ‘shocked’ everyone by getting into bed with the other lot, promising ‘new politics’ and a ‘new style of government’.
Well stone me ! You’ll never guess what ? One of our brave new leaders has been a naughty boy. David Laws has been up to the old tricks of paying loved ones for accommodation, and then claiming for it. No, no, no, Mr laws, that’s not right. That’s the sort of underhand behaviour which you and Nick the Rat (The London Olympic’s 3rd Mascot) were forever accusing the ‘old’ political parties of dealing in.
Take Him Down
What’s that? You were trying to keep your private life private? Oh ok: all in favour of that. I know it must be tough to be an MP and gay, or gay in any profession in this homophobic, bigoted country of ours. But, sorry, what’s that got to do with nicking £40,000 from the British taxpayer: to wit: me. Give me my money back and fuck off out of it. This has nothing to do with your sexual preferences, but everything to do with you being as bent as a nine-bob note, where the word ‘bent’ means crooked. You’ve been caught out having an extra-marital affair, and funding it with my cash. There are MPs on trial at the moment for their part in the expenses scandal (though we can’t read about them until the court orders are lifted) and YOU, Mr Outside-the-Laws can bleeding well line up behind them.
October 14th, mark my words: go down to Mr Coral and get yer money on the date for the next general election. This shower of shite will show themselves up to be what we all knew, as reliable as the England back four, as straight as a welsh put-in to the scrum, as trustworthy as Billy Bowden‘s light meter. Stay tuned for Cameron and Clegg poncing about in England shirts, playing keepy-uppy during PMQ’s. Meanwhile, I’m gonna start producing “BRING BACK GORDON” t-shirts.
Great Touch for a Big Man
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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Gord Luv A Duck, The Noo !
In another of an occasional series of time-saving tips, I’d like to let you in on a little secret : 44″ Chest is a dreadful movie. Shocking. Awful. Nasty. Possibly the most disappointing film I’ve seen for some time.
Being a huge Ray Winston and John Hurt fan I was really looking forward to it, only to be left open-mouthed at the pointlessness, nastiness and worthlessness of it all. What a real shame. Sexy Beast II it ain’t. I can’t remember what I paid for it, but if you hang on for a little while you’ll be able to buy a ‘nearly new’ version on Amazon for next to nothing. (I’ve already posted my customer review). It’s a shocker.
Sexy Beast gave us the great Don Logan, possibly the best British gangster ever portrayed on film, played by Sir Ben Kingsley. His performance never ceases to amaze and enthrall me, especially the perfection and precision with which Kinglsey manages to pull off a cockney accent, right from his opening, immortal line “I’ve gotta change my shirt, I’m sweating like a cahnt”. Bloody well done for a Yorkshireman. I’m afraid the great John Hurt, (again from Yorkshire), fails to hit the mockney-mark in this lame follow-up, and he’s not alone. The ususally brilliant Tom Wilkinson from, er, Yorkshire borders on a Meery Puppins cockney performance all the way through. Stephen Dillane sounds ok as a Londoner, but then again he was born there. No, don’t waste your money on this movie, it’s horrid through and through, and the accents don’t help either.
But why should we expect Yorkshiremen to be able mimic the accent of The Old Kent Road, or Whitechapel? Accents are bloody hard to pull off. Just ask Russell Crowe. Well actually don’t, cos the big Aussie doesn’t like talking about it. DON’T LIKE IT AT ALL, MATE. He got very pissy with a radio interviewer who thought he sounded Irish when playing Robin Hood, the eponymous hero in Ridley Scott’s new blockbuster. What a load of old tosh ! He sounds Scottish. Or Lancastrian. Or Yorkish (perhaps Tom Wilkinson was his speech coach?).
Now given that we have no idea which accent or dialect Robin of Loxley actually had, we cannot say for sure that he didn’t sound like Groundskeeper Willie or Geoffrey Boycott or Roy Walker, but it’s safe to say he probably didn’t change his accent four times-a-day, depending on who he was talking to (as cunning as he was). What does a Lincolnshire accent sound like anyway? Buggered if I know.
Dodgy dialects have long been a source of amusement. Dick Van Dyke, of course, is the main culprit to whom everyone refers, but he is by no means alone when it comes to comedy accents. For starters, Keanu Reeves in Bram Stoker’s Dracula takes some beating for a crap Englishmen, James Coburn’s Australian in The Great Escape is one of my favourites (“what ye doin wiv me coat, mate?”), while Mickey Rooney’s portrayal of the Japanese landlord in Breakfast at Tiffany’s borders on the downright racist. The least said about Tom Cruise’s Oirishman in Far and Away, the better.
Why do they bother? Take a leaf out of Sean Connery’s book and just be yourself. Who can ever forget the Scottish/Russian submarine commander in The Hunt for Red October ? “Forty yearsh I’ve been at shea. A war at shea. A war with no battlesh, no monumensh… only casualtiesh.” Spoken like a native.
And how about his brilliant Portuguese-Jocko Warrior in Highlander ? (acting opposite a Frenchman playing a Scotsman) “With heart, faith and shteel. In the end there can be only one, Msh Moneypenny”. His Irish accent in “The Untouchables” is a thing of wonder and mystery. I defy any budding Henry Higgins to put a location to it, but I suspect it was born somewhere just outside Edinburgh.
I always thought Cary Elwes in the brilliant Princess Bride never got the credit he deserved, and as I’ve never seen (or unlikely ever to see) Bridget Jone’s Diary I can’t pass comment on Renee Zellweger’s version of the Queen’s Own. Is Hugh Laurie any good as an American in House? or did Domonic West sound authentic in The Wire? I can’t tell. Gotta be better than Bob Hoskins was in either Who Framed Roger Rabbit ? or The Cotton Club.
So in this world when there are rows about white men playing Othello, when the chinese community in Australia are up in arms over who’s portraying their War Hero, or uproar when Nick Cage is cast in a role which could have quite easily been given to a proper actor, why don’t we all agree to let anyone play anyone on stage or screen? Let’s just forget the blacking-up, or the crap makeup just as long as the role is a convincing one and acted well (and that’s Jude Law fucked on all counts.) And let’s rid ourselves of this obsession with the right accent for the right part. For example, I would like to play Rick Blaine in Casablanca with a South London lilt.
“Louis, I fink this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Nah, put the kettle on, you cahnt”
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A 10-Point Plan for Real Reform
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
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
Results Just In
12.25: Joan Collins comes out for the Tories (shock) and tells Andrew Neil that “David Cameron, WhooWhoo!” (punches the air) “He’ll make a great Prime Minister because he has a very good look” (I’m not making any of this up, check it out on iPlayer)
Victor Meldrew (or at least the bloke who plays him) declares he wanted PR all along (having bigged-up Gordon for years).
Martin Amis, looks like he’s been on the shandy since early on, manages to say “Clegg” using four syllables. “Ch-ll-eel-gh” well done! Have another sip. Mind you, if I’d have been sat next to David Starkey all night I’d be tempted to have a snifter or two.
Hang on a minute! Am I actually watching the BBC’s election coverage? Who’s next to give their considered opinion? Timmy Mallet?
The Sharp Single 