Back in the Thick of It

Posted on October 26, 2009 by The Ed

As the great Sir Terrence Wogan once said: Time flies like an arrow, but fruit flies like a banana. Can it really be 82 days since we last heard the shameless cries of ‘Foul’ from the Wankers of Westminster, having been caught bang-to-rights with their fingers in the till ? Let me get this right, they turn up for work once a week to get their mugs on camera on a Wednesday lunchtime, steal our money, use that money to fund their businesses and gardeners AND get 82 days off summer holiday? It’s a tough life. 82 days off ?? I’ve had shorter marriages. It only seems like yesterday that I was here ranting about Jacqui Smith and Hazel Blears, and if I’m not very careful I shall start again.

It’s amazingly over 3 months since I left the magazine and started working here at The Thunderer. Christ that’s flown by. I still get that new-boy feeling every now and again, but have finally remembered the names of most of the people I work with (although in conference the other day I couldn’t think of my Editor’s name, which wasn’t a great career move). The very sad thing is they keep giving me work to do, which is not what I signed up for, but it means I never clock-watch. Well hardly ever. But the time flies by, and that’s really all we can ever ask for, isn’t it? And dirty great wads of cash. And the odd pint. And a laugh.

When I joined the Ashes hadn’t yet started, Michael Jackson had died of natural causes and Gordon Brown was quaffing heavily in the Last Chance Saloon. A 100-odd days later, Jacko’s doctor is to appear before 12 men good and true, charged with Whackicide, the Aussies have returned home, urn-less. Gordon is now standing sobbing at the back of that saloon, refusing to go home, while the cleaners mop the floor, the bar staff bottle-up and the bouncer slips his big paws round the waist of a drunk teenage girl and offers her a lift home. I bet time isn’t flying for poor old Gordon. I wonder if he ever wakes up in the morning, stares at the ceiling and thinks “Oh fuck it, I’ve had enough”. How tempting must it be to ring Cameron and say “It’s all yours, have the sodding country, see how you like it.” It can’t be far away now.

How different might it all have been for Gordon had he still had the benefit of some nasty little bastard running the show like Alastair Campbell, or even better Malcolm Tucker? Neither would have let catastrophe after catastrophe befall this government. Malcolm would never have let Gordon back out of that original, promised election last year, Alastair would have taken Hazel, Jacqui and the rest of the expenses cartel around the back and horse-whipped them. And neither would have overseen the financial crisis without at least a dozen members of the Square Mile, the FSA and the ONS being strung up by their cajones and swinging from those lollipop clocks in Canary Wharf.

How reassuring it was to see Mr Tucker back on our screens on Saturday night. Usually I steer well clear of violent, venom-spitting Scotchmen, and I’ve met a few in my time, but I can’t get enough of Malc. I only wish my anger would manifest itself into such lines as ”Did you know that 90% of household dust is made up of dead human skin, that’s what you are…to me”.
This week he had Glynn’s chair thrown away. It was one of those chairs that is supposed to give you maximum support and perfect posture- you know the ones. Got anyone in your office who sits on a large brightly-coloured beach ball instead of a chair? Bet you have. I’ve seen a few in my time. Oh for a lit cigarette or a scalpel. “But, Mike, I have a bad back and this ball really helps. And the colour matches my RSI gauntlet. There it is, next to my S.A.D. light”.

You get where I’m coming from, right?

So for the three months I’ve been here I’ve been the recipient of several emails, each one more insistent than the last, from our Health, Safety and Environment Dept informing me that I need a ‘Workdesk Assessment’. They need to make sure I am comfortable and not at risk of developing any aches and pain while at my desk. Yes: It’s Sitting on a Chair Lessons. I ignored the first two invitations. Replied that I “was fine” to the third. The fourth came by return to which I wrote “No, honestly, I’ll be ok: I’ve been sitting on chairs for years, with a 98% success rate”. Only the threat, in the fifth email, of being hauled up in front of the beak has made me relent. I am still, after all, on Double Secret Probation and I wouldn’t want to jeopardise that now, would I?

Imagine all the money large companies could save by frog-marching out of the office all the HR Depts, Occupation Health Officers and the like ? Fortunes could be saved. They do nothing for no-one, apart justifying their own existence. Nothing. “But what about all the days-off-thru-sickness we save industry ?” Cobblers: It’s the same sort of people in offices throughout the land who are habitual RSI-getters (you can spot ‘em a mile off). Nothing anyone can do will change this type. Takers and slakers, every man jack of ’em. They spend a luna month in the nurse’s office throughout the year; never get a sniffle, they get Beriberi or Green Monkey Disease, and they are lacing up their running spikes at 5:58 every afternoon and are off out the door like Usain Bolt before you can say “actually could you just give me a hand with this”. I’ve seen Occ.Health people come to desks and measure angles and distances of keyboards, monitors and, of course chairs. Next time you see them in action, just watch the face of the worker they’re attending to, forming a skiving-off strategy. “Do you suffer from pain in your wrist, shoulder blade or achilles heel while at your desk?” they’re asked. “Well, now you come to mention it I have developed quite a sore knee when I’m asked to log on, yes”. “Hmmm…thought so. You need a new chair, a foot-rest and every other Friday off with stress. That should see you all right. Also, we’ll make sure your boss doesn’t give you too much work”.

I don’t need to name these people, we know who they are and THEY know who they are. They all look the same, with interchangeable names. They’ll be one sitting near you in your office today (unless you ARE one of them, in which case you’ll be reading this from the comfort of your home sofa). Of course people get ill, we all do. Some just get ill more often than others. A good mate of mine, I won’t name him (another Jock) came limping up the office once and I thought “oh here we go, he’s either fallen off his scooter or he’s got RSI of the ankle. Manky scotch git!” Neither were true. Turns out it was gout, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. I was so glad that I wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of time on my aching body. Gout! Brilliant: traditionally associated with old men and heavy drinkers, and my mate was at least one of them. Time catches up with us all in the end.

On Thursday, I officially enter the world of late-middle agedness when I take up the company’s offer of a free flu-jab. As noted on these pages previously, I am a magnet for a cold and flu bug. Typically, I make sure I have spread it throughout the office before I go off to my sickbed. Well, I’m determined this year to nip it in the bud (or bug). I always thought that flu jabs were for the elderly or infirm, and so here I am. It’ll probably make me feel like death warmed up for the rest of the day, but I won’t be calling for a footstool, wrist-brace or truss. I shall merely sit at my desk, and when the Occ Health girls come to call, I shall merely quote Malcolm Tucker and say :”Come the fuck in, or fuck the fuck off”.

I may even put on a scotch accent.

An Offer Not to be Sniffed At

Posted on October 10, 2009 by The Ed

I feel I’m missing out.

As predicted, all week I’ve been fighting off the lurgy. It had been jabbing me on the hooter, with the occasional left hook to the throat, to counter which I’d been ducking and weaving, and defending my body with linctus, Lemsip, Lockets and Lagavulin. But by Friday morning, standing in a packed compartment on the DLR, I realised that I’d succumbed to a nasty bout of, if not Swine Flu, certainly Man Flu. Yes, I had a rotten cold. Being the trooper I am, I made my way to the office, but after an hour of snotting and sneezing my way around the department, I threw the towel in and made the return journey home.

I slipped into my favourite kitten-soft striped pjs and nice wooly bedsocks (well, cricket batting socks anyway), collapsed onto the sofa and under the duvet, remote control in hand and surrounded myself with jollop and tissues. Semi-content and semi-conscious, I settled down for an afternoon of all the crap my new cable service could throw at me. A quick flick through all 183 channels revealed that there was nothing decent anywhere on telly. No matter, I had all the stuff to watch which I’d recorded over the last couple of weeks. I had no mum around to mop my sweaty brow, but I did have lieutenant Columbo of the LAPD. A whole 4 episodes. 8 hours of recorded heaven. Comfort tv and a comfy pit in which to recuperate/feel sorry for myself. Trouble is, such was the heaviness of my cold, I soon nodded off only to be woken up at every advert break (which, of course, are several notches louder than the actual tv show). It was then I started worrying.

Or, to put it another way, I realised that I’m not been worrying enough!

As more ad breaks came and went it became clear to me that I’ve not been spending enough of my life worrying about cheaper car insurance. Like Twitter, Facebook and going to the gym, regularly comparing car insurance is obviously part of modern life that has passed me by. If the adverts which bombarded me that afternoon are to be believed, the nation is gripped by an ever-present fear that they’re paying too much for cover on their motor.

Confused dot com? I certainly am. You can apparently save yourself not only Pound££££££££££££££££s with Moneysupermarket.com but also minutessssssss of wasted insurance-buying hell if you go to Admiral.com (do you know about Admiral Multicar????) and during the seconds you’ve saved there, you can get yourself onto the VanInsurer.com to sort out your Transit. Yep, there’s a dedicated site for insuring vans too. Stephen Fry and Paul Merton lend their weight to Directline.com‘s campaign for car and home cover, while cheeky cockney builder from Ground Force, Tommy Walsh touts Direct‘s line in van protection. Sir Steve Redgrave used to dress up as an Admiral before they realised that as an actor, Sir Steve makes a great Olympic rower, and Vic Reeves used to be the voice of Churchill, before an unfortunate incident with a breathalyser. Ohhhh yus.

Who are these people who spend their lives insuring stuff ? I’m clearly doing something wrong. Watch these ads and look at the sad, insurance-less faces of the sad old cows therein, quickly replaced by their look of ecstacy when they save themselves £17.50 cos their daughter’s have suddenly taught them how to work a mouse. Is this really a scene that takes place across the land?

I haven’t owned a motor for four years, since I shunted my old Rover up the arse of a parked car on a sliproad off the M25. But when I did have a car, I’m pretty sure I insured it when I bought it, then once a year I would open and close that letter which told me I should do nothing if I wanted to continue my policy for another year. Do nothing, what a wonderful phrase? That, to me, is worth pound££££££££££££££s of fucking around on a dull, dull website. “Mike, would you like to weave your way around the web, looking for the best deal on a van, or do nothing? ” Er…..?

Perhaps they are right and I am wrong (there’s always a first time)? Perhaps instead of tapping away talking to you I should be logged into Morethan to see if I can shave a fiver off what The Incumbent pays for her jam jar, though she seems about as bovvered as I am. She’s brighter than me, so doubtless she’s with Diamond or Sheila’s Wheels to benefit from the fact that she is indeed a Sheila. Perhaps Tommy Walsh does a discount for fat cockneys, as I don’t own a van.

I wonder who insured Columbo’s old Peugeot ? I bet Mrs C got him a good deal.

Green Army!!

Posted on October 7, 2009 by The Ed

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

I’m taking my camera.

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

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

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

Often Beaten Around the Ring. And Joe Calzaghe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dark Matter

Posted on October 4, 2009 by The Ed

Well that’s that, then. Time to pack away your shorts and sandals, put the covers on the garden furniture and start the never-ending process of sweeping up leaves. As a default position I’ll be drinking Guinness instead of lager, and if I fancy that something a little bit different I’ll opt for a scotch (size to your discretion) rather than a Magners. Roast potatoes will be on the bars of the nation of a Sunday lunchtime, and the social lepers will drag on their gaspers while huddled round the patio heaters in the garden.

In the mornings it’ll take just that little bit longer to raise yourself from beneath the duvet. It’s a time to delve deep into the back of the wardrobe and re-discover those long-forgotten woolies and overcoats. It’s also the time to play chicken at home. Who will blink first and put the central heating on or stoke up the fire? “Close those bloody curtains, it’s freezing in here!” Life in London will be spent in virtual darkness, only very occasionally punctuated by spells of bright, crisp days, when we’ll moan cos we’ve slipped over on the ice outside.

You’ll walk to the station in the morning and from the station in the evening, never spying the sun as you do so. Wrapped up against the elements with perhaps a hat perched at a jaunty angle on your head, you battle your way through the masses of arseholes and their eye-gouging umbrellas on the station platform. It’s gonna be dark, damp and cold. They’ll be a nasty nip in the air. Are scarves in this year, and if so at what length and what’s the fashionable way to wear them? You’ll have plenty of time to get it just right, as the first cold snap or fall of leaves will delay your train service into the metropolis. Last year during a heavy snowfall the London Underground ground to a halt. How the fuck does that happen?

The trains and the offices of the land will be alive with the coughs and the sniffles of those suffering the latest bout of bugs. Steam will rise from the gloves perched on radiators, placed there in the hope they’ll be dry by home time. There will be empty seats at desks cos ‘Julie has a cold’ or “Dave has the flu”. The perennial malingers have a friend this year in swine flu, offering the perfect alibi for a day off work. It’s a brave boss this winter who will insist you come into the office with suspect symptoms. Having typed that I will doubtless come down with it myself. But for real. Honest.

For those of us who manage to struggle into the office, sundowners on the way home will be a thing of the past, that pleasure of having a quiet sup by the river as the sun sets having been replaced by the joy of a standing by a real fire in a real boozer. It’s early October so the posters to entice you to book your Christmas party will already be festooning the walls of pubs and restaurants. We’re seconds away from this year’s M&S and Coke ads on the telly. My 45th birthday will come and go and my Black Dog will scratch at the door. This year he’s not invited in.

The soccer season will continue unabated, apart for the poorer clubs who don’t possess undersoil heating. The England cricket team will show us new and un-entertaining ways of how to lose matches abroad. Strictly Come Dancing, the X Factor and the like will clog up the schedules until the festive season, by which time you have done your bollocks on pressies, and are able to recite word-for-word both those M&S and the Coke ads. You’ve bought enough food and booze to feed the street, all the while moaning that you only do Christmas for the kids. The kids buggered off round their mates yonks ago.

January comes and you’re even fatter than you were in December, and you vow never to look another Jack n coke (Coke Is It!) in the eye again. If you didn’t purge yourself in November in preparation for the big push, you go on the wagon for the whole of January, which usually lasts 13 days until you have to go out for a drink with your mate on his birthday. Life continues in the dark and the wet of the early months, your eyes peeled for the green shoots of Spring. No-one knows when Easter is as the fuckers have moved it again, the only ones in-the-know being Devil-Dodgers and Sheave-Bringers, and they’re few and far between, thank Christ. The Six Nations Rugby offers a glimmer of hope: It takes so long nowadays that you know by the end of it you’ll be rubbing linseed oil into your bat and liniment into your groin.

Then it all happens at once, seemingly. The National, the Boat Race, then it’s here: the traditional start of the season: The Marathon. The first drink of the year without wearing a coat, and the biggest hangover of the year. It’s six months away, but stick with me kid- we’ll get through the dark times together. Wrap up warm, have a regular wee dram to warm the cockles, close your eyes, think of cold beer, hard pitches, hot tea, blind umpires and cricket pavilions and it’ll be spring before you know it.

Born to Run

Posted on September 28, 2009 by The Ed

So there’s this bloke.

I see him most mornings on my way to work. I alight from the train, walk out of the station, and within about 100 yards I see him, running in the opposite direction, presumably for the train. He’s about 35 years old, 5’6”, maybe 5’7”, wears a single-breasted charcoal grey suit, either a schoolboy-blue or light grey shirt, those spongy-souled, mock-hushpuppy shoes which should never be worn with a whistle, and has his iPod plugged into each ear.

He often sports the look of a worried man, and he is always running. Running, not in a jogging lycra-nazi, a fitness fanatic or a health-freak kinda way, but running in a fashion which would be familiar to Jerry Lewis fans everywhere, and of a man who is late for an appointment. I reckon I see him at least three or four times-a-week, depending on which train I catch, and he’s always somewhere between a fast jog and a slow sprint. Some evenings when I’m making the return journey, I see him running in the other direction. Presumably he’s late getting home too.

Each time he passes me I try to catch his eye with a nod, or a polite grin but he’s too immersed in himself and his troubles to take any notice. His eyes are firmly fixed on the pavement about 4 ft in front of him, presumably for fear of falling or tripping. In a flash of flailing elbows and ankles he’s gone, off to catch whatever it is he’s late for. He must humm a bit when he gets to work every morning. I hope they have showers at his office.

Roman Polanski has done his fair bit of running over the years, from the Nazis and from the Law, mainly, but now it seems he’s jogging days may be over. There’s been a lot of hurrumphing over his apprehension by Knacker auf Der Garten in Switzerland over the weekend, and I feel I may have missed a bit of the story somewhere. As I understand it, 30-odd years ago he was in a hot-tub in Jack Nicholson’s house with a 13 yr-old girl during a booze and drugs-fuelled party. Somehow, Roman has sex with the girl, it goes to court and he denies rape. Eventually he admits to consensual sex with a minor and is charged. Before he’s sentenced he does a runner to Europe, where he’s been ever since. Now Pc Trott has slapped the cuffs on him and our diminutive director may have to return to the States to face the music.

“Shame, Shame!” I hear you cry. “The poor man’s been through a lot. Mother killed by the Nazis, father in Aushwitz, girlfriend murdered by Charles Manson– hasn’t he gone through enough??” Well no-one would say that was the stuff of an Enid Blyton book, but he did have sex with a 13 year old, albeit 35 years ago, and doesn’t that merit some sort of punishment? “But wait! He’s a genius. He directed Rosemary’s Baby and Chinatown, to name but two. His contribution to the Arts must count for something ?” Nope. Not round here, mate.

Mr Paul Gadd has had his request to go on holiday to France refused by the authorities. Paul is a well-known kiddie-fiddler and the powers-at-be are concerned that once in France, he’ll hop over the border the Spain, where I’m told the age of consent is, coincidentally, 13. When Paul had a pop career and went by the name of Gary Glitter, he gave literally some people enormous pleasure with his glam rock numbers. Several no.1s and a great line in Christmas retro concerts endeared him to many, right up until the time that he was exposed as having a serious interest in child porn. Gadd fled the tabloid press (and presumably hopefully, UK sex laws) to South East Asia. Sadly for him, a few years later a court in Vietnam charged him and convicted him with a number of obscene acts with minors. Should this bloke go free because of I love You Love Me Love or The Leader of Gang? I’m sure that there are many who had his picture on the wall of their bedroom throughout the 70’s, and think of the pleasure he brought to so many of the years. Tough.

You can’t blame him for trying to slip through the net from France to Spain though. It’s not the worst getaway plan I’ve heard of this week. Take the two brothers, Wayne and James Snell, who meticulously planned a bank robbery to such fine detail that all went swimmingly well. Sadly for the Brothers Dimm, they used James own BMW as a getaway car. The number plate? J4 MES. Only 78 passers-by remembered the car with the personalised plate parked outside the bank that day, which quickly led Knacker to the brothers’ flat where they were pinched, sitting beside a pile of readdies. Not quite the perfect crime.

Running, clearly, isn’t as easy as we’d like to think. Take poor old Graeme Smith, captain of the South African cricket team. Last night, his team were engaged in a rather entertaining little match against the Bastard English when, 3/4s of the way though the match, Mr Smith went down in cramp spasms. He does this a lot, his career has been dogged by cramp. He’s a big old lump, and probably not what other sportsmen might deem an athlete. Some might say he doesn’t take very good care of his body, given that a lot of cricket is played in sweltering conditions, inducing players to sweat gallons. Clearly incapacitated by cramps in his legs, Smith asked the England Captain, Andrew Strauss for a “runner”. Under the laws of the game, an opposition captain can grant a batsman a “runner” if that player has injured himself during the match, and so is unable to run between the wickets. It’s the sort of sporting behaviour which cricket in general, and us English in particular, are known for. Strauss refused (he was born in South Africa), Smith fumed, then hobbled up-and-down a bit and lost his wicket. England won, which is much more important than playing fair.

It reminded me of a match a long time ago between Sri Lanka and Australia. The Sri Lankan skipper, Arjuna Ranatunga was fat. Fat and sweaty. A man who wasn’t built for running, especially in hot weather. He was built for eating, however he was still a rather good batsmen. During this particular match, Ranatnga had been batting for a long time, but was tiring visibly, and sweating audibly. So he decided to try a ploy that had worked for him before. He announced to the umpire that he had “sprained something” and requested a runner. The umpire turned to the Australia captain, Ian Healy, to ask if that was ok by him. “No it ain’t! ” exlcaimed the Aussie. “You don’t get a runner for being a fat c*nt”.

The prosecution rests.

Send Me Victorious, HD and Glorious

Posted on September 12, 2009 by The Ed

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

pub

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

virgin_vbox_epg

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

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

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

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

woss

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

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

Nowhere Men

Posted on August 29, 2009 by The Ed

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

finger

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

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

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

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

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

Not mad for it.

We Will Fight them on the Beaches, but not in Birmingham

Posted on August 17, 2009 by The Ed

tomtom

The longer you’ve been away, the harder it is to come back. I originally quite liked the 4-weeks-on-2-weeks-off lark which I managed eek out of my new employers, but now I’m beginning to see the fault in my plan: I can’t remember a sodding thing. Couldn’t logon this morning, was typing the wrong password into the wrong system; forgot that we had a ten o’clock conference so no idea what we’re doing today; everything they’d taught me about the new system had vanished from my mind; and I addressed three different women colleagues by the right names, but not necessarily in the right order. They’re all very impressed with me.

Since we last met, France came and went, Birmingham just came. I can’t get it out of my head, but more of that later.

How the world changes in a couple of weeks. Before I left England were well in command of The Ashes Series, ham sandwiches didn’t give you cancer and the Tory Party loved the NHS. Yes really. What, you mean you don’t believe them? Shame on you. Don’t you know they’ve changed??? They’re all-for the Welfare State, comprehensive education, spot-the-ball and whippet racing. When they romp home next year they will ban BUPA, shut down Charterhouse and shoot all hounds and huntsmen.

Neil Warnock will become Sports Minister and Peter Tatchell Home Secretary. New Tory will be unrecogiseable. I know all this cos Dave told me, and I’m not the sort of bloke who disbelieves Dave. Why, didn’t you hear him crucify one of his foot soldiers who told Fox News that the NHS was a bag ‘o shite ? Said the Yanks would be mad to adopt a similar model! Dave’s rebuke was quite terrifying, and very, very believable. Honest. It was in The Mail.

Up the Ox and Bucks!!

Meanwhile, back in the real world (well as close to real life as I get) The Incumbent and I travelled to Normandy, sans enfants (did you see what I did then?). First stop Pegasus Bridge. In the early hours of D-Day, 1944, about a hundred British Tommies landed in gliders and stormed the tiny garrison defending this vital crossing over the Orne River. Immortalised by the aforementioned The Longest Day, the Tommies made swift work of dispatching the nasty Hun, secured the bridge for the Allied advance and liberated a small café to boot, so everyone could have a cup of tea afterwards.

These glider pilots really were something else. Under cloudy, moon-less skies, they navigated their heavily-laden craft over the coast of France to the target area with little more than a compass, a stopwatch and a huge moustache. 5 out of six gliders hit their target, with one landing a mere 47 yards from the end of the bridge.

On the other hand, The Incumbent and I were armed with an O.S. map, a Toyota 4×4 and the ubiquitous SatNav and managed to miss the turning three times. Not really Tommies, more TomTommies, and fucking useless ones at that. I’d have missed the whole of the Normandy coastline, and probably more if I was on HMS TallyHo as part of the invasion force armed with that TomTom. I’d have probably liberated Wales. Or perhaps I wouldn’t.

The problem is with these bloody things that we’ve (or rather I’ve) stopped looking at maps. A year ago I’d have never undertaken a journey past Sainsbury’s car park without consulting the old A-Z beforehand, but now I glibly set off on 300 mile journeys without a care in the world, trusting implicitly this little box stuck to the windscreen. Well it gets confused, I can tell you. New roads get built, diversions are enforced, roads blocked and it drives your poor little TomTom beserk. Yes yes yes, I know you’re supposed to update it every 17 minutes and download new maps, but who has the time to do that before you go away? I’m far too busy looking for my passport and the Arret.

How the hell did they get something that big across the Channel? Pic also shows a section of Mulberry harbour

Anyway, SatNav apart, and taking into account everything in France is tres cher (God I’m good!) it was a memorable trip. Pegasus Bridge, The Mulberry harbour at Arromanches, Omaha Beach, the US Cemetery (I know how to show a girl a good time) plus lashings of Kronenbourg (you need it after that lot). The streets of our little town were full of young an old, enjoying good food, dear beer, and great wine to the sound of the odd accordion and the even jazz combo. Lots of munching, quaffing and couples tangoing in the street. All v civilized indeed. I recommend it.

Fade to black with the strains of Edith Piaf in your head

Cut to Broad Street Birmingham, Saturday night. Cue the Housey Housey music.

The carnage.

We’d been to see the cricket at Edgbaston (just how lucky can one girl get on holiday?) and made the short 2-mile walk in good time and in better thirst and needed immediate refreshment. What confronted us was more terrifying than the Allies could have possibly faced on the beaches of France 65 years ago. Legions and legions of pissed, swearing, puking, fighting boys and girls (and I mean boys and girls) in various stages of undress, noticeably unmolested by Her Majesty’s Finest. Not a copper in sight (shock).

Literally hundreds of once-pretty 14 year-olds, now made-up like cheap hookers in barely more than their underwear screaming at each other in the middle of dual carriageways, 16 year old boys hanging on lampposts, gasper on bottom lip, WKD in hand, absolutely wankered, chanting the mantra “ get yer tits out” to all and sundry (yes, to me as well). Doormen, bouncers and stewards sharing looks of fear, boredom or total annoyance, winding up haymakers for the next gobby shite who abuses them. They had my sympathies. It was as close to Dodge City as I’m ever likely to see, and I wanted out. We made a dash for the Hotel bar where the coppers and the specials were sitting in the corner, away from the trouble. And who can blame them? Well I did, at the time, but in the cold light of day it was pretty understandable. Having worked on dozens of stories about Binge Britain, and poo-poo’d all of them as a load of hysterical bollox this was my first real-time, up-close sight of it and it was ‘orrible. My daughters will never go out after 6.30 at night, if I have anything to do with it (which I don’t).

Are all towns like this, or does that honour just fall to Birmingham? Don’t write to me and tell me, I don’t wanna know. I have seen, been involved with and started a few piss-ups in my time, (I will probably be close to one tonight) but the scale of this was mind-boggling. I can only imagine it’s like a chilly version of Tenerife and I’m so very glad I missed out on all of that rubbish. Grubby, ugly, young, fat kids (plus their parents with dreadful outfits and disasterous haircuts). Synchronised obnoxiousness. You can tell, I’m in shock. Shell-suit shock. What a complete and utter shit-hole. Trust my bleeding TomTom to be able to find that one.

And it’s all yours, Dave, whenever you wanna take over.

The Cemetery at Omaha Beach. Twinned with Broad Street, Birmingham

Zwei Birra, und Quattro Cokes, Si Vous Plait

Posted on August 10, 2009 by The Ed

So I was worried about the flight, and I was worried about the drive across Italy. A little bit of me worried how I’d handle four kids for a week. But for some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to be worried that we didn’t possess a map , a phrasebook or the minutest smattering of the language between us. Whether it was an oversight, what with everything we had to organise and fret about beforehand and all that; or whether my subconscious considered me far to wordly-wise to bother about not being understood I’m not sure. Anyway, we had the Tom Tom, right? Nothing goes wrong when you have a Tom Tom, does it? And this was, after all, an EU country where everyone spoke English, right? Wrong! This was a part of the EU where they had been mercifully ignored by plane-loads of Brits tearing up their towns and abusing their waiters. Sure there were always a few families passing through, but not enough for the indigenous population to feel the need to gen-up on the Oxford English Dictionary.

So, Ich nicht sprechen Italiano, je ne comprends your banter pas, old boy. By the way, can you tell me when the hell I am please, Signor Garcon? What a berk.

Ulysses

No matter, we picked up the motor at one of Rome’s airports (a battered and bruised Fiat Ulysses, prefect for our Odyssey, I thought) and sped east along the Autstrade. 17ks later we hit (almost literally) a string of Toll booths, stretched across the road. In a singularly British way I plumped for the wrong gate. I pressed the red button. Nothing. Pressed it again, still no ticket. Two cars had pulled up behind me. I started sweating-up in the paddock. I pressed the green button, next to the speaker. A conversation was had between 2 people who had no idea what the other was saying. The word “ticket” was the sole common denominator. Four cars behind me now, the third gave several honks on his Italian handbrake (his horn). I made the International Sign for bugger off, back-up, I’m coming out and they begrudgingly obliged and I reversed onto the hard shoulder. Somehow Italians can steer a car, press the horn AND wave both arms in the air all at the same time (yes, I know this sound like a stereotype, but it really is true).

I found a tall, imposing, para-military-type at the help desk, complete with mirror-shades and, dare-I-say, jackboots. He spoke very little English, so he had the jump on me. “Where you go?” he asked.
I’d forgotten where, indeed, I was going, so I picked a nearby city at random “Ancona” I replied. A puzzled look came across his face. Why would anyone want to go to that sh*t-hole?, he was thinking. Ah wait!: He’s English. He wrote several unconnected words in block capitals onto a scrap of paper and handed it to me.
“You no pay” he said. Then gesturing the International Sign for giving, said “you give this to Ancona”.

What he wrote I cared not one wit, as it was clear he was letting us through without charge. And away we went.

An hour down the road we approached a second set of tolls. This time I was determined not to embarrass myself as before. I chose the one with the International Sign for money above it. But there was no slot to insert neither coins, notes nor credit card. I started to panic again. Then a cardboard ticket spewed out of a hole just in front. In my haste I lunged at it, snatched at it and dropped it on the tarmac.

“Oh sod it ! Sorry kids” I exclaimed.
“Dad, Daaaaaad” yelled one from the back row of the car “it’s open!”.
I looked up to see the gate had indeed opened. WooHoo!!!, I had an escape route. I stuck her into what I hoped was something near 1st and released the clutch. We stalled. I’d stuck her into 5th. All week I would struggle and fail to find the right gear. Left-hand-drive motors call for right-hand gear-changing and I would discover that I was crap at it. I restarted the car, found 2nd-ish and we kangaroo-ed out of the trap.

Ninety minutes of scary motorway driving later and we’d reached our exit. Down the slip road, around the tight hairpin (5th instead of the desired 3rd gear) and up to our final toll booth. I pressed the green button. Nothing, but an LED message in Italian. What good was that to me? I pressed the green button instead.

“Si” came a woman’s voice after a short pause.
“Hello”, I said in my best David Niven, “do you speak English?
“Put in your ticket” she replied, by way of an affirmative.
“I don’t have a ticket”
“Put in your ticket”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a ticket”
“Put in your ticket”
“I don’t have a ticket, sorry. I have a piece of paper”, remembering Signor Jackboot’s gift to me earlier.
“One moment please” There was a pause of no more that 4 seconds.

The LED message changes from the unintelligible message to one I understood clearly. It was the International Sign for 75 Euros. Signora Tollbooth had suddenly gone mute. Hmmm… I knew I was stuffed. I hadn’t the command of the language to argue the toss, even if I had an argument. Two crisp 50 Euro notes were slid into the machine, the change was spat out into the tray bellow. I stuck her into reverse, then 3rd, then finally 1st and limped out under the open gate, my tailpipe between my legs.

“I bet they did that cos we were English” offered one of the small mammals in the back seat.
“Yeah” said another, “They hate the Brits” declared a third.

“Nope” I told them. “We didn’t have a ticket so they charged us for the whole length of the motorway. It’s fair enough. British Rail do similar. We’ll know better next time.” Famous last words.

On day 3 of our trip one of the lads and I parked outside what we took to be a supermarket, but which turned out to be a chemist. Exiting with what little we could find worth buying (Aftersun and loo roll) we noticed a parking ticket for 38 Euros slapped on the windscreen of the car. A tad miffed we yomped to the local Cop Shop. “Hello” I said (trying my Alan Whicker this time), handing him the Duty Sergeant the ticket,”do you speak English? ”
“A little” he smiled.
Sadly, he apparently knew only one English phrase: “Thirty-eight Euros”, he said, holding out his palm and making the International Sign for give me the money.
“What did I do wrong?” I asked
“Thirty-eight Euros” he grinned again. Hmmm…. we’ll know better next time.

Later, in a take-away restaurant I managed to order 6 whole pizzas when I wanted 6 slices. The kids were thrilled and chomped their way through the lot. When we finally found the supermarket I bought 12 litres of water which no-one would drink as it was of the fizzy variety and they’d “clearly asked for still, daaaad”.

Map-less, we managed not to find the biggest water-park in southern Europe, drove up two one-way streets and, on the home trip, spent ninety minutes looking at the airport from a distance of 700 yards while we encircled it trying to find a route in. When we finally did so, I drove into the wrong car park to return the car and had a fruitless two-language argument trying to get out of said car park to go find the proper one. This time the lady took pity on me and opened the gate for nix.

So would I go back? You bet. Apart from the odd jobsworth and copper, the Italians were a superb bunch. Most were very happy to help us through the language barrier, and keen to teach us the few words we needed to get by. Birra, Conto, Prego, Formaggio, Pomadoro and the like now seem second nature to me, which will be handy when I go to France tomorrow.

view

The weather was hot, and the birra cold. The region in which our villa was situated was absolutely beautiful, tiny little medaeval villages dotted around a stunning mountainous landscape. An hour down the road (take a map) is mile-upon-mile of beautiful, clean welcoming beaches, full of elegant,friendly locals, spectacular ice cream parlours and, according to the Incumbent’s 14-year-old boy, beautiful, topless, Italian women (though I never saw any, and if I did, I wasn’t staring, honest).

I’ve never stayed at a better appointed nor better situated villa than The Villa San Raffaello, run by Damien and Sharon, two charming Londoners (albeit, he’s a Gooner) who set up shop there five years ago. Plenty of room, a pool, tv etc etc etc everything a family would want, complete with hot n cold running vegetables and herbs from their gardens surrounding the dwelling. Stick yer straw hat on and play being Don Corleone among the tomato plants (though, hopefully without the final consequences). The vines mature next summer so there will be wine too (or vino, as we like to call it).

Driving through a neighbouring town one afternoon the driver of a parked car I was poodling past opened his door and sliced off my wing mirror. K-LUNK. I pulled in down the road, got out and trudged back to the scene of the accident. The man, elegant, middle-aged, grey hair, mahogany skin and perfect teeth, shirt open to the navel, stood there grinning at me, arms outstretched, palms pointing upwards, the International Sign for sorry mate, but what you gonna do?. I did the only thing I could: I taught him some Anglo Saxon words beginning with ‘F’ and ‘C’, picked up my ex-wing mirror and went back to the car.

Normandy tomorrow, courtesy of Mr Horrible‘s generous hospitality. Now French I’m good at. Cul de Sac, mon amis.

hat

Going Upstairs for a Decision

Posted on July 20, 2009 by The Ed

p4_5sat_585x350_590789a

Take a note of the day you read this: I feel sorry for the Australians. I do, honestly. I had two clear LBW decisions turned down by the umpire yesterday, and at the other end, we had their opening batsman stumped by about a yard but their umpire refused to give it. Not even a referral. There is a theory (which I’m formulating) that no cricket match should take place without the setting up of cameras at either end, behind the bowlers arm, and square of both ends of the wicket.

Pub and village sides already have to supply the balls, stumps, umpires coats, even the sandwiches so would it be too hard to get four (six would be even better) of the team to arrive with a camera (with tripod, preferably) to position at strategic points around the boundary ? This would go a long way to banishing dodgy decisions from bent umps on the village greens of England (yes, yes, okay, and Wales).

Everyone has a camera (and therefore all think they’re photographers, especially writers) and most cameras these days come with a video mode. When an iffy call was made and challenged we could all troop to the boundary and study the footage. It wouldn’t take any more than fifteen minutes of argument, I’m sure.

CRICKET-LKA-ASIA CUP-INDIA-WI-MALINGA-DOCTROVE

On the other hand we could just get on with the game, trust the umpires and players to be honest and decent. If we go down the video route and ask for each and every decision to be scrutinised by the fourth, fifth or sixth official we may as well get rid of the officials on the field altogether. We could call it Grid Iron Cricket, or somesuch.

For much of yesterday’s game we stood in light drizzle and strong, gusting wind. It wasn’t ideal, but we played on. We got the game finished and no-one was hurt (apart from a fielder who snagged his goolies on the barbed wire fence surrounding the pitch). Driving home last night listening to a phone-in on the radio one caller suggested to save losing time in Test matches and to make conditions “fair” for both teams the ECB should invest in a roof for Lords (and presumably all the other English (and Welsh) Test venues. I nearly careered of the M25.

Britain Open Golf

Apart from the small matters of cost, practicality, humidity and numerous other atmospherics, IT’S AN OUTDOOR SPORT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!!!!! Did anyone see Tiger throw is five iron out of his pram when a gust of nasty Scottish wind caught his approach shot?? Perhaps we should put a roof over Turnberry, St Andrews and Sandwich? Let’s get video referees to see if a blade of grass got between ball and club, which was why Tiger didn’t get backspin? Stop play when it rains or gets a bit chilly?? Thank Christ for Tom Watson. He showed a few of these powdered ponces how to play the game as it was meant to be played.

Golf, like cricket (and, while we’re at it, rugby and soccer) are outdoor sports. They were invented to be played in the elements. Anyone who’s ever played full-back at rugby on a cold and blustery afternoon in January will attest to how bloody hard and miserable it is. But that’s the game. If you don’t wanna feel the wind gusting around, carrying the ball off in all sorts of directions, and your fingers, frozen to the bone and numb to the tips, fail you as you try to grab hold of this bar-of-soap before the entire back row smash you into the icy mud below then I suggest you either play all your games in Cardiff or buy an X-Box.

travel-graphics-200_423534a

If your idea of golf is a windless day, with perfect greens and nice, flat, soft, fluffy fairways which allow one to float a wedge into within 6 foot of every pin then you can go into Tiger Woods 09 on the Wii and select “turn off elements”. It’s a pastime but it’s not sport. A bit like tennis. I blame Wimbledon for a lot of things, particularly endless Tiger Tim and Morbid Murray headlines, and the rise of the middle class woman into the assumed status of ‘sports fan’. Listen, darling, two weeks of stealing the best armchair in the house, painting your face with a union flag and understanding Hawkeye doesn’t suddenly turn you into Desmond Lynham or even Kirsty Gallagher (bless her). But now that you have your bleedin roof over centre court all the other part-time sofa-jocks think it’ll work for every other sport.

Watch Brian Glover in Kes playing the PE master pretending to be Bobby Charlton and you lot will realise how football AND ALL REAL SPORT should be played. NOT in manicured sports halls, NOT under the supervision of fifty tv cameras but outside, on grass under the clouds and officiated by proper humans, complete with all the frailties, weaknesses and mistakes that humans bring with them.

kes_1969_2

For the record, I hit 28 runs (16 of them off a 17 yr old girl’s bowling. It was her first ever game) and took 3 wickets (one of which was that of the girl’s even younger girlfriend). I feel it’s only a matter of time til I get a call-up for England. Move over Freddie.

The Sharp Single

All Done

Category Archives: TV