Tag Archives: Australia

A Five Eighth and a Half.

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It’s sad to hear that Michael Lynagh, the great Australian fly-half (or 5/8 in some circles) has suffered a stoke at the age of 48. Having suffered similar a year at go and at a similar age, my thoughts are with him and hope he gets as much luck as I did, enjoys the same amount of excellent care and attention I did, but put on only 1/2 the weight. Lynagh comes from that rare breed of tackling stand-off halves (no, nor have I) and played in, and though not captain, led an Australian side full of superstars such as Campo, Nobody and Willie Ofahengaue, who not only were a joy to watch and won the 1991 World Cup but also tackled, rucked and mauled like demons (yes, it was that long ago). Michael was a brilliant kicker, runner and tactical thinker and was a true great of the game. Horrible to think of him cooped up in a hospital ward, but one trusts he won’t have quite so many rows with the hospital staff as your correspondent did (I swear, it was the drugs talking).

Meanwhile, the Welsh RFU’s resident Kiwi, Warren Gatland has also been taken crook, suffering with that very common but nevertheless annoying injury: fractured heels. Apparently Wazza was up a ladder cleaning the windows of his Waihi Beach holiday house on the Bay of Plenty, when he stepped back to admire his work. This brings two questions to mind: since when did they start building two-storey buildings down in 1957land ? and; who forgets they are up a ladder ? The former Waikaito hooker (Aha ! there’s a clue immediately) is laid up with both legs in plaster while his summer duties for Wales are handed over to real Welshman Rob Howley.

It’s a pity Gatland isn’t English as not only would he be able to still coach the national side, but he’d be more effective than Dylan Hartley (unless there was a Dwarf Tossing competition approaching) even with the plaster casts. 3/4 of English fans think that if the incumbent English hooker would 1/2 as good at throwing a ball than he as at throwing midgets across bars, he’d deserve his 2/3 of each match he somehow gets every week. As it is he’s been banned for a 1/4 of the season for biting for attempting to chew off 1/3 of and Irishman’s finger. Not that Warren would need to be English to qualify. There’s only a tiny fraction of the team who are.

Behave Yourself, Sir! You’re (supposed to be) an Englishman

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Knowing who to cheer for when South Africa play Australia is a bit like, for me anyway, deciding who you’d want to win if The Third Reich played Pinochet’s Chile. However, if there is any enjoyment to glean from such a contest it normally arrives when one side humiliates the other. A fine innings of a duck from former skipper Ricky Ponting helped his side on their way to 47 all-out, having been 21-9 at one stage.

Amazingly, the Bok’s are still favourites to lose this match, their batters doing little better themselves during their first innings effort. Anyway, having sat through the English cricketers pouting, posturing and under-performing in India recently, it’s nice to see someone else squirming in embarrassed agony for once.

Let’s hope the spoilt brats of Jimmy Anderson, Swanny and fellow cry babies can collect their toys, put them back in the pram and learn how to lose as well as win with dignity, then next summer’s test series against South Africa might be worth watching. The English team were were lovely lads, sporting icons, and sweet boys when they were on top against the Aussies last time round.

This side were rightly lauded by all for their humour, camaraderie and good sports when they were sweeping aside all teams put up in front of them. I saw them several times at Lords and The Oval and they were a joy to watch, welcome to marry my sister any time (if I had one) .

Cracks in their genial and generous facade began to appear when they lost to the Windies at the end of the summer. By the end of the disastrous Indian campaign they were positively nasty. If I want to watch such behaviour on a sports field, I’ll go back to watching soccer. Something call a “Jade” and sporting an earring and tattoo combination worthy of Dale Farm should never be eligible to play for England in the first place. If he’s gonna behave like a thug on the pitch he can go back to Jonty, Morne and Herschelle as soon as he likes.

Come on chaps. Play up and play the game, as Plum Warner may have said.

Retreat Australia Fair

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Bloody Christmas. It’ll be the death of me. Even allowing for the size of me in the run-up, following a week of a pretty-much non-stop eating and drinking fest I am – if I do say so myself- a big unit. It’s not that I’ve been painting the town red – or any other colour come to think of it.  I’ve been confined to barracks for the duration, with only occasional trips to Sainsbury’s to break up the monotony of yet another tin of Roses washed down with a nice peppery Shiraz.

A Christmas at home can in certain circumstances, I am almost sure, be fun. But the lurgy put paid to most of our plans, with several members of my nearest and dearest (including my most dearest: me) coming down with the latest bout of cold/flu which has been doing the rounds. The Incumbent and I have had to introduce a strict latrine rota, lest we bump into each other in the smallest room in the house, both of my daughters were laid low for the majority of the festivities and the rest of us have been giving everyone who is a potential carrier a wide berth.

None of this, of course has affected my appetite. I find shite tv schedules the perfect solution to a rumbly in my tumbly. Pringles, peanuts, After Eights, pickled eggs, mince pies, christmas cake, Quality Street and more peanuts have been shoved down my gullet as I gorge myself on re-runs, repeats and rank tv shows in the the name of Happy Birthday Jesus.

Moving is becoming a problem. Thank god for the elasticated waistband on my new pyjamas. My ankles still haven’t healed from last season and it takes a good ten minutes for me to loosen up before I can waddle around the house in comfort. As the days pass, getting up the stairs is becoming more and more exhausting, to such an extent that I may have to consider using the sink in emergencies.

Thankfully I don’t have to get myself fit for next cricket season. I fear it would be a pointless task. In the state I’m in I’d struggle to put on my jockstrap, let alone bowl anything like a straight ball in the vague direction of a batsman. On the other hand, watching the shocking display by the Aussie bowlers in Melbourne gives me pause to think that maybe, just maybe, my chance of an international career is not quite over. Dare I consider applying for Oz Citizenship ? Surely I’m better that Mitchell Johnson ? – even in my shape !

Lucky for the Australian cricketers few of their countrymen witnessed how bloody awful they really were. Aussie fans tend to bugger off home if there’s the slightest chance of their team not winning. I never thought I’d feel sorry for Ricky Ponting, but it must be tough playing on your home turf, against stronger opposition, when your own personal form is shot to pieces and your home supporters won’t even hang around to shout for you. What a bunch of wankers.

The Barmy Army may be full of fat, annoying, boring, neanderthal racists (it is, believe me) but at least they stick behind the team through thick and thin. This bunch of fair-weather Ozzie ‘fans’ head for the beaches or the barbies the minute their opening pair are back in the hutch (or after the opening 12 balls, if that makes it simpler for you). And this from the country that brought the world the phrase “whingeing poms”. WHINGEING ?!?! How would we ever know if you lot are whinging? You’ve all fucked off !

Of course, you all stayed put when we took our eyes off the prize and you won in Perth. OF COURSE YOU DID. WATCHING A WINNING TEAM IS GREAT. But a few days later and your batsmen couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo or your bowlers couldn’t hit 12 stumps and you lot are no-where to be seen after the opening exchanges. Why not stick around and cheer on your team in the hour of their greatest need ? No ? Only sing when you’re winning ? Sports fans my big fat 46 year old arse. Enjoying winning and enduring losing (in our case a LOT of losing) are all part of being a fan. Some of us are fans of both English Cricket AND Charlton Athletic Football Club. We know a little bit about losing.

If you can’t take losing, don’t buy a ticket to the raffle. But having watched first your rugby union side and now your cricket team under-perform this winter can I suggest that you’d better start getting used to watching your sides take a drubbing?  It won’t hurt you, we’ve been doing it for years, and after this little blip this winter we’ll doubtless be doing it for years to come too.

You could do worse than read Peter Lalor, below, in The Australian. He’s wittier and immeasurably less one-eyed then his boss, Malcom Conn, and he might just teach you how to take losing with a tad more humour and a shed-load more dignity.

Peter Lalor in The Australian (27.12.10)

HOW many of the new toys of Christmas morn lie motionless and broken within 24 hours? Their shiny promise a forlorn memory recorded only in the improbable picture on the package?

A wheel gone here, a switch broken there, a light that flashed for a moment and dimmed, a leg detached or a circuit shortened. Australia’s performance in Perth was the cheap Chinese gift that never made it to Boxing Day. A glittering, but poorly engineered work that shone for a moment.

The minute the Christmas paper was off the MCG pitch things began to fall apart. There were tears by lunch (4-58) and despair by tea (10-98). You can fish around all sorts of ways to paint the picture.
The scorer announced they had lost 6-40 from 18.2 overs, somebody else pointed out they had lost 9-61 after Shane Watson departed and so on and so forth….

…If you were out Christmas night in Melbourne, you could have been forgiven for thinking you were somewhere in the UK. Those pubs and takeaway places that were open in the otherwise deserted streets were lousy with English accents and song.

While the locals were at home trying to piece together broken toys, the visitors – and there are thousands upon thousands of them – were out in force. At 2.37pm yesterday, as the centre wicket began to take the appearance of a mass grave, a song rose from the Southern Stand.

It was as loud and as rousing an anthem as you have ever heard at this proud sporting stadium.
It was the Barmy Army singing “God save your gracious Queen”.


Don’t Say I didn’t Warn You

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Sydney Morning Herald, http://www.smh.com.au, Dec 7th 2010

England’s thumping of Australia in the second Ashes Test nearly sparked a different type of thumping between veteran cricket rivals Ian Botham and Ian Chappell in Adelaide.

The English knight and the Aussie had to be dragged apart after reportedly clashing in the Adelaide Oval car park.


The two men, who are said not to have spoken to each other since 1980 despite being regular cricket commentators at the same events, squared up as Botham waited to be picked to go to the airport, Britain’s Daily Mail reported.

Chappell, from Channel Nine, “muttered something highly provocative as he went past”, reported the paper, and Botham, from Sky, snapped: “What did you say?”

They dropped their bags and “went for each other” before being separated by their colleagues from Channel Nine and Sky.

“It could have got very nasty if there hadn’t been people on hand to keep them apart,” a Channel Nine source was reported as telling the Mail.


“They reacted quickly because we all know the history between these two. They might be aged 55 and 67, but neither of them are the type of people to give an inch in the face of conflict.”

Vaguely similar to The Sharp Single’s “It is Written” Dec 30 2009:

Brisbane…

Ian Botham arrested pending inquiries into an alleged incident in the bar afterwards which leaves 6 members of the Aussie press corps needing treatment. Four (empty) cases of Shiraz and a cricket stump are bagged and sent to forenics.

Don’t Look, Ethel

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(Yes yes yes, it’s cricket again – but you’ll like this one)

I think if I ever had to face an Australian fast bowler I’d ask for a blindfold. ‘England’ batsmen Kevin Pietersen has a go at facing a bowling machine, cranked up to serious speeds. He’s pretty good at it. Perhaps that’s the answer, KP ?

Ponting, Punches and Pudsey

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‘Free beer for all’ if Aussies win Ashes

An Australian brewer offered a free beer to every adult in the country if Australia beat England in the upcoming Ashes cricket Tests.  VB on Tuesday pledged to “shout the nation” if Australia win back the coveted trophy in the five-Test series, starting November 25.

“This summer, when the final wicket falls and the Aussies lift the urn triumphantly, Australia’s best cold beer pledges to ‘shout the nation’,” the company said.”That’s one ice-cold VB for every eligible person of drinking age, and one huge celebration of the rightful return of the Ashes.” AFP

Yes, we’ve reached the silly season as the long-awaited Ashes series is nearly upon us. I’m sure you’re as excited as I am, counting the days til the first ball is bowled in Brisbane next Friday. Forget your F1 finales, your World Series or your European Championship footy, this is proper, real important sport and things have begun to get weird. A few weeks ago Londoners were treated to the sight of the mug of Aussie captain Ricky Ponting projected onto the Big Ben clock tower at Westminster in London, though it wasn’t clear to many what message that was supposed to send. Was Ricky trying to defect ? If so he could have saved himself the effort: we’ve already got one under-performing show-pony from the southern hemisphere masquerading in English colours and we don’t need another, thanks all the same.

Then yesterday the Australian Cricket Board announced its ‘team’ to face the Poms in the first match. Where traditionally you’d expect 12 or maybe 13 names on the sheet from which the final 11 would be selected, the ACB decided that 17 men were still in with a chance of representing their country. This uncertainty by the board may be the first example of  group of Australians with no convictions. I haven’t seen (or had the time to read) the full list of Waynes, Shanes, Quades, Sharleens or Marlenes on the list, but I hear Russell Crowe was in with an outside chance and Rolf Harris is a decent opening bat, though not as quick as he used to be between the wickets. Jason Donovan has not been selected due to his inability to disguise his wrong-un.

It’s not just the Strines who are showing the signs of nerves. Former England Captain Michael Vaughan looks like he’s also feeling the pressure of the build-up.

The interviewer had apparently started asking rude and nasty questions. He was stroppy as he’s one of the few Aussies not selected for the squad. He’d also stayed up all night to watch the Audley Harrison vrs David Haye fight earlier and didn’t expect any Englishman to throw a punch at any time in the near future. One can only presume that had Vaughan got into the ring with Audrey the fight would have been over 6 minutes earlier.

Sadly, rumour has it the video may well be either an advert by the Yorkshire Tourist Board or even worse a stunt dreampt up by those wags at the BBC for the upcoming Children in Need. There are many emotions which coarse though my veins when I watch a telethon and I have to admit that punching the nearest person is one of them. Watching 17 hours of half-baked skits and show-tunes performed by D-Listers is enough to turn anyone to violence. I’d willingly pledge the entire contents of my wallet (currently £7.46) if I didn’t have to watch the cast of Eastenders perform Yentl.  AGAIN!  The BBC Newsroom with doubtless be wheeled out yet again to embarrass themselves and others as they mince their way through Porgy and Bess or High School Musical.

They have a whole year to put this tosh together, surely they could come up with something better than JLS sing Meatloaf or whatever rubbish we’re gonna be subjected to? On the other hand, as the cricket will broadcast live through the night, I may just use Children in Need to help me change my sleep patterns. A quick flash of my credit card and I can tuck myself up in bed, dreaming of sunny Brisbane to the soundtrack of tumbling Australian wickets.

I dunno who these two blokes are but I could watch them all night. (Advanced warning: Two old codgers chat about Aussie cricket. Heaven)


Related Articles

Times Up

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Dear friends and others

After what seems like only 10 months at The Times, Mr Murdoch and I have decided to part company (though I don’t think he knows it yet. He’ll doubtless be distraught when he finds out). My last day here will be Friday June 4th, after which I shall be sat on my arse at home watching the World Cup and Test Cricket.

So this is just a quick note to say bye-bye to those with whom I’ve worked here, and hello to all you out there who might wanna employ me in future (oh come on ! surely?) My mobile should remain the same, if I can get the bastards to give me my PAC code.

Keep in touch, it’s been a blast. Honest.

MB
Soon Not-to-be Features Picture Editor
The Times
London

Mike is available for wakes, strikes, global recessions, individual depressions, international financial slumps, natural disasters, acts of God, play-off humiliations, county court judgements, redundancy settlements, post-mortems, political carve-ups, serial killings and weddings. Standard network rates apply. Calls from mobiles will be higher.

Time after Time

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Every morning in my office at 10.00hrs (ZULU) all the journalists in the office assemble in a meeting room to discuss the schedule for the day. We call it the Story Meeting, elsewhere on other publications they call this Conference (note no “the” or “a”, just “Conference”). It’s at these gatherings where ideas are tossed around and discussed and the magazine/website takes shape. Now I say “all” our journalists attend these 10.00 meets—they do eventually—but there is one guy who never EVER manages to make a 10am start. He bowls up at 10.04, 10.07, sometimes he even gets as close as 10.02 but never does he make it in for 10.00. Occasionally we meet at 12.00 and guess what? He can’t make those on time either. 12.10, 12.08— sometimes he doesn’t bother showing up at all! He’s not alone in this. Over the years we have had several serial offenders, those who struggle to make the trip from London to London for 10 o’clock. It can’t be that difficult, can it? A photographer once called me from his car saying he was going to be late for a 10 o’clock assignment cos the traffic on the M25/M4 junction was heavy. At 9.30 in the morning. Really??????? YOU CABBAGE!!!! After reading him his life story and suggesting he might have thought of getting up earlier to beat the traffic (if you’re an hour early for a job, you can go get a cup of coffee) I pulled the line on him. Never employed him again.

Let's think of something to write about

Let\’s think of something to write about

I hate being late. If I am ever late for anything I get all anxious, sweaty and nervy. I’m anal— at least that’s what I think the ex-wife called me. If a party invite reads “8 til late” I turn up at 8 o’clock —and more often-than-not 7.45. That’s not because I want to get there before the booze runs out (honest), it’s just because I treat tardiness as an insult to the host, and therefore when people are late on me I tend to get a wee bit peeved. Of course none of us can ever be on time for everything, but repeat offenders don’t cut much ice with yours truly. And everyone will know one of these types. You will all have mates or couples who are always late for appointments/drinks/meals/concerts etc. They leave you hanging around at the bar, outside the cinema or in an eaterie for minutes even hours. And they do it every time you arrange to meet, AND YOU STILL TRUST THEM TO TURN UP ON TIME THE NEXT TIME!!! They all do the same trick of gigling when they finally arrive, laughing it off “oh sorry, I fell asleep, tee hee”, “sorry, mate, the cab was late, ha ha” “have you been waiting long? Jesus you look pissed, snigger”etc etc . Well I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s fucking rude!

Late is very rarely a good thing: A late tackle in soccer or rugby is never to be condoned (unless you’re a South African, apparently); If your girlfriend tells you she’s “late” that usually focusses the mind; The Late Michael Jackson, doesn’t cheer a lot of people up; Andy Murray looked cream-crackered after his match went on late into the night; the US turned up late for the last two World Wars (been nice and early ever since though) and my postman seems to have swapped his morning delivery for one in the late afternoon. On the other hand if you get a “late one” in a pub, you’ve had a result!. But in general, late bad, early good.

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So we come to Andrew Flintoff. Master bowler, intimidating batsmen and an all-round piss-head. He turned up late the other day for a bus which was taking the England team to a bonding session as part of their build-up to the Ashes. Apparently there had been a players’ “dinner” the night before and Andy felt a little “tired” in the morning so missed the bus. He has previous with this type of thing and it’s getting worrying for us fans, annoying for the coaches and staff. A hangover is a self-inflicted injury, and not an excuse to miss work, whatever you do for a living. It’s definitely not the sort of thing you should be sporting a week before you face the Aussies in the series of all series. If you wanna go out and play in the pub on a school night then you have to face the consequences of feeling like shit in the morning. But GET INTO WORK whatever happens. I myself am not adverse to the odd one of a midweek evening, but whatever state I get into, I make it into work the following day and I expect others to do the same. The worse thing that could happen to me is that I stick all the photos for the magazine in upside down. A hungover or off-form Flintoff could LOSE US A TEST MATCH!!!!!!! For Christ’s sake !!!!

C'mon Andy, you're in next

C\’mon Andy, you\’re in next

A worrying line that came out of official England channels was that Flintoff “working very hard to avoid issues fuelled by drink.” I put it to you, yer honour, that if you have to “work very hard” at not getting pissed you really do have a problem. I’m sure I must know lots of people who don’t have to work hard not to have a drink, I just can’t think of any at the moment. So enough, already. Come on, Andy, knock it on the head for a few weeks. Yes we all wanna laugh at you, rat-arsed, walking down Downing Street at the end of the summer, but try to keep the cork in the bottle until you’ve given the Strines a mauling. It’s really much more important than going on the piss.

I don’t believe I just typed that.

.

كيف-كان-ذلك؟ *

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What a week we’ve had? The shenannegans of F1 continue on the track and in the courts, climaxing with Ron Dennis jumping overboard to save the McLaren team from further punishment over Liargate. The Diffusergate inquiry found in favour of Eva Brawn’s mob and a bloke called Jenson (a fine old English name) still leads the championship. Any day soon the back pages will be full of something called Racegate or even Interestinggate when a Grand Prix is actually more enjoyable AFTER the race starts. What a farce it all is? I’ve actually seen grown men leave a pub to go home on a Sunday afternoon to watch the latest parade from the Nurburgring or Monza. LEAVE A PUB. Honest.

Hands up who's bored with F1?

Hands up who's bored with F1?

Meanwhile, in the world of sport, David Dunne was sent off for the third time this season as Man City bid a fond adieu to Europe. Dunne, desribed to me this morning as a “Sunday Morning Lummox”, has the turning speed of your average oil tanker. It’d be no surprise to this reporter if at City’s next home match Somali Pirates were spotted sitting behind the goal, waiting to board him.
Terrific news from Seth Efrica that Andrew Flintoff ISNT playing in the IPL for the money. No, no. He’s playing to hone his 20-20 skills for the upcoming World Cup. Thank heavens for that, then. I guess there’s the added attraction of the probability of him getting injured so he can sit out the poorly-paid Ashes series. On the other hand if Freddie can get hold of the Aussies that are down there and take them out for “just the one” of an evening, maybe we still stand a chance against them, as they won’t have sobered up by July. Our reader with Setanta has promised to keep me up-to-date with the scores from the IPL, not that I give a monkeys.

 

Gonna be good n hot down there, under the lights. Having played a lot of cricket abroad (albeit to a rather lower standard) I can vouch for the complete shock of playing in a very hot climate and what it does to your system. My military-medium-pacers have been spanked over boundaries from Adelaide to Antigua and I’ve always been able to blame the heat or the altitude for my complete lack of competence with ball-in-hand. On one occasion in Nairobi (5889 ft above sea level) I wobbled and waddled to my mark at the end of my run up before delivering the fourth ball of my spell, when with sweat-filled eyes and a thumping head, I turned and started charging (sic) towards the square leg umpire before collapsing in a heap. “Take a blow, Bealers” came the exasperated voice of the skipper. At least they didn’t score a boundary of that delivery. In Mombassa I didn’t even manage to bowl a single ball as an excruciating pain shot up my left leg after I’d taken but three strides towards the wicket. The doctor said it was cramp, but I’m pretty sure it was cobra-bite.

A rabbit by his hutch

A rabbit by his hutch

Anyway, never ever again will I throw beer cans at the TV as I watch the English tourists falter and collapse against the Indians/Pakistanis/Sri Lankans as I fully understand how harsh foreign conditions can be on us Poms (playing in Colombo was like playing in a wok). I would, however have donated my left testicle to watch last night’s World Cup Qualifying match between Scotland and Afghanistan, where the Afghans romped home by 42 runs. Played in Benoni, Sef Efrica (presumably the Kabul Oval is undergoing a refurb?), the Scotch were chasing 280 to win but lost their last 8 wickets for 50 runs. Now I know a lot of you will be surprised that Scotland play cricket (it’s staggering popular in the gorbals), but how much fun do you reckon you’d have playing a match in-between US bombing raids in Helmand Province?? I reckon your opening bat may lose concentration every-so-often, deep backward square regularly gets kidnapped before tea, and there’s a land-mine just on a length outside off-stump. I suspect there’s a few short legs around, but that’s another story.

 

*Arabic for “How was that?”

Unfunny for Money

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A woman tried to sell me a fireplace this morning. No she didn’t: she tried to give me a free fireplace. All I had to do was to have a new central heating system installed in my house. You’ve probably met her. She stands just a little way along from the 2 MENCAP chuggers, just before you get to the “Fitness First” leaflet girl and the Childline herberts. The streets are full of weird-looking people asking for your money.

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Would you give money to this man?

Remember when the walk to work was just a matter of negotiating the occasional RNLI flag-seller or the Salvation Army? No? Well you’re younger than me, then. The Sally Army started it all, and I guess they did have a kind of dignity about them. Back in the days of black-and-white an old girl from the Sally Army used to come into my grandad’s pub selling copies of The Warcry.
Brian would put down his darts and agree to buy one, on the condition she stood on a chair and sang a song, which she always did without argument (presumably Onward Christian Soldiers, or Bringing in the Sheaves).

She was then helped down off the chair, and left the pub bereft of one copy of her newspaper, but up to the tune of a couple of farthings. Certainly a better deal than she’d get nowadays. If she walked into my pub shouting “Warcry” she’d be greeted with a drunk chorus of “Geronimo !!!”. No sheaves would be brought, and certainly no rejoicing would have been had doing it.

So as I sit here in my bathtub full of Taka Dahl, resplendent in my Madonna T-shirt and Red Nose (yes, it’s that sodding time again) I want to make it clear to you all that I’m in no-way adverse to a bit of charity work. I give to the causes I like, when and how I like. Not in mid-pint, mid-pee or mid-grouch on the way to work, just cos some spotty git waves a clipboard at me on London Bridge. WHY AREN’T YOU AT SCHOOL ANYWAY ????

Talking of charity cases, is there any hope for the England Rugby XV this year? Probably not. Martin Johnson is looking more and more like the deckchair attendant on the Titanic, as his charges dive cauliflower-ears first over the side and into the icy waters of the sin-bin. Refs are handing out cards like Japenese reps at a sales conference?
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An England fan displays both
his displeasure and his goolies.

To take our mind off the inevitable victory of a French XV over an England XI, let’s all join hands and pray for an Italian win. That’d make up for everything—even the cricket.
Oh well, that’s my weekend plan anyway: In front of the rugby on the telly with a crate of beer, on a warm sofa and the fire at full blast (cos, you see, I already own one.)