Anti-doping evangelists

Who's next?

World Anti Doping Agency. WADA. Orwellian? Their top anti-dope, John Fahey, speaking from the uber-righteous moral high ground (and definitely not from the saddle of a bike he's ridden up some stupid incline, having ridden it for a hundred miles already that day, having ridden hundreds of miles and stupid inclines for day after day) has called Lance Armstrong a 'drug cheat who has defrauded cycling, his rivals and millions of sports fans for over a decade'. Disassembling that statement: is 'defraud' the right word, I don't think it is; his rivals? Would that be all the other guys on bikes pumped full of whatever their team doctors saw fit to administer? Yep. That'd be the rivals. Cycling? A sport that has only recently and grudgingly cleaned up its act after much bad publicity, drug-related and suspicious deaths, and a trail of discarded needles in hotel rooms that would make the heroin addicts' annual convention look like the Temperance Society Tea Party. Defrauded fans? Don't you just love it when one of these self-righteous evangelists speaks on everyone's behalf? The Tour's climbs and sprints were never exactly lined with anti-doping placards, were they?

So, what's next for Mr Fahey and his mates with the clipboards and the anal retentiveness?

England are to replay the 1966 world cup final, after the Russian linesman sub-committee met to review the controversial third goal at Wembley. The medals are being collected in before the game, via eBay. Bad news for England football.

Better news for England football is that the 'hand of God' two-nil defeat to Argentina will also be replayed, after the referees' decision review board and the anti-Maradonna quango reached their decisions.

All test matches played before the umpires decision review system was implemented are to be called 'no results'. This has rewritten the record books somewhat. Copies of Wisden before 2009 are to be regarded as works of fiction.

Tennis has proved bit of a problem. Sir Cliff Richard has been awarded all the Grand Slam championships dating back to 1960. Men's and women's. The dodgy driving panel are looking at Formula 1 footage back to horse and cart days, without finding a single result that is likely to stand unaltered. They are advertising for extra manpower before even considering boxing, horseracing and the dogs. Even for the 776 BC Olympics there are challenges relating to hemlock, nightshade, belladonna, specially adapted togas and go-faster sandals.

The results of numerous general elections are in the balance as the swing-o-meter is going to do pendulum impersonations when the voting (boundary changes) panel start their dissection of results from the 1970s on.

A number of monarchs and therefore the current incumbents are being investigated by the right to reign sub-committee.

In general, either everything's fair game for a rewrite or we have to draw a line and move on. Armstrong was the best rider in the world for several years, better than many others probably doing worse than he was, better than many who were probably on a par, and perhaps even some who were actually clean. It's too late now to start stripping titles and holding long overdue stewards' enquiries. The only way to clean up all sport is to test everyone. That is the only fair, right and proper way to go about it. Even then there'll be new drugs being designed to get past the testers, and they'll always be playing catch up the way computer anti-virus software is always a touch behind the hackers, but at least there'll be an even playing field to a greater extent that that provided by random sampling.

Shadow

Shadow

We were fortunate to know Shadow for a while. She was a German Shepherd with long fur, and huge, soulful brown eyes. She was so full of love that there was little room for anything else. She was a rescue dog. She had a huge lump on her ribs where someone had abused her. Abused her gentle good nature. There wasn't a trace of that tainting her behaviour. She met and greeted people and dogs with excitement and joy. She was a beautiful creature.

When she first got home, she ran around and came to a skidding halt only when the rug was thoroughly out of place. Then she set about moving it a little bit further out of true. At first she had to have a ball or a stick when walking. Later she discovered squirrels, and spent her time looking out for them, and looking up at the treetops, where they had escaped.

Hers was the first face I would see most mornings, looking up, waiting for the stroke and pat of the head. She was at the door when I came home. Tail wagging, welcoming me home. She behaved totally differently when I walked the dogs, when BLISS walked them, and when we both walked them.

She was a loving, happy presence that lit up our lives and our home. We loved her and miss her.

Goodbye Shaddow...

...beautiful dog. R.I.P.

Cream tea? No ta, I'm male

No cream tea, ta, I'm a bloke

A Guardian article claims that us blokes are averse to afternoon tea. I'm with that. Based on nothing at all I've always struggled with the “it's my birthday, there's cakes”. I always give the wrong response. “I'll just have a cup of tea, thanks”. Sounds all my body is a temple, don't it? Well if it has to be ecclesiastical, my body's at least a cathedral, but as an atheist, my body's a warehouse. Probably an Aldi or Lydl warehouse. Or the pork scratchings and beef jerky storage depot.

Now, were the message “there's a selection of Indian snacks, starters, and lime pickle” we'd be in business. That's a fair celebration. Tea and cakes is just too grandma. Little old lady food.

Apparently there's now restaurants and hotels serving male alternatives. Crust on doorstep sandwiches. Pork pies. Bacon sandwiches. Mini pasties. Small portion fish and chips and pie and chips. That sort of thing. I wonder if there's pink and blue menus?

Lance Armstrong...

...has been done by some anti-doping fanatic and stripped of his Tour de France titles. Good work dude. Armstrong won his tours in a filthy sport, beating blokes who were without a doubt doped up to the eyeballs. All of them had to in order to compete. Who gets those titles now? Second placed riders who were equally full of illegal substances. The tour then was one giant rolling pharmaceutical event, with teams transporting more phials, needles and pills than spare parts for the bikes. That's how it was. Get over it. Get off Armstrong's back.

Armstrong's response has been, appropriately enough, a Gallic shrug, and the approach that he's interested in his kids and his wife and the past can take care of itself. Donations to his cancer charity have dramatically increased, so there's a lot of public support for the guy.

Fishcakes

I made BLISS fishcakes tonight. Smoked cod, cut into very small pieces, red onion, mint, chilli, curry powder, paprika, garlic, and some flour and an egg. Mixed up, shallow fried, finished in the oven. They were nice. With baby courgettes (cooked with a little ginger), spinach and sprouting brocoli.

Fishcakes are one of those things I make too infrequently, always followed by the “we should have them more often” conversation, followed by the resolution to make them regularly. Followed by the inexplicable failure to do so.

Matt Prior

Who would be played by Jason Statham in the film 'The Ashes', smashed 70 chanceless runs yesterday. England could have done with him today.

Kent v Sussex

Kent v Sussex

Forty over game, Canterbury:

First: trepidation:

AD has had an amazing record. He does all the hard work, all the calls and texts and organisation. Tradition is that then: (1) He's unable to attend. (2) Sussex win. (3) In this order: (a) Sussex humiliate Kent. (b) Scott Styris hits 100 runs in 37 balls, peppering the properties around the County Ground, Hove. (c) Sussex win a very close and low-scoring game with Warwickshire that goes to the wire.

What's going to happen when he can get along to a game?

Second: getting there:

I drove. I deliberately left the SatNav behind because there were loads of us and everyone (apart from me and AD) knew the way. All SatNav hostile.

I should qualify here. AD and I are not allowed to travel alone (us two) to any new fixtures or anywhere far without someone else. We can't help it. We're not geographically inept. Just don't pay attention.

Eventually we got parked and into the ground and into our seats before the first over.

Third: Kent:

Not very good. Limited overs is just that. Sooner or later you have to get going. 210 was great (for Kent) after a long spell in the doldrums, but better to avoid the doldrums.

Fourth:

Quick pint in the Bat and Ball Pub.

Fifth:

Sussex:

Kent's bowlers have no reason to feel that they underperformed. Luke Wright, Matt Prior, and Chris Nash just played very well. Well enough to secure the win and the semi-final place.

Fifth:

We're playing next Saturday, so it'll be the Sky telly and fingers crossed for Sussex in the game against Hampshire. If they win it is then Warwickshire or Lancashire in the final at Lords.

Final:

As AD said, there's an Arsenal potential to this Sussex squad's season. I hope they don't end up with nothing.

Devil's Island Discs

Devil's Island discs

I've been digging in the bricks and barrowing the stones for the surround to the pond today. Mindless labour that needs something on the headphones to make the time pass. (Thanks Kiz) today I've listened to any number of episodes of the hilarious Old Harry's Game. Set in hell. Written by Andy Hamilton, who enjoys playing the devil.

In one of the episodes he (the devil) suggests that an unlistenable collaboration between James Brown and Mozart would be one of his eight picks, were he ever invited on Desert Island Discs. Apart from the obvious (that Andy Hamilton in character as the Devil should be invited onto Desert Island Discs) I began to wonder just what the Devil would choose to inflict on the nation over Radio 4.

Sympathy for the Devil, Devil went down to Georgia, all those, perhaps. But what would make your ears bleed and you long to be deaf?

Here's my eight:

Olly Murs (or anyone from those Essex hairdresser karaoke shows) – any song

Take That, Wet Wet Wet, East 17 (or any of those godawful boy bands) – any song

Robbie Williams – any song

The Spice Girls, Atomic Kitten (or any of those manufactured girl bands) – any song

Phil Collins – he must be the soundtrack to one of the deep inner rings of Hades

Don't know any names, but any of those manufactured mixed bands – any song

Cliff Richard – anything

Madonna, Cheryl Cole, Kylie (any of those retro what's the point music taken backwards for retards women) – anything

The Dirty Dozen Brass Band – Voodoo

I love The Dirty Dozen Brass Band. This is a mostly instrumental collection, with the opening cover of It's All Over Now, featuring Dr John on vocals (and he's just made a storming album, too). New New Orleans Jazz, I suppose, with an entirely traditional line up of instruments. There's guest appearances from Dizzy Gillespie and Branford Marsalis.

Arsenal: money in the bank, but we still aint got us no goals

£39m for van Persie and Song. That's thirty nine large in the bank, and deficiencies on the pitch. Not a striker on the bench. The balance sheet looks better than the team sheet. All about the bottom line. Accountant driven enterprises fail. Too risk-averse. Others come from behind, take chances, and overtake. City have done that. It's a matter of time until another club does something similar and our bank balance will be healthy as we backslide down the league table.

Not Yorkshire!

Run miles

Rain was predicted. Not just that. Rain was predicted in Wales. Where it rains whenever it feels like it. That's often. Regardless of the predicted weather. Regardless, there was a sellout crowd in the SWALEC stadium. They were rewarded with a day where just a few isolated showers failed to interrupt the cricket.

Yorkshire beat Sussex. Thankfully, G's back on the treatment table popping the painkillers and unable to talk us through the game, ball by ball, only stopping for the occasional breath and to gloat. Sussex had Scott Styris back from Sri Lanka. Mush was expected from him, but he didn't come off.

That's why sport isn't entertainment, no matter what some say. It's entertaining (at times, along with frustrating, enthralling, fascinating and disappointing) but not entertainment. Would you go to see a stand up comedian who might make an error, first gag, and be dismissed (like a bat out first ball) and have to leave the stage. Would you go to see a musical (say) where the cast might have and off night and withdraw from the stage after the first number? There was great expectancy when Styris came out to bat. His first big hit wasn't big enough and he was caught. Eight runs from eight balls. That's a huge carbon footprint on a per run basis. Styris' eight runs came at (assuming Sri Lanka to the UK is 5,454 miles, a 10,908 mile return trip) 1,364 miles each. That's not very green. He also took three wickets. At 3,636 miles per wicket.

Pizza

Home made. Onion, mozzarella, sweetcorn and mushrooms (LPL); onion, sweetcorn, anchovy and mozzarella (BLISS); and onion, mushroom, green chilli, anchovy and cheese (no mozzarella left) for me. These are green, because even though the oven is on full pelt, they cook quickly and can be done in series, only pre-heating the once.

Not so green is the additional washing of my clothes, as I inevitably get myself smothered in flour.

Dead Man Walking

Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon. Watched this with BLISS and LPL. Based on a true story of a nun in a small and directly affected community who takes on the case of a death row prisoner. As BLISS said they should dhow it in schools because it would generate so much discussion.

“We gave you a Ferrari...

...and you treated it like a lawnmower” (said Stacy Keach in the Bourne Legacy, in a favourite line) “you break it, you buy it. It was ever thus.”

Walking off when you're out...

...can be difficult enough. Can't imagine what it's with a PA system blazing nananana hey hey hey, goodbye, or I get knocked down, or worse of all quacking noises. Almost as bad must be walking out when team mates have completed the responses to favourite band, guilty pleasure and sporting hero questions on your behalf.

Bourne with a silver spoon

The Bourne Legacy

LPL can pick a film. It's like the reverse effect of AD picking cricket matches. To miss. She talked me into going tonight. I was nervous of dozing off. Early starts mean early finishes lately. At least half the action took place after my bed time.

We discovered that I've now joined BLISS in truly not knowing who anyone is. There's Bourne the second (Bourne Again?) who flees the programme (Bourne Free?) played by someone who resembles Huey out of the Fun Loving Criminals. The only other one I recognised is Stacy Keach.

Anyway. Great motorbike chase. Plenty of action. Locations all over the globe. Even some still photos of Matt Damon. Great entertainment. LPL's right about the late night audience, too. Less sweet-rustling, toilet to-and-froing, and minimal disturbance. Good call.

Do not distriub

Listening to Joe Jackson's Rain album, I got distracted and had to retype disturbance just now. That reminded me of a camping trip when I lived in Wales. We were probably around twelve years old, and were up late being noisy and feeling giddy, one of the boys having nicked a few of his mum's Capstan Full Strength. There were two little brothers along in their own little two-man tent. Fed up of our noise and mickey-taking, they hung a DO NOT DISTRIUB sign on their tent. That didn't calm down the noise or joshing any.

The only thing that could've made it funnier would've been the backward 'S' thing.

The Experiment

The other film this week was The Experiment. Role playing experiment. Prisoners and guards. Naturally the guards get out of hand, the prisoners rebel, all that.

What sells the whole thing, is Forest Whitaker doing a nut-job portrayal up there with Jack Nicholson at his best (in my opinion). Superb.

Joe Jackson

Jackson is like our Donald Fagen. If you're going to make everything smooth and over-produced, then you have to combine studio nous and the best session musicians available, and unashamedly go for it. Sounds bipolar, I know, but it's either one or the other. We're either turning out Aja, or something altogether more raw and spontaneous sounding.

Rain has the strong songs, the jazz just under the surface, the willingness to go beyond the three minute verse, verse, chorous, verse, chorous, chorous thing. I like this a lot.

Something fixed stayed fixed...

...for once. A small triumph, but I'm not on a good run, so small mercies and everything. I stuck the toe guard back onto my bat, and it stayed there (for one innings, at least). I took BO'S advice: contact adhesive, and, no matter how boring it sounds, read the instructions on the packet. Even if you then ignore most of them.

Oy, chuck us a couple'a quid mush

There's no quantitative easing in these parts...

...no easing of any description, in fact.

The Guardian headline says that the top 5%, already fabulously wealthy, gained the most from the quantitative easing (I think that's printing money in other words, but all the economists say that printing money won't help, so it can't be, can it?) the Bank of England has been doing.

I'm shocked, because, when they announced the first tranche of new money to get into distribution, I emailed and volunteered to do my bit. So, sitting well outside the top 5%, giving me the money to get into circulation would also go some small way to a fairer redistribution of wealth, and I wasn't greedy, I offered to take care of whatever amount they needed some help with, no matter how small. I must have been among first independent volunteers they heard from, so on any first come first served basis, I should be doing ok as well.

Instead, they've given it their mates, haven't they.

Staines

Staines this morning. Didn't see Ali G.

Biggin Hill

Biggin Hill later this morning. Didn't see any Spitfires.

GCSE results day

Judging by the traffic, walking rather than getting a lift off your mum isn't one of the subjects everyone got an A* in.

Pond

Nearly there, and looking good.

Mind you the project's a mess, to be honest. Completely behind programme and hopelessly over the budget. We're at about £50 + per newt without plants, aeration, and adding other newt-friendly species.

Cricket fest

England one day international tomorrow. T20 finals day on Saturday, and we've got a game if the threatened downpours don't materialise. Kent v Sussex on the bank holiday Monday. Which might yet be cancelled (the bank holiday, not the cricket) due to pressure of work.

Unreliable time

The acceleration of untrustworthy time

Other units of measurement seem more vague and transmutable. Take length. The metre. Measures length (hence my distaste for the LM or linear metre non-unit many like to use – the metre measures length, linear length, and therefore the 'linear' is entirely redundant and unnecessary, and, well, a bit on the dim side if you ask me). But it will happily be squared, and then used to measure area. It will equally happily be cubed and then used to measure volume.

Time seems more simple.

Unless we're going into cosmic scale measurements, lightyears and the like.

But at basic human level, time is unreliable. A couple of minutes ago (so it seems) the fleeces and sweatshirts were mothballed for the summer. Now it's cold in the evenings and they're back in play. Just when, time, did that happen? That's supposed to be a season, a quarter, three months, not three minutes.

Time tells us there's a later. We say to each other “another time”. “We'll meet up another time”, “let's just get this done, then we can relax”. “Never mind, another time.”

Experience tells us different. There's no later. There's no another time. “Another time” means “forget it, it 'aint gonna happen”. There's a never ending succession of just one more things to get done. These are capable of seeing you through to your natural end. An unreliable enemy, time.

Politicians and firemen

Apparently, it's all well and good for already massively overpaid politicians to have second jobs. That's on top of all the expenses (fiddled) expenses (genuine) paid travel, secretarial support (genuine) and secretarial support (teenage family member). Having a second job does not detract from their commitment or ability to perform their jobs. So they tell us. They decide the rules, after all.

Similarly, politicians have long ago ruled to make it difficult for firemen to have second jobs. Most don't need a second job. The pay is a national agreement. Most serve where property prices are such that they can afford to live within reasonable distance of their place of work. Same pay in Cumbria and in Camden.

Despite clearly having to do two jobs just to survive in the south east, the politicians decided to make it extremely difficult to do so.

Jack Straw was one of those. He earns £160,000 a year on top of his MP's money + dodgy (and otherwise) expenses + house flipping gains + subsidised (by you and me) food and travel and perk after perk after perk.

They all drone on about a 'fairer society'. They wouldn't know one if it was on couch next to them.

All three parties spouted evil, lying, deceitful, spiteful, factually incorrect drivel during the fire brigade strike. All aimed at the Mail readers that were buying their filth. Big hairy miners? Protesters? Get the police to give them a good hiding. Brighton bomb? Big hairy heroes, please rescue us. We should've left them to rot. When there's a Guy Fawkes tear it down and start again party, then maybe I'll vote.

Bang! Yawn

Exchange for reporters?

It's like a matter of principle for war reporters. They stand there with bombs going off just to the left, grenades exploding just to the right, and bullets flying about their ears, and play it all down.

“The guerrilla attack (BANG) continues unabated while the insurgent forces (BIGGER, LOUDER BANG) make inroads towards the imperial palace where we believe (BANG)...

...sorry for the hesitation, it seems my leg's just been hit by some shrapnel, apologies for the blood on the camera lens, here (WIPES LENS WITH HANDKERCHIEF, REGAINS COMPLETE COMPOSURE)...

...I'll continue until the loss of blood become too great...

...the imperial palace where we believe the last remaining members of the government are holed up.

Imagine the war reporter reassigned to the sports desk:

“Nothing much happening. United are not playing so well. The tall chap with the big hair's having a good game for Everton. I would mention van Persie but he's not actually playing. Throw to Everton in their own half.

Now imagine the football reporter in the war zone:

“An amazing missile there. Wow. What a shot that was. (BANG)...

...(followed by the sound of the mike hitting the ground and rapid departing footsteps).

Don't panic

There's no music during working hours. There used to be, while driving long distances. Long drives, with handsfree and almost total cell coverage, are now just one long phone call. Short drives are a short call. There constantly seems to be a call coming in.

I realised tonight that needing to get some music on makes me panic. I rushed to start cooking because everyone was hungry. I thought I'd just start things going, then organise some sounds. There's work to do after the food can be left to fend for itself. My hands were on the point of shaking and I was getting into a proper funk, a real bad mood. There's a lesson there. Get the music on first. That's the thing to do. Everything else becomes a little less fraught with some music playing.

Restored Rotring pens

The de facto standard technical drawing pens for decades, mine have lain unloved and untouched for...well...probably about a decade. So robust in design, however, that without any specialist kit, I've managed to restore them (and my ineptitude at restoration is epic in proportion). Water didn't work. Time to go ballastic. The Internet said isopropyl alcohol. We were all out of that, but did have the remaining vinegar from a large jar of pickled gherkins. Slightly diluted, that got rid of the really dried on gunky ink solids. Then hot water and washing up liquid, and some agitation. In an empty sparkling water two litre plastic bottle. Three doses of that, a rinse, a dry on kitchen paper, refill the ink and they were working again. Relatively simple in design, but that's properly robust.

No. I don't want to watch anything you have to offer

Rich = Pietersen

Yesterday, Bob and KP had identical batting figures. Not often you can say that. Unfortunately, they didn't both smash a shedload of runs. Quickly. They both got out, quickly. They both got a golden (first ball) duck. So, it can (and does) happen to anyone. Cricket has a Primary Club, anyone dismissed first ball can join and the proceeds go to deaf and blind sportsmen and women. Apart from animal charities, there's nowhere else I'd rather my money went. Not only have I walked out, faced one ball and got out (bowled, too, the worst way to go) and walked back again for the golden duck, I've also done the double-whammy thing (walked out (this was an indoor game) to the non-striker's end, gone for a sharp run, didn't quite get there, and was run out without even facing a single ball). That's a diamond duck, apparently.

Got a junk email today...

...do you (that is me, do I) want to attend the BBC Sports Personality of the Year Awards?

No.

I don't want to go to the BBC Let's Watch People Do Gardening Show.

I don't want to go to the BBC Let's Watch People Do Building Show.

BBC Karaoke (X-Factor, I think it's called): nope.

BBC People Going to Hospital Show? Not that, either.

BBC TV anything? Actually? No.

I would rather watch paint dry. Slow drying paint. Poor drying conditions. Boring colour. On a boring material against a boring background.

The BBC bigs up the sports personality of the year as if it were a genuine event. It might as well, because it will not spend licence payers' money on sport otherwise. This year is the last it will cover the Derby, the Grand National and Royal Ascot. All it has left now is Wimbledon. Tell me it's not an organisation of overpaid posh boys. The ex-director has said that the BBC considers sport 'below the salt'. I had to Google that. It means common or lowly. That's obviously how the BBC perceives me. In return, albeit in my common and lowly way, I see the beeb as a hugely expensive unregulated institution, dependent upon an unfair, out of date and bizarre television tax, paying obscene salaries to odious little talentless twerps. Churning out dumbed down garbage for the Great British screen-lickers. Bring on the day the licence is abolished. I'll be suing for backdated repayment of fees charged with nothing in return by the pickpockets at the corporation.

Robin van Onthebench

No-one on Sky or the radio have mentioned what I think is the most probable reason for starting van Persie on the bench. It sends a message. It says: you top boys, Citeh, Chavs, Liverpoo, you all would love to have this bloke. Us? We don't even give him a start. It says to Arsenal: you're gutted he's gone, he can't even get a game here. It says to rest of the clubs: you would kill for a player of this sort of ability, he'd be the first name on your teamsheet, he's a makeweight here. It's just after half time. My prediction? Comes on with twenty minutes to go, tries too hard to impress, limps off, treatment table for eighteen months or so.

We'd be unbeatable on Monday nights

Another Sunday, another win

Wins have been in short supply recently. We were all out of them just last season in fact. A few draws were all we had to show. Toping the runs scored was nice, but just one win would've been better.

We've won a few this season. Today's game was very close, and pretty nervy against a team we don't usually play (we did in the dim and distant past but haven't for years and now I think we should regularly play again). Our record is 100% for Sunday games. Played two, won two. Perhaps we need to rethink the Saturday afternoon fixture list.

Arseblogger, what an Arse...blogger

This, from a bloke too many people read:

[About selling Song because he wants to go] We take the money and hopefully we re-invest because the team does need some strengthening, Saturday's game showed that was still apparent (even if I think we'll be better when new player (sic) settle in and we're more physically sharp).

Right. Mate. That's Chelsea and City (if we're actually going to compete, which, thanks to a money-fixated board and manager, we're not, we need to compete with City, United, and Chelsea) and possibly United two points ahead while we do something about our 'physical sharpness'. Don't we all start on the same day? If we're a couple of points adrift on the last day, can we challenge that because we were in need of more physical sharpness on day one? When I walk out to bat, 50-odd and doddery, and a physically sharp (as it all too often is) quickie bashes me up then hits the stumps, do I go back off and do some changing room rearrangement or does everyone say “no, no, come back mate, you were just lacking some physical sharpness...”. What an absolute crock of party line rubbish. What an idiot.

We drew. At home. To Sunderland. City beat Southampton. Chelsea beat Wigan. They'll beat Reading too before we lose to Stoke because, if ever you need to be physically sharp it's against those orks. Before you know it, we're five points behind. Don't talk to me about the long term future of the club and financial security. I'll be in the ground without celebrating the club winning anything again unless there's a change of manager, management, direction and will.

Stoke. When an opponent throws the kitchen sink at you, you need to respond with a bigger better sink. Double bowl. Double drainer. Waste disposal. Huge taps. Waste disposal up their waste disposal system. We don't have the wherewithal to do that. United, City and Chelsea do. Wenger would rather play the game properly, then whinge about Stoke. A winner would rather win, then tell Stoke what morons they are. Our manager is a loser.

For the first time in many years I paid no attention to the opening game. No radio. No Internet feed. No interest. The manager's bonkers. The management's obsessed with money and care little for winning football. No highlights on telly, even. I used to care. Deeply. Now I don't give a flying. There's too many Blogger-alikes, uncompetitive, uncomprehending saps happy to see a club who should be competing on the pitch competing at the bank. Congratulations. You've earned my unreserved contempt. Go about it the right way and lose or have some enforcers out on the park, take some criticism and the odd red and yellow card, and win? I'll hapilly go about it the wrong way, please. When the new financial rules come in? We'll still be behind the top clubs and we'll still be winning sweet FA. Shove it. We're s**t and we know we are. Another winter gone, wasted. Not all of us are immortal. Address the issues now. Retards. I'm sick of it, and sick of people like Blogger excusing it with their lazy garbage.  

Forfar 4, East Fife 5

Here's todays results

Arsenal 0 v 0 Sunderland [not the start to the post van Persie era we wanted]

Fulham 5 v 0 Norwich [did Fulham have the sense to give it some “we are top of the league”? Mr Naughty at this one with his grandson, I hope it does not make a lifelong Fulham fan of the poor little fellah. There's too many of those already.]

QPR 0 v 5 Swansea [did the Swansea fans have the sense to give the Fulham boys some “only on alphabetical order” about the top of the league thing?]

Reading 1 v 1 Stoke [pity Reading didn't win. I hate Stoke. I hate their stupid, bebaseballhatted (new word there, anyone got a hotline to the Oxford English?). I hate their long throw, long ball, long free kick into the box anti-football. I hate the eternal delay while some mong wipes the ball with a stupid towel. I hate the orks that play for them, especially the blubbing Shawcross. I guess that's my colours nailed to the mast on the whole 'where do you stand on Stoke City?' question]

West Brom 3 v 0 Liverpool [heh]

West Ham 1 v 0 Aston Villa [battle of the claret and blues goes to the East London mob]

Newcastle 2 v 1 S***s [double, treble, quadruple heh! At least Harry got a decent song* from our lot, what is going on at the Lane, exactly? And long may it continue]

*Pays tax when he wants, pays tax when he wants,

Harry Redknapp,

He pays tax when he wants

Playing tomorrow:

Wigan v Chelsea [come on Wigan]

Man City v Southampton [come on Southampton]

Playing Monday night:

Everton v Man Utd [come on Everton. I might have a couple of quid on a van Persie injury early in the second half. He may be back playing just after Christmas. When he'll dive into a tackle and not be seen again for six to eight months. That's right, he's the Michael Owen replacement.]

School playing fields

There's an on line petition. BLISS has signed and distributed links, fantastic.

The thing to remember, however, is that the papers that are full of it have all backed political parties for election in the past, and that with the coalition, now all three parties have been selling the land off. That's all of them. Even as they bang on the despatch box and shout across the chamber about the despicable rape of school pitches by the other lot, when in power, they've all been at it.

There is no political party that represents the sporting man in the UK.

Alice, meet Geoffery

'Ello Alice

Test Match Special interviewed Alice Cooper during the tea interval yesterday. The podcast's worth a listen. Jonathan Agnew was obviously uncomfortable with Alice, as a name, not the person. Then Alice said he could call him Coops and all was well.

Today they revealed that Geoff Boycott was introduced.

AGNEW: Geoffrey, Alice. Alice Geoffrey.

BOYCOTT: [TURNING TO MRS COOPER] Very pleased to meet you, Alice.

Agnew was offered free tickets to a gig.

COOPER: You can have blood seats.

AGNEW: Blood seats?

COOPER: Yeah. Where you get spattered with blood.

AGNEW: Really?

COOPER: [NOW PLAINLY DEALING WITH AN IDIOT] No. Not really. It's fake. It's like...red candy and water.

MM on a Warwickshire duck

“Well” he said “that was specularly bad” and he was right. Park I think it was. “He's come out. He's tried his best to get run out without facing a ball. Then he's taken off his gloves and helmet to do up his laces, despite having just emerged from the pavilion, then he's spent a few hours doing more gardening than Alan Titchmarsh. Then he's got skied one and got a first ball duck.”

Gardening

Walking down the wicket and tapping at the surface with the bottom of your bat. Universally referred to as 'gardening'. I seldom do any gardening, unless there's real damage to the pitch, and to avoid picking up the habit. Watch. Some of our players are compulsive:

Bowler bowls.

Batsman bats.

Batsman wanders down the pitch, looks at the surface the way a nervous little old lady looks at the meter reader with no ID, then prods about with his bat.

Satisfied, batsman gets back to the job in hand and the game resumes.

Some of them may as well leave the bat in the kitbag and go out with a hoe.

Robin van Who?

Cricket

Here's a tip. If ever AD suggests going to anything, anywhere, whatever it is, and then finds out he's double-booked and can't make it, ensure you get along, by hook or by crook. He's infallible. Mr 100%. As soon as you the text or get the phone call saying “I've got my shift dates wrong”, that should be the cue to start buying up tickets.

Fantastic game last night, low scoring, and a robust and resilient Sussex team were properly tested by a very good Warwickshire side. It was just great cricket, great sport and something you couldn't take your eyes off. Enthralling.

Sport v PE

Mr Naugthy put it into words. Often, with getting the semantics right, understanding follows. I have been confused about just why the school sport thing has rankled so much. It is this. They (the supposed experts in the field) are confusing sport and PE.

PE is about diet, no drugs, going to the gym, doing some aerobics or whatever flavour that has at the time (spinning? Zumba?). It's all that boring stuff they had us do in the school hall in our vests and pants in the olden days.

Absolutely different, totally separate, in another dimension, is sport. This is competitive, more social, less about self, more about the team you play for. All that.

The edges are not blurred just because both involve some exercise. They are discrete, with definite borders. Having the space to 'run around at playtime' does not equate to having a proper go at the neighbouring school's rugby fifteen.

Many a true word spoken in jest and all that. Darren Gough, asked whether competitive sport should be compulsory, said: “absolutely, yes. I was rubbish at geography and they made me do that.”

There's the simple answer. The argument has been hijacked by people who think it's perfectly fine to cry off sport, but want political correctness to be a core subject.

Oh, Robin Robin...

...you went to Man United and won f**k all.

I hope he's getting that from the Arsenal fans at the end of next season. The season after, and every season to come.

I think there's more chance of 'Oh, Robin Robin' than there is of 'Oh, Alex Alex, you went to Barcelona...'

We need a went to Barca and hardly got off the bench song for Song.

Wenger and the Arsenal board are not playing a straight bat. Seven years without a trophy. Seven years sounds okay until you put that in a footballer's lifespan:

Say you break into the first team at twenty, with the odd appearance, then start to peak physically and as a player at twenty four. Twenty four years old, and you're now a first team regular. Seven years later, you're thirty one. Until van Persie (at twenty nine) United had a no signings over twenty six years old policy. Thirty one is no age, but it's twilight years for a footballer. I know we're not struggling against relegation and I know all that gumph about how we're top of the financial table. But I'd go. Given the sniff of joining a club with real ambition and genuine chances of success, given a four year contract seeing me through to thirty three, I'd be off like a shot. Wenger's spiralling eccentricity and the club's focus on the bottom line of the accounts rather than the spiders' webs in the trophy cabinet are all anyone needs to know.

Forgettably Happy

Forgettably happy

Saraswati Park:

“Aha, thought Ashish: only people who've had truly happy childhoods can afford to forget about them.”

I'm not entirely sure whether my childhood memories are few because it was so happy, or merely because it was so long ago.

One early memory is bumbling into infants school, babbling on in the Polish / English mixture that worked so well at home and with family (Poglish?) and having to come to terms with the fact that no-one understood a word I was saying. At that point my lot decided I was too dim to do any sort of linguistic multi-tasking and agreed to speak exclusively in English, at least when I was around.

About that time having a car was rare. On any given street there would be a smattering of cars. Most had drivers' doors that opened backwards, with the hinges towards the rear and the handles towards the front. They were all black. One of the ones down our road caught fire. I slept through the commotion, but was part of the crowd gathered around the next day gazing in wonder at the charred and blackened seats and the puddles of dirty water the fire brigade had left behind.

Thirty-odd years later I would be in the London Fire Brigade, stationed at one of the three London car fire epicentres, where we had of necessity become so slick at arrive, extinguish, make safe, depart, that there was hardly a gap between the status X (we've arrived) and the status Y (it's out, send us somewhere else if you want) radio messages. Every household had a car for everyone old enough to drive. These were routinely stolen, driven and torched. It was always more frequent during the school holidays, and in the summer months.

After we moved out to Kent my dad spent a few years commuting first to Woolwich and then to Croydon. On a scooter. I think crash helmets were optional then, but I think he had one, albeit probably some army surplus shop job that would have provided minimal protection. Luckily it was never called into action.

Trains

We were talking last night about the trains. I don't miss them one little bit.

This is prehistoric and such bad customer service: office desk, fifteen minutes from station. Check Internet. No service disruptions reported. Walk to Cannon Street. Platform heaving. No trains moving. Announcement: “please wait on the station concourse for further announcements”. That is: “put your life on hold, watch the precious time tick by, because we're too lazy, inefficient, and too busy making obscene profits to bother giving decent information out, so that you can go back to work, or have a coffee somewhere, or at least go to Waterstones and browse the books.”

Absolute rubbish at low cost. Inexcusable when you're paying through the nose. For the umteenth straight year theres an above inflation fare increase. How is that justified?

Saturday, I checked costs. Four of us, in the car, door to door, half a tank of petrol at most and some parking, £35 tops. Train? £65 + parking at the station + more chance of things going wrong + the frequent and hidden weekend planned maintenance coach 'replacement' service between x and y. Car wins. How does that fit with any green agenda?

That's my boy!

From the heart

This. From MM. Proof that I've brought him up proper:

“The Olympics. Magic. What I've seen, and I wish I'd seen more than I did, absolutely fantastic. Brilliant. But thank god football's started again.”

I watched him play half a preseason friendly tonight (the other 45 minutes I frittered away on a conference call, work, eh?), which they won 4-1 and played such good football for such a young team. Then we stopped for food and a beer and Swindon Brighton was on in the pub, and...

Well, that's it really. And...and...and...

And what more can you want? Yes there's other vital stuff. Literature. Music, film, theatre. There's a family and friends to love. But work? Politics? Business? Religions spreading hate and war? Watch two boxers, two teams slug it out, no quarter asked or given, then shake hands and be civilised after the final whistle. That's as high as I've ever seen humans rise.

Magic places

Venues are important. Nothing happens in isolation. The Globe Theatre is one. Adds a sprinkle of something to every visit.

The Emirates. Everyone who's been describes the view as surreal. Unbelievable. All stadiums from now on need to be at least this good. Now. Just need to get the team up to scratch.

The dragon dim sum place, Wardour Street. The last place with proper trollies and proper no English trolly dollies, and the most magical place to eat. Haven't been there for too long.

Lords (not Lourdes). The tour is something everyone should do. Watching a game there after the tour is perfect. Seeing a day where Straus gets a ton, Youseff Mohammed gets his 200, any number of wickets fall, is luck beyond all expectation.

The Oval. England won the Ashes.

Home. Everyday special beyond belief.

Max

Max is a greyhound. Rescue. Raced beyond endurance. Fag burn scars. Multiple homes. Landed on his feet. A chilled, gentle, lovely dog. How can people do that? How can a so-called civilised society countenance allowing that sort of cruelty to continue?

Deny some muppet's false god they decide to believe in against all scientific fact and reason, and there's hell to pay. Torture animals? That's fine. Doing it in the name of your beliefs? Better still, fill your boots.

What a crock.

Cause of death? What do you want?

I know, let's get Freddy on it

How immune to criticism do the Metropolitan Police imagine they are? Can you picture the conversation?

Ian Tomlinson is dead. Things have not gone well. Policing of the G20 protests, the peaceful G20 protests has been at least heavy-handed, and arguably brutal. A wheelchair user has been dragged and beaten. There is CCTV and cellphone video footage of Tomlinson being pushed to the ground and hit with a batton. Tomlinson was on his way home from work at the news stand near the Monument underground station. He was not in any way involved in the protest. He didn't understand the obscene and (I think) illegal practise of 'kettling'. He just wanted to get home from work.

“Guv, guv. This is going from bad to worse.”

“You 'aint kiddin'”

“This is going to be high profile.”

“Get Freddy onto it.”

“Guv, you are joking...”

“Nah. Get Freddy onto it. Heart attack, tell him.”

“This 'aint going to work guv.”

“Just do it son. Give it to Freddy. He'll know what to do.”

Freddy Patel made 68 errors in the autopsy. That's staggering. He'd already been suspended for four months. He said Tomlinson had died from arterial disease. No other pathologist agreed with his findings. In a world where twisted, evil, authority-serving lies are described as errors of judgement (see nuclear waste, global warming, all that stuff), Freddy Patel's peers have called him dishonest and liable to bring the profession into disrepute. The fact that this guy was given this case and reached these conclusions, working unsupervised despite his track record, suggests an unbelievable level of arrogance and a total lack of acceptance of any accountability.

I walked past that news stand every morning between London Bridge and the office, for three or four years, and I used the Monument station to travel around London. Anyone armed with a pair of eyes would instantly realise that Ian Tomlinson was not any threat.

The policeman who killed him has previous for brutality. He's been let off. The pathologist who happened to be assigned to the case has previous and a suspension on his record. Isn't anyone going to step in and start picking things apart? Is there no internal affairs department in the Met? Are we back to miners' strike days and Westminster's private army of boot boys in blue handing out beatings to anyone who disagrees with their view?

Fowlers End, Kindle

I love books, and I love the Kindle too (as in e-book reader, not necessarily of the Kindle brand, I'm not an Amazon fanboy or anything). There's too much one-or-t'other. Both is good, both is better. Fowlers End is a grubby, lawless, down-at-heel fictitious London suburb all residents and ex-residents of London suburbs will recognise.

Lesthus Piggus

Was it ever thus?

According to an absolutely reliable source (QI) the best paid sportsperson ever was a multi-billionaire Roman charioteer...

BIGUS DICKUS: Did you thee the newthpaper? Lestus Pigguth hath won again.

TITTANIA: Yeah. Like, he's soooo cool, dude. Like wow! And when his toga gets caught in the slipstream. Whoa! Hung like a...

BIGUS DICKUS: Yeth, yeth, buth thath's not the point. He'th now wealthier than Ceathar himthelf. Thath the trouble with thports, don't you think?

TITTANIA: In what way. I mean, man, all that and he's loaded, too...

BIGUS DICKUS: Ah. Cliche, good to thee you. (CLICHE MAXIMUS enters and sits down).

CLICHE MAXIMUS: Good to see you too, you old wogue. How's twicks?

BIGUS DICKUS: We were juth dithcuthing Lestus Pigguth.

CLICHE MAXIMUS: Don't get me started. It's so wong. What about gwass woots spowt? The whole thing's just so...

BIGUS DICKUS: Top heavy, in thermth of...

CLICHE MAXIMUS: Pwise money? Absolutely.

TITTANIA: Well, I'd check out his whip and bridle any day. I hear there's a statue planned for the entrance to the arena. I hope they get everything right. I mean, buns to die for, dude. And the food, you have to love the stadium food. All those larks' tongues, badgers' noses, battered slow worm foetuses, and deep fried eagles' eggs. And the wine on ladies night? Buy one get three free...

(CLICHE and BIGUS exchange a meaningful glance. TITTANIA snatches the sports pages).

The Yips

I'd never thought about it too deeply. Golf = sport and sport = good and that's it. Apparently golf courses in the wrong places, requiring gallons upon gallons of water, pesticides, weedkillers, and so on, can be bit of an ecological disaster.

Pick your greens carefully if you want to be green.

However bad golf is, I can't help thinking that there's got to be lots of worse things, like dumping tons of oil in the sea and releasing loads of gas in the sea and under the land and chucking nuclear waste into natural holes in the ground, following up with tons of concrete, and declaring that 'perfectly safe' despite similar methods of disposal having 100% failure rates. Driving large 4x4 vehicles around Chelsea. Supermarket food miles so that seasonal has no meaning any more (local has had no meaning for years). Those gits who deride vegetarians then only eat the breast of factory chickens.

Great book, though. Finished it on Saturday morning.

The Taming of the Shrew

The Taming of the Shrew

Funny, madcap, almost three hours of glorious lunacy. I think the Globe plays a massive part. The 'minor' plays we've seen there have all been fantastic. Anywhere where you can wander around with a beer, a takeaway, whatever you like; anywhere where you can go in with cool bags and boxes of food and drink (three old ladies behind us produced full-on Pimms at half-time, complete with all the fruit and veg salad floating about in them – only lacking little umbrellas and sparklers); anywhere where two of you can see the best productions in London for a tenner (which, coincidentally, is what it cost us for a post play round of drinks (one frappucino, one decaf capuccino, one double espresso, one americano with an extra shot) in the Paternoster Square Starbucks. That's no bad reflection on Starbucks, my coffee was good, but it does show what great value standing at the Globe is; anywhere so slick and professional yet so amazingly laid-back and relaxed; well, that isn't anywhere, that's someplace special.

This Taming of the Shrew, the Coriolanus, the Titus Andronicus we've been to see have been up there with the Lear, the Midsummer Night's Dream, the Romeo and Juliet, and the Henry V.

TTT, just after this Titus Andronicus scene, even as the fainters are being carried out to the St Johns first aid stations: “have we got any more sandwiches?”

It starts with Christopher Sly, in replica England shirt, cross of St George cap and can of lager, causing a disturbance in the crowd, before taking the stage, taking a leak over a bloke in the front of the groundlings, passing out and puking up. There's no let-up. It races along, powered by

an energetic cast, through the codpiece only wedding, brawls, banter, and bawd, breathless and breakneck. Wonderful. You sit down (MM and I skipped the cushions) and before your bum goes numb, before you even blink, it's the dance at the end and a huge ovation. I looked around. Smiling faces everywhere.

Old and fat

When us old blokes get older, bigger and fatter, as long as the hair don't fall out but just goes ever more grey, we do a backward evolution thing and slowly turn into Michael Winner.

I hate Michael Winner. He's an awful, bigoted, prehistoric right wing moron. Jeremy Clarkson's his secret lovechild. I hate him to absolute bits.

Now I'm turning into him. I'll be getting phone calls soon, to do rubbish insurance adverts and open fetes in rural tory strongholds. All I need is a light-coloured linen suit, and to crank my voice up a couple of octaves (helium might do it).

I sentence you to being on hold for days...

Sorry luv, tuna's orf

Tuna's off the menu. Almost extinct. Three left. One's celibate. We're a greedy species and we've gone all short term as usual and almost scoffed the lot.

In light of this I've had some ideas.

GM slugs. No-one likes slugs. Ugly, sluggy things. They eat everything you plant, ignore the weeds, munch their way through the lettuce. Ignorant little blighters. All you need to do is isolate the dodgy taste gene, replace it with a nice and tasty gene, and Bob's your uncle. Instead of lobbing them over the hedge into next doors, they could be harvested and we'll all be full of slug tika massalla in no time.

GM brambles. Hate brambles. Kill 'em and eat 'em.

GM ants. Reprogramme their brains to stack themselves into an inverted cone, doner kebab style, and do the same tasty thing as with the slugs. Not fond of ants. Same with fies, particularly those persistent ones who can fly off anywhere they chose but instead opt to keep landing on you while you sit in the sun. Get them onto that spit with the ants.

A whole new meaning to 'cell-phone'

I can't help thinking about the prisoner helpline service:

(TELEPHONE RINGS, AN AUTOMATED SERVICE ANSWERS)

AUTOMATED VOICE:

Hello. You're through to Wandsworth Prison. Please listen carefully to the following options. Press the star key at any time to talk to an operator and the hash key to return to the main menu.

To report an escaped convict, press one.

To arrange a visit, press two. Note that any cakes will be subjected to security screening and all files and concealed implements will be removed. This may damage the aesthetics of the cake.

If you are a prison visitor, defence lawyer, or other do-gooder, press three.

For Barclays customer services, press four, unless you require the LIBOR rate fixing team, in which case press five.

For general enquiries press six or hold to speak to an operator.

(HOLD MUSIC: 'RIOT IN CELL BLOCK NUMBER NINE', ACCOMPANIED BY THE CLANKING OF CHAINS).

Food for tomorrow

I've been baking after work. Cheese and onion tartlets. To take with us tomorrow. Note, there's two missing already (they're hardly cooled off yet).

Wandsworth calling

That's the sound of the men working on the...er...helpline gang?

Allo.

Er. Hello. Is that...

What's it to you, you slag?

(Background) Now now Mad Verne, remember the training.

Oh. Yeah. Wotcha want?

Is this the British Gas helpline?

Yeah. Here, you a little ol' lady?

(Background, with an edge to the tone) Verne! No!

Oh. Yeah. Yeah, this is British Gas. How can we help you? (Laughs) You an ol' boiler wif an ol' boiler?

I beg your pardon?

Lady, what's the problem, exactly?

My pilot has gone out, and it won't light.

Right. Name?

Mrs Brown.

Address? (She gives the address).

Where's the boiler?

In the kitchen.

Where's the jewelry? Cash. You old biddies like to stash the cash, don'cha?

(Background) right, that's it...

Oy! Missus, we'll be right round. Blokes called Big Ron an' Fat Gaz...they'll need to know where...

The line goes dead.

Oh. How strange.

What's the matter love?

Just trying to get the boiler chaps out to get the heating working again.

They're not saying nothing doing for days again are they, we pay the...

No. Nothing like that.

Sew mailbags? Not no more. Call centres. Honest.

Pitch snatchers

Pitch snatchers

Before Thatcher, the Prime Minister went to the cup final. He just did. She was the first to openly derride sport. None who have followed have reversed that trend. Here's the crew who have sold off school pitches. Two have actually worked as teachers, most are career politicians or legals.

Ruth Kelly is in Opus Dei, which for an Education Minister is absolutely terrifying. Ed Balls went to a fee-paying school and did those institutions a huge favour by trying to spread the disruptive and difficult pupils around, so that every state school could be equally rubbish. Gove, well, just look at him. Apparently applying to sell pitches requires all sorts of criteria to be met. Of the last 22 applications 21 have been successful, suggesting the criteria are not particularly stringent.

Here they are, loosely chronologically:

The start of the rot.

Described by Thatcher as "ineffective". Probably sold pitches slowly.

Thought he was good on Sorry I Haven't A Clue.

Parkinson. A disease.

Someone explain those wigs. Really. What's the point?

Good in that About a Boy, didn't'cha think?

Edwina! Madder than Maggie?

"He's alive! Flash is alive!"

Another actual teacher, she was ok as Begbie in Trainspotting.

Yoda I should have gone for, think you not?

One of these belong to an ultra-religious cult. The same one ran our schools.

This bloke seems ok. Played in a band, was a postie. Then it all went wrong and he got elected.

One of my least favourite people, ever. Though education was about getting the bottom line up to the point where, statistically, jail or the dole were a low probability, let the rest fend for themselves. Did wonders for public schools.

This is some sort of joke, right?