Out of total smugness I am going to post a message I sent to a Facebook friend on Friday night:
Hi matey,Well here it is. I expect Khan to win, probably in ugly fashion. Having never seen Pascal I don't know what to expect of him, but he'd better be supercharged if he doesn't want to get wiped out. Macarinelli's fight seems to be in limbo, but for the record I'd have picked him to win whoever he was facing.
And onto the main event. Similarly to Haye Macarinelli earlier in the year, every time I think about it I see something different. But one thing I am certain of: It's not going to be anywhere near as easy as everyone thinks. Not only does Pacquiao have a fantastic chin, but he will undoubtedly be fitter than De La Hoya, who almost always fades down the stretch. And does Oscar really hit that hard? Knocking out wildman Mayorga isn't enough for me. The left hook is a potent weapon - but then Manny has Freddie Roach as his trainer, the best in the world.
My prediction is Pacquaio on points. I think - unlike every other prediction I have seen - he will employ a style designed to frustrate Oscar, darting in, landing hard hooks and using his hand speed. A brawling type fight will see him knocked out within ten minutes. The pressure is on Oscar, and he is no Marquez. Every pressure fight he has been in in the past few years has seen him fall away and I have a vision of him pursuing a tiring Pacquiao round the ring but ultimately falling short.However, I do like some of the odds you found. In the Ring last month they picked out odds of around 1/2 on Oscar and 7/2 on Pacquaio - meaning 300 on Oscar and 100 on Pac will, bring you a return no matter who wins. However the odds on Pac have shortened considerably. Looking at the odds you posted it might be worth a few pounds here and there on a late round stoppage for de la hoya and Manny on points.Whatever, tomorrow night is just awesome. And imagine the winner vs Ricky next year....
OK Pac actually knocked De La Hoya out, but who's counting, apart from the ref. I love being right. Shame it never happens with my football predictions...
Sunday 7 December 2008
Wednesday 3 December 2008
Monday 1 December 2008
Noel, oh Hell
Christmas is here. Enjoying it so far but there's still time for me to become a grumpy old curmudgeon, muttering swearwords at children playing hoops on the streets from beneath my top hat and cursing the world and its festive happiness.
Already sick of a couple of adverts though. That "Here come the girls" Boots abomination for example. The lustre, for me, was somewhat tarnished when I saw said song being ravaged by the Sugababes on some ITV shambles called "A night in with slappers" or something. They were dancing in a random, twisted fashion, as if shots of sporadic electrical voltage were being passed through their loins. Both the vocals and movements left me unsatisfied, which is rare when the Sugababes are concerned.
So that advert, where hordes of rampant menopausal, desperate or even worse intelligent women throw on a load of slap prowl for any flesh with a Y chromosome inside it really isn't my cup of vodka.
Equally that "If there's anything that you want" advert. I don't even know who it's an advert for. possibly Tesco or Argos. Maybe Woolies. Or Rumbelows. Don't know, don't care. I've heard it far too many times to enjoy now.
I saw the Coca Cola advert for the first time yesterday with the convoy of trucks going up the mountains. A great ad, although that amount of coke would only feed my brother for a day or two. I wonder where they go for the rest of the year. And do the drivers have any other songs on their radio other than "Holidays are coming"? And wouldn't it be funny if they opened the doors and someone had replaced the whole stock, bottle for bottle, with Panda Cola. "I knew we shouldn't have stopped off in Wisbech" would be the cry.
Started thinking about presents as well. Already given a few people my patented algebra advent calendar, where you have to work out the equation to figure out which flap to open - an incorrect answer leads to a poison dart or plague of locusts flying out. This morning I got a few angry phonecalls from devastated farmers and the police. You win some, you lose some.
The tree's up and the neighbours aren't happy. Still, if they had a 500ft tall Christmas tree/stinging nettle hybrid, surely they'd want to show it off too? I'll admit the giant barbary apes living inside are noisy, but they'll settle down soon. Either that or they'll freeze to death and crash through the roofs of the houses below, settling the problem.
Take it easy
John
Already sick of a couple of adverts though. That "Here come the girls" Boots abomination for example. The lustre, for me, was somewhat tarnished when I saw said song being ravaged by the Sugababes on some ITV shambles called "A night in with slappers" or something. They were dancing in a random, twisted fashion, as if shots of sporadic electrical voltage were being passed through their loins. Both the vocals and movements left me unsatisfied, which is rare when the Sugababes are concerned.
So that advert, where hordes of rampant menopausal, desperate or even worse intelligent women throw on a load of slap prowl for any flesh with a Y chromosome inside it really isn't my cup of vodka.
Equally that "If there's anything that you want" advert. I don't even know who it's an advert for. possibly Tesco or Argos. Maybe Woolies. Or Rumbelows. Don't know, don't care. I've heard it far too many times to enjoy now.
I saw the Coca Cola advert for the first time yesterday with the convoy of trucks going up the mountains. A great ad, although that amount of coke would only feed my brother for a day or two. I wonder where they go for the rest of the year. And do the drivers have any other songs on their radio other than "Holidays are coming"? And wouldn't it be funny if they opened the doors and someone had replaced the whole stock, bottle for bottle, with Panda Cola. "I knew we shouldn't have stopped off in Wisbech" would be the cry.
Started thinking about presents as well. Already given a few people my patented algebra advent calendar, where you have to work out the equation to figure out which flap to open - an incorrect answer leads to a poison dart or plague of locusts flying out. This morning I got a few angry phonecalls from devastated farmers and the police. You win some, you lose some.
The tree's up and the neighbours aren't happy. Still, if they had a 500ft tall Christmas tree/stinging nettle hybrid, surely they'd want to show it off too? I'll admit the giant barbary apes living inside are noisy, but they'll settle down soon. Either that or they'll freeze to death and crash through the roofs of the houses below, settling the problem.
Take it easy
John
Monday 24 November 2008
Bits
After my hiatus from blogging I'm back. If there is anyone who reads this (and I've never received a comment on anything I've written yet, so I have no idea) I apologise for not putting more on.
A few things that have taken place in my life since:
*Emma and I have become immersed in the world of Couch surfer.It's well worth a look. We signed up after reading about it in a magazine in Warsaw. For those unfamiliar you basically put your name forward onto a website, with your address, and people ask if they can stay with you. In return you can request to stay at all the other addresses. It's a way of encouraging a "community" feeling across the world and travelling at its finest.
We were trepidatious - and within two days of signing up we had our first request. Who would it be? A Zambian warlord wanting a room for him, his 17 mistresses, a hog's head and a voodoo shrine? A neo-nazi BNP super-facist? Even worse, a vegetarian? Thankfully it was none of these. We had the pleasure of hosting Ash for two nights, a poet and comedian who was in the area delivering workshops to pupils at three nearby schools. He was charming and funny and we enjoyed having him.
I know the idea of having a total stranger staying at your house might be scary but check couchsurfer out - it might be a real adventure.
*Won money on Joe Calzaghe (went for him to win on points) and David Haye (knockout). Wasn't sure about Hatton. Obviously he looked great; not just technically better but just plain fitter. Also good to see Jim Bagg, who is a columnist for the Ring Magazine, get his words stuffed up his arse. "The Bagg" wrote about how much he revelled in British fighters getting reduced to a horizontal state (referring to Amir Khan) as if it representing boxing returning to its natural state. Brits 3, Yanks 0 Bagg.
I hope my betting run continues with Pacquiao vs De La Hoya. I'm going for Manny. De La Hoya's stamina has never been good, and providing Pacman survives the first four or five rounds - which I think he can - his fitness can prove to be the deciding factor down the stretch.
*Went on a wild goose chase around Long Sutton over the weekend. You can see on our website (spaldingtoday.co.uk) the Cannom story. I tried to find out more about her and no-one knew her. No-one. And then I thought "Would I know anything about my neighbours? Their names and jobs? No idea."
It didn't really surprise me because of the lack of community spirit in the world, and the advent of the internet and Playstations and technology, meaning people never go out of their doors anymore. They just survive, immersed in their own boredom. Sad really.
Anyway, more to come later in the week. Watching I'm a celebrity. Dreadful.
A few things that have taken place in my life since:
*Emma and I have become immersed in the world of Couch surfer.It's well worth a look. We signed up after reading about it in a magazine in Warsaw. For those unfamiliar you basically put your name forward onto a website, with your address, and people ask if they can stay with you. In return you can request to stay at all the other addresses. It's a way of encouraging a "community" feeling across the world and travelling at its finest.
We were trepidatious - and within two days of signing up we had our first request. Who would it be? A Zambian warlord wanting a room for him, his 17 mistresses, a hog's head and a voodoo shrine? A neo-nazi BNP super-facist? Even worse, a vegetarian? Thankfully it was none of these. We had the pleasure of hosting Ash for two nights, a poet and comedian who was in the area delivering workshops to pupils at three nearby schools. He was charming and funny and we enjoyed having him.
I know the idea of having a total stranger staying at your house might be scary but check couchsurfer out - it might be a real adventure.
*Won money on Joe Calzaghe (went for him to win on points) and David Haye (knockout). Wasn't sure about Hatton. Obviously he looked great; not just technically better but just plain fitter. Also good to see Jim Bagg, who is a columnist for the Ring Magazine, get his words stuffed up his arse. "The Bagg" wrote about how much he revelled in British fighters getting reduced to a horizontal state (referring to Amir Khan) as if it representing boxing returning to its natural state. Brits 3, Yanks 0 Bagg.
I hope my betting run continues with Pacquiao vs De La Hoya. I'm going for Manny. De La Hoya's stamina has never been good, and providing Pacman survives the first four or five rounds - which I think he can - his fitness can prove to be the deciding factor down the stretch.
*Went on a wild goose chase around Long Sutton over the weekend. You can see on our website (spaldingtoday.co.uk) the Cannom story. I tried to find out more about her and no-one knew her. No-one. And then I thought "Would I know anything about my neighbours? Their names and jobs? No idea."
It didn't really surprise me because of the lack of community spirit in the world, and the advent of the internet and Playstations and technology, meaning people never go out of their doors anymore. They just survive, immersed in their own boredom. Sad really.
Anyway, more to come later in the week. Watching I'm a celebrity. Dreadful.
Wednesday 5 November 2008
Obama Drama
Anyone who's been hiding under a barock and wants to know what the election result was last night... this controversial story from the Onion might give it way
http://www.theonion.com/content/news_briefs/black_man_given_nations
Last night was momentous. To be aware of an acutal historical event as it happens is that most precious rarity. I can think of a few others in my lifetime - 9/11, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Susan and Karl Kennedy reconciling - but none as exciting as this.
Obama's key word was change, and it's needed in politics desperately. Didn't he remind you of a fresh-faced Tony Blair in '97 last night? Let's hope the same cynicism and spin that blighted his premiership doesn't barrack Barack.
The early signs seem promising. Obviously he will need help from other nations with the economy, but America can take the lead in its military matters. Obama wants to engage more with Iran, bringing troops out and placing other in Afghanistan. He has already been warned by Karzai (Afghanistan's president) over an American attack which killed a host of people at a wedding party. It's not going to be easy...
*Joined something called couchsurfer the other day, a communal website encouraging like-minded travellers to host each other when asked. Sounds like a fantastic idea and we've had our first response. Will keep you informed!
http://www.theonion.com/content/news_briefs/black_man_given_nations
Last night was momentous. To be aware of an acutal historical event as it happens is that most precious rarity. I can think of a few others in my lifetime - 9/11, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Susan and Karl Kennedy reconciling - but none as exciting as this.
Obama's key word was change, and it's needed in politics desperately. Didn't he remind you of a fresh-faced Tony Blair in '97 last night? Let's hope the same cynicism and spin that blighted his premiership doesn't barrack Barack.
The early signs seem promising. Obviously he will need help from other nations with the economy, but America can take the lead in its military matters. Obama wants to engage more with Iran, bringing troops out and placing other in Afghanistan. He has already been warned by Karzai (Afghanistan's president) over an American attack which killed a host of people at a wedding party. It's not going to be easy...
*Joined something called couchsurfer the other day, a communal website encouraging like-minded travellers to host each other when asked. Sounds like a fantastic idea and we've had our first response. Will keep you informed!
Tuesday 4 November 2008
A mer woman
Not one to be messed with; This is the mythical mermaid, and unlike the normal spritish representation (such as that found in Copenhagen) this is a warrior, a mean nasty-looking piece of work, like Pat Butcher on steroids. She is one of three mermaid statues to be found in Warsaw, and apparently in Polish folklore she helped a young prince rescue two boys named Wars and Saw - hence the name.Debated sitting up all night to comment on the US presidential slugfest, but I've been feeling pretty rough today. Rented a device called a "Rugdoctor" from Focus to clean our filthy carpet and it's great but tiring. So illness, being tired, and just seeing an advert for a film called "Zack and Miri make a porno" which looks to be one of the most execrable movies ever created, are enough to send me to bed.
Warsaw pics
Returned from Warsaw on Saturday, and immediately knew I was back in England. Predictions for our holiday in Poland told us to expect four days of rain. We got half an hour. Meanwhile Luton was a quagmire - I knew it was bad when I went to pick up the car and saw Dennis Hopper chasing Kevin Costner in the distance, such was the rainfall. From the airpark at Slip End (!) I drove out of Luton, taking the wrong turn (M1 and A1 are so easy to confuse) and at one point skimmed around the outside of Leicester, about 40 miles from my intended route. I'm blaming the driving rain.
Warsaw itself was amazing. The pics above are the Palace on the Water, two pics of Castle Square, and some drunk guys who wanted my scalp for Halloween.
We stayed in Nathan's Villa Hostel off Marshall Street. The best hostel I've ever been in - clean bathrooms, quiet, and even our own balcony: what more could we want?
Much of my pre-conceived notions of the country were justified. The beer was cheap and good and the Old Town, similar to that of Tallinn, was breathtakingly pretty. One whole side of the square (pic to be added later) was Poland's national museum, with the interiors of the houses removed so you could pass through. It was a rare example of tourism - Emma was bitterly disappointed by the lack of shops, asking (justifiably) where people bought clothes. I didn't see a single music shop or newsagent chain in four days.
Many of the grey, dismal communist style tower blocks were still intact, intermingled with the grim reminders of Poland's part in WW2. A bunker where Jewish immigrants hid, before one blew himself up in a suicide pact as the Nazis closed in. Remembrance walls with the names of some of those executed. Most poignantly Pawiak prison where 100,000 people including children, pregnant women, elderly and disabled were held, beaten and killed. Poland's invasion can never be allowed to be forgotten.
The food was unusual but cheap and exciting. Pike was delicious; Blood sausages indulgent; tripe and beef soup far more pleasurable than it sounds. Zywiec, which I pronounced in at least ten different attempts as my tongue fumbled its way through the Polish language over the four days, was around £2 a pint.
A disappointing aspect was the unscrupulous nature of taxi drivers. Even in the foyer of the Frederick Chopin airport we were hounded by drivers pleading to escort us to the hostel. Our trip to the old town from the hostel cost anywhere from 12 to 90 zlotys (4.5 zlotys to the pound), meaning there was roughly a £15 difference between drivers for a mile-long journey, depending entirely on which driver you got. I made a rookie mistake of climbing in one cab (at 11.30pm in the freezing cold) and the meter was dimmed, meaning that it probably had about 40 zl on it before we'd even started. Scandalous.
More pics to come later.
ps Must just congratulate Keiran Westwood, Coventry's star goalkeeper, whose stunning performance kept out Kevin Phillipset al for our 1-0 win at Birmingham last night. I was 4 years of age the last time we won there. Work it out.
Sunday 26 October 2008
Pole glancing
A few weeks ago I told you that I was starting reading the news for my beloved Spalding Guardian - and here it is. The delivery isn't bad and we're getting better at putting the vids on. Enjoying it.
Thought you might enjoy the photo from Waikiki as well - through the magic of Photoshop I've combined two photos of one of the main roads, one of which was underexposed, the other over exposed. Photoshop is not easy to use initially, but I'm getting there.
Talking of Photoshop I'll be using it agin next week. Off to Poland on Tuesday with the lady. It will be the 8th different Eastern European country I've been to, alongside Bulgaria, Romania, Estonia, Czech Republic, Croatia, Slovenia and Hungary.
All the obvious jokes have come out when I tell people I'm going to Poland - "Why didn't you go to Peterborough?/Is there going to be anyone left over there?" etc etc.
But Eastern Europe has some spectacular jewels. Tallinn, for example, is an unbelieveable blend of medieval churches and bijou bars. Cheap beer in fantastic surroundings - and a bar themed entirely on 80s band Depeche Mode. Ultra-weird.
Split, in Croatia, is another. Seafood restaurants on the Adriatic coast (only a few miles from Yugoslavia) literally surrounded by ruins from the time when the Roman empire spread its claws across Europe. Fabulous nightlife (although be careful - the most expensive birthday present I ever gave myself was in a stripclub in Split with no prices on the wall...) and good activities - try the white water rafting in the nearby rivers.
There are others - Bled, Veliko Tornovo, Sighisoara (Dracula country) in Romania and Prague were memorable. I've also been to some shockers. Bucharest was particularly horrendous, although we did play an England - Romania grudge match with some youngsters yards from a busy roundabout in the city centre at midnight (3-3 and I bagged a brace, including a beauty of a right footed strike from a tight angle, not that I'm sad enough to remember it!).
I expect it to look like Prague, with an old town square, restaurants that serve acquired tastes such as pike, a Museum for the destruction of Communism and enlightenment of the Proletariat, old Citroens and Ladas being driven by bald guys with beards and grudges, and drunk men lying on park benches. Will put photos on next week!
Friday 17 October 2008
A tough story
Being a journalist is quite exciting sometimes. I have done some brilliant things in the past 3 1/2 years. parachuting, food tasting, car simulator racing, golf, giving blood, raising money for charity in numerous ways, etc etc are some of the interesting things I've enjoyed or hated since my stint at the paper.
Sometimes it's absolutely horrendous. On Tuesday I was faced with the most distressing court story I have ever had. I won't name the woman involved in the case, but she was facing a charge of concealing a child. Wondering what that means? It means she had a baby (without knowing she was pregnant) which was stillborn, and in a panic the traumatised woman put the body in a loft for a year, before telling her partner. It was the most desperate story I would ever write.
Behind the story was a sub-plot, not mentioned. The woman and her partner applied to the high court in London for an injunction to stop our paper writing about the story. It failed, but there was still the potential for the family to apply for a "section 39" order when it arrived in Spalding magistrates court.
Under section 39 of the child and young persons act 1933 magistrates have the power to impose anonymity on witnesses, defendents or complainants involved in a court case in adult court. In other words, had this been imposed on the woman's other children (who were mentioned in the case) we would not have been able to name them, or reference them in any way. The defence lawyers apply for it, the magistrates consider it, and then say yes or no.
I knew I was covering the story so spent an evening researching what I would do if the defence tried to convince the magistrates to apply this.
It's nerve-wracking. You have to stand up and address the court and everyone in it, clearly arguing your case. The opportunity for humiliation is massive, and I didn't sleep well, even though there were several arguments against the Section 39.
These included the facts that the children were not witnesses, defendants or complainants, the fact that the injunction had been thrown out, the fact that it would severely comprimise other aspects of the story, and the main point - that in the original injunction the woman's lawyers had admitted that if the injunction failed they could not apply for a section 39 because it was invalid.
They didn't even try and apply for it. I breathed a sigh of relief, but was also a little crestfallen - I have a 100 per cent record in overturning section 39 attempts, and was confident I would have done it again.
So I took the notes and we got the story. The woman was inconsolable as the grim particulars were read out. I felt terrible. The woman pleaded guilty and will be sentenced later in the month, but we now had the facts.
And then what? Where do we put it? Our photographer snapped her on the way in - do we use the photo? Do we name her? Do we comment on whether a case where there was no victim should ever have gone to court? Can we morally justify putting such an upsetting story on the front to sell papers? Do we even use it at all...
Asking around the office produced no concensus. Some wanted it front page with pic. Some wanted it page 3, no pic. Some wanted it front page, at the bottom, no pic. My opinion was that the front page was justified but the picture was harsh. People would recognise her at work, when she was picking her kids up from school, in the street - is there really any need to punish her further.
It ended up on page 2, no pic. I think we were all satisfied. Also ended up, disgracefully, in the Peterborough Evening Telegraph with another reporter's name on it.
Next time you read the paper you might want to think what goes on behind the scenes. It was certainly a story and process none of us will forget in a hurry.
Sometimes it's absolutely horrendous. On Tuesday I was faced with the most distressing court story I have ever had. I won't name the woman involved in the case, but she was facing a charge of concealing a child. Wondering what that means? It means she had a baby (without knowing she was pregnant) which was stillborn, and in a panic the traumatised woman put the body in a loft for a year, before telling her partner. It was the most desperate story I would ever write.
Behind the story was a sub-plot, not mentioned. The woman and her partner applied to the high court in London for an injunction to stop our paper writing about the story. It failed, but there was still the potential for the family to apply for a "section 39" order when it arrived in Spalding magistrates court.
Under section 39 of the child and young persons act 1933 magistrates have the power to impose anonymity on witnesses, defendents or complainants involved in a court case in adult court. In other words, had this been imposed on the woman's other children (who were mentioned in the case) we would not have been able to name them, or reference them in any way. The defence lawyers apply for it, the magistrates consider it, and then say yes or no.
I knew I was covering the story so spent an evening researching what I would do if the defence tried to convince the magistrates to apply this.
It's nerve-wracking. You have to stand up and address the court and everyone in it, clearly arguing your case. The opportunity for humiliation is massive, and I didn't sleep well, even though there were several arguments against the Section 39.
These included the facts that the children were not witnesses, defendants or complainants, the fact that the injunction had been thrown out, the fact that it would severely comprimise other aspects of the story, and the main point - that in the original injunction the woman's lawyers had admitted that if the injunction failed they could not apply for a section 39 because it was invalid.
They didn't even try and apply for it. I breathed a sigh of relief, but was also a little crestfallen - I have a 100 per cent record in overturning section 39 attempts, and was confident I would have done it again.
So I took the notes and we got the story. The woman was inconsolable as the grim particulars were read out. I felt terrible. The woman pleaded guilty and will be sentenced later in the month, but we now had the facts.
And then what? Where do we put it? Our photographer snapped her on the way in - do we use the photo? Do we name her? Do we comment on whether a case where there was no victim should ever have gone to court? Can we morally justify putting such an upsetting story on the front to sell papers? Do we even use it at all...
Asking around the office produced no concensus. Some wanted it front page with pic. Some wanted it page 3, no pic. Some wanted it front page, at the bottom, no pic. My opinion was that the front page was justified but the picture was harsh. People would recognise her at work, when she was picking her kids up from school, in the street - is there really any need to punish her further.
It ended up on page 2, no pic. I think we were all satisfied. Also ended up, disgracefully, in the Peterborough Evening Telegraph with another reporter's name on it.
Next time you read the paper you might want to think what goes on behind the scenes. It was certainly a story and process none of us will forget in a hurry.
Monday 13 October 2008
Cole Corry
Just bought a block of tickets to Legoland.
Right, now that's out of the way (and don't say it doesn't make you chuckle when you get it) just a quick comment on a few things.
*Ashley Cole is out of the next England match against Byelorussia with a pulled hamstring and bruised ego. Yes, the bad pass for the Kazakhstan goal didn't help, but Cole sums up everything that's wrong with football, and no matter what he does on the pitch his attitude off it will overshadow it. Even £55,000 a week can't buy popularity.
*A little nervous tonight over something that I have to do tomorrow...will tell you if I was successful later in the week.
*Just watching Coronation Street, for my sins. Learning a few tips and bits of info about Stag dos. At the moment I'm not having a best man for mine (not till 2011 so I've got time to change my mind) but whenever I say that I get the strangest looks from people.
The simple reason is that I have no real friends from childhood, or secondary school who I regularly see. I haven't seen any of my uni mates or hourno study mates for years. In short, there is no best man for me. The best man should surely be your best friend, or someone you admire and have fun with above all others. He doesn't exist.
I intend to either do my own speech, or have several best men. A clutch of hardy warriors who've been next to me while I've struggled through thick and thin, and of course all other anatomical descriptions of ex-girlfriends.
We also don't intend to have a top table. In fact, we have so little money, we might not even have a table at all. Or a top. Skins it is then...
*Poland is two weeks away. Can't wait. Somebody said to me the other day: "Why haven't you pact?" I replied: "Warsaw the fuss about?" The first joke has been done, the second is fresh. For you.
Right, now that's out of the way (and don't say it doesn't make you chuckle when you get it) just a quick comment on a few things.
*Ashley Cole is out of the next England match against Byelorussia with a pulled hamstring and bruised ego. Yes, the bad pass for the Kazakhstan goal didn't help, but Cole sums up everything that's wrong with football, and no matter what he does on the pitch his attitude off it will overshadow it. Even £55,000 a week can't buy popularity.
*A little nervous tonight over something that I have to do tomorrow...will tell you if I was successful later in the week.
*Just watching Coronation Street, for my sins. Learning a few tips and bits of info about Stag dos. At the moment I'm not having a best man for mine (not till 2011 so I've got time to change my mind) but whenever I say that I get the strangest looks from people.
The simple reason is that I have no real friends from childhood, or secondary school who I regularly see. I haven't seen any of my uni mates or hourno study mates for years. In short, there is no best man for me. The best man should surely be your best friend, or someone you admire and have fun with above all others. He doesn't exist.
I intend to either do my own speech, or have several best men. A clutch of hardy warriors who've been next to me while I've struggled through thick and thin, and of course all other anatomical descriptions of ex-girlfriends.
We also don't intend to have a top table. In fact, we have so little money, we might not even have a table at all. Or a top. Skins it is then...
*Poland is two weeks away. Can't wait. Somebody said to me the other day: "Why haven't you pact?" I replied: "Warsaw the fuss about?" The first joke has been done, the second is fresh. For you.
Sunday 12 October 2008
Couple of vids you must look at
Two things you have to look at:
This is poor taste but hilarious
http://www.theonion.com/content/video/gunman_kills_15_potential_voters
And since it's World Cup Qualifier weekend a brief clip from Serie A. I'm not Ibrahmovic's biggest fan, but this is outrageous and brilliant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDr71KzFy9c
Americans are often criticised for having a different sense of humour to us, but the Onion clip shows that to be wrong.
This is poor taste but hilarious
http://www.theonion.com/content/video/gunman_kills_15_potential_voters
And since it's World Cup Qualifier weekend a brief clip from Serie A. I'm not Ibrahmovic's biggest fan, but this is outrageous and brilliant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDr71KzFy9c
Americans are often criticised for having a different sense of humour to us, but the Onion clip shows that to be wrong.
Tuesday 7 October 2008
Random thoughts with a sprinkling of jokes
Whay did Princess Diana cross the road? Momentum.
Been away for a while now so hello to anyone who read the lack of posts and wondered if I'd died, or evaporated, or perhaps gone to live as a beggar in Sudan licking the feet of rich European visitors to earn dollars.
The truth is laziness mixed with apathy blended with a hectic jetsetting lifestyle. In the last week alone I've played in a ukulele gig, been to a comedy night, judged a cookery contest, gone to an auction, driven to Coventry, had friends down from Scotland, booked tickets to the Towers of London, and built a giant flying dolphin from DNA strains in tuna cans to take me over Mount Everest.
My philosophy is that if I don't have anything funny or interesting to say I won't write, rather than just dumping some literary turd all over a page for the sake of it. I'm not politically correct but I don't really care.
Having said that, I do have a level that I won't cross, unlike a comedian from last week who was telling some seriously sick jokes such as the one at the top of the page. Not sure where the boundary is. But if I ever became a stand-up, it wouldn't be through jokes like that.
"Asbos are now seen as some sort of badge of honour, they say in the news. What sort of honour is that? When I was a lad the Blue Peter badge was the one to get. Now that was a badge of honour. Now you're more lilely to see girls wearing badges saying "I Blue Peter" and Blokes wearing badges saying "I Blue Peter away."
There you go. That's my effort!
Random rubbish:
*Watching Coyote Ugly as I write this. Whatever happened to Piper Perabo? And where the hell did her parents pick up the name? My guess is that she was messed up. The Perabo surname sounds like a Venezuelan drug pusher, Piper sounds like the name of a 19-year-old Canadian hippy or something.
*The final X Factor 12 - the worst line-up since a queue formed for one of Max Moseley's special parties. Speaking of which, I've invited Seal, S Club 7 and We are Scientists to form a new collaboration at my Christmas party. They're called We Club Seals. Looking forward to it.
*Off to Warsaw in three weeks' time. In case you ask, yes, I have pact. Some will laugh at that. The others? Just google it.
Been away for a while now so hello to anyone who read the lack of posts and wondered if I'd died, or evaporated, or perhaps gone to live as a beggar in Sudan licking the feet of rich European visitors to earn dollars.
The truth is laziness mixed with apathy blended with a hectic jetsetting lifestyle. In the last week alone I've played in a ukulele gig, been to a comedy night, judged a cookery contest, gone to an auction, driven to Coventry, had friends down from Scotland, booked tickets to the Towers of London, and built a giant flying dolphin from DNA strains in tuna cans to take me over Mount Everest.
My philosophy is that if I don't have anything funny or interesting to say I won't write, rather than just dumping some literary turd all over a page for the sake of it. I'm not politically correct but I don't really care.
Having said that, I do have a level that I won't cross, unlike a comedian from last week who was telling some seriously sick jokes such as the one at the top of the page. Not sure where the boundary is. But if I ever became a stand-up, it wouldn't be through jokes like that.
"Asbos are now seen as some sort of badge of honour, they say in the news. What sort of honour is that? When I was a lad the Blue Peter badge was the one to get. Now that was a badge of honour. Now you're more lilely to see girls wearing badges saying "I Blue Peter" and Blokes wearing badges saying "I Blue Peter away."
There you go. That's my effort!
Random rubbish:
*Watching Coyote Ugly as I write this. Whatever happened to Piper Perabo? And where the hell did her parents pick up the name? My guess is that she was messed up. The Perabo surname sounds like a Venezuelan drug pusher, Piper sounds like the name of a 19-year-old Canadian hippy or something.
*The final X Factor 12 - the worst line-up since a queue formed for one of Max Moseley's special parties. Speaking of which, I've invited Seal, S Club 7 and We are Scientists to form a new collaboration at my Christmas party. They're called We Club Seals. Looking forward to it.
*Off to Warsaw in three weeks' time. In case you ask, yes, I have pact. Some will laugh at that. The others? Just google it.
Saturday 27 September 2008
John Burgundy
Three weeks ago I went on a course learning how to construct video packages for the newspaper. My colleague and I Andrew are still learning the ropes, but you can see a rudimentary effort here:
http://www.spaldingtoday.co.uk/sectionhome.aspx?sectionID=10614
As you can see, the room looks like an underground bunker, possibly in Eastern Europe. As it gets darker, this may be even more of a problem. I have no autocue, so I'm forced to read from a sheet which means my eye contact flickers - not ideal by any means. Also for no apparent reason I talk out of the right side of my mouth, as if my brain is demanding an imminent stroke. Quite why my gargoyle features have decided on this action I don't know.
We are planning a chromakey background - you put up a green sheet, and then superimpose an image onto it, similar to what you see when someone's doing the weather. Ours looks like a James Bond villain lair, with screens showing satellites, news, sport, entertainment, the Moomins, Loose Women, QVC, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
Also, check out my Mi Casa and Thoroughly Modern Millie package.
Other random observations and news:
*Heard from Chris Carter, the director of Tulip Radio, that Tulip is going straight for full time in January, without the usual November stint. Also the station will not be on 87.9, annoyingly (87.9 is reserved for temporary licences). The only problem is, we don't know what the frequency will be for another couple of months, giving Chris and Jan (Whitbourne, fellow director) no time to prepare promotions, adverts, stings etc. Ludicrous. sort it out Ofcom.
*P54 of the Spalding Guardian. Top picture, bloke on the front row, far left. Look closely.
*Mosley to win against Mayorga tonight, but to be hurt numerous times. Age must catch up with him soon.
*Nice to see David Haye finally has an opponent in Monte Barrett. Lot's see if the Hayemaker can live up to the hype.
http://www.spaldingtoday.co.uk/sectionhome.aspx?sectionID=10614
As you can see, the room looks like an underground bunker, possibly in Eastern Europe. As it gets darker, this may be even more of a problem. I have no autocue, so I'm forced to read from a sheet which means my eye contact flickers - not ideal by any means. Also for no apparent reason I talk out of the right side of my mouth, as if my brain is demanding an imminent stroke. Quite why my gargoyle features have decided on this action I don't know.
We are planning a chromakey background - you put up a green sheet, and then superimpose an image onto it, similar to what you see when someone's doing the weather. Ours looks like a James Bond villain lair, with screens showing satellites, news, sport, entertainment, the Moomins, Loose Women, QVC, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
Also, check out my Mi Casa and Thoroughly Modern Millie package.
Other random observations and news:
*Heard from Chris Carter, the director of Tulip Radio, that Tulip is going straight for full time in January, without the usual November stint. Also the station will not be on 87.9, annoyingly (87.9 is reserved for temporary licences). The only problem is, we don't know what the frequency will be for another couple of months, giving Chris and Jan (Whitbourne, fellow director) no time to prepare promotions, adverts, stings etc. Ludicrous. sort it out Ofcom.
*P54 of the Spalding Guardian. Top picture, bloke on the front row, far left. Look closely.
*Mosley to win against Mayorga tonight, but to be hurt numerous times. Age must catch up with him soon.
*Nice to see David Haye finally has an opponent in Monte Barrett. Lot's see if the Hayemaker can live up to the hype.
Wednesday 17 September 2008
Toon true for comfort
Caught this on my surfing travels:
I hate Newcastle Football Club. The city is spectacular, as you can see, and the ground is one of the best. The team stinks.
In 1995 to 97 they had Shearer, Beardsley, Ginola, Ferdinand, Asprilla...born entertainers.
Combine that with a defence dodgier and wobblier than Jodie Marsh's breasts and you've got a team that wins little but always keeps you on the edge of your seat.
And then, slowly, imperceptibly, they became boring, after Keegan left (for the first time)
And then even worse, they filled the team with criminals.
Bowyer, Woodgate, Dyer, Bramble, and worst of all Bellamy, represented the sneering, arrogant face of football. All of these have been in court for assault, speeding, racist attacks - in Bowyer's case several of these.
But the Geordies embraced them - and yet they were surprised when they won nothing! A team of selfish thugs like this, and the fans expect a functioning team. Remember when Bowyer and Dyer were both sent off for punching each other - it summed it all up. They lost my respect and my admiration.
The thugs left and they became mediocre, inconsistent, also-rans. My respect did not return.
The team made a good start this season, drawing with Man Utd. They beat my lot Coventry as well. Now things are falling apart, the Keegan roadshow has left town again, and the most impatient fans in football started whining.
1955: The last time the Magpies won a major title. 1987: The last time Coventry won one.
21 years is a long time to wait, but 53, for a "massive club" like Newcastle, is ludicrous. Longer than Darren Peacock's hair.
My favourite moment of the season: whenever Newcastle go out of the league cup - so we can add another one to the 53.
Monday 15 September 2008
Husky hunt
Ok highlights of the 20s part deux.
Imagine going all the way to Scandinavia, moving through Denmark and Sweden to Finland, taking the 13 hour sleeper train to Lapland, getting to Santa Claus village - and then being told there were no reindeers or huskies. Gutted.
I was moping round like a bear with a sore head. That's possibly because I hadn't shaved in 10 days and had a hangover that was attacking my skull like a chav battering his wife on Jeremy Kyle.
So I meandered around the village, out in the snow, minus 20 degrees, my beard freezing over until I resembled a poor man's Sean Connery. Yes, Santa had been great - I sat on his knee, trying to think unhomosexual thoughts, while he regaled me with tales of previous visits to Spalding. The toy section was amazing (I was 28 at the time), although I couldn't get past that bastard level on Space Invaders. But there were no animals. Until...
In the very far distance I heard a bark. And another. Was it a Pekinese being savaged by a wolf? Unlikely. I approached. The barking gets louder. A pack of hounds mauling a ferret? Perhaps, but...I run, realising what the sound must be, almost in slow motion. I fall, going head over heels into the crumbly snow. My trousers are soaked. I don't care.
By the time I arrived at the private husky farm, a full mile away from Santa Claus Village in a zone I would imagine no tourist ever sees, the noise was deafening. Probably 100 dogs in pens excited to see someone not called Helki Jancobsson or something similar. I trudged to the nearest one, ecstatic, and he licked my hand. A nearby door opened and an Ogreish Finn emerges. He is not happy. I can see that trouble is ahead, and I will need all my journalistic negotiating skills to survive.
Finn: "You should not be here. This is a private farm."
Me: "Fair enough, but since I am, will you take my photo?"
Finn: "Oh, OK."
And so he did. You can see one of several snaps he got at the top of this blog. I didn't push my luck and left, my frozen cheeks beaming. The dog's fur was the most perfect I'll ever feel.
I still had another day in Lapland, then Helsinki and on to Tallinn. But to a dog lover who'd travelled about 3,000 miles and 40 degrees, my favourite holiday moment was already secure.
*Away from my indulgence, please check out Rob Brydon singing on Youtube - songs that don't match up with a tune. Thanks to my workmate Adam for that.
*Nice to see Coventry nestling into a comfortable 13th in the Championship. The season might as well end now.
*We've started putting videos on the Johnston Press website - later in the week we'll have a link to LFPTV, on which I will be a newsreader. Fab.
Sunday 14 September 2008
Three decades old
Well, I'm old. Three decades old.
There are ups and downs. Hair continues to migrate from my head to my nostrils and ears, the perilous journey through my skull fretting them into greyness. My belly, once chiselled and god like, is now pliant and monk-like. Colds that once lasted a day decide they like their new home, and stay for a long weekend. Admittedly I am more mature and wise, and anyone who disagrees is a wee-wee head, but this is of small benefit when a hangover that in my teens would not even have registered can now make my brain seep out of my nose and my stomach pour out of my arse like acid cleaner down a drain.
So in a purely self indulgent post I decided to look back at a few of the highlights of my twenties. A fun game is to guess how many IQ points I lost per event. I'll start with two tonight, with a few more tomorrow.
1) Time to go back to when I was 20. 1999. Man Utd were bathing in the triumph of Barcelona. Britney was still fit. I had a fashionable "bowl-cut" hairstyle and massive glasses, and was fending off women left right and centre with an erotic blend of constant sarcasm and curry for Breakfast.
On the night in question I was blotto. Drunk. Wrecked. It was a fairly lovely feeling as I was dressed in a tuxedo so I was still the man. We had been at my University sports federation ball, when I suddenly decided to walk home to Coventry. Normally this would take about 25 mins.
I left without telling anyone, smoothly slipping out of the marquee by literally wrestling with a sheet of plastic cover for about two minutes before a steward came to untangle me.
Then I walked out into the bleak night fully loaded on cigars, cheap red wine and hope. The wine lasted, the hope didn't. Within an hour I found myself lying in the middle of an unknown roundabout with an unknown man standing over me. Luckliy my trousers still seemed to be in place. He said, in a monumentally obvious tone: "You don't want to be sleeping here mate." I was lying in a bush, on the outskirts of Coventry, in a tuxedo, in the freezing cold. Thank you for that sage advice. I told him my road name. He said go to the end of this road, then go right, then the end of the next road, right, end of next road, right, then you'll be there. I followed this samaritan's advice to the letter, aprat from the last bit when I completely ignored him.
The journey lasted about 4 hours. I carried a hubcap for one of them.
I heard dogs barking. At one point I climbed over a barbed wired fence. I lay under a tree. I walked through some school grounds. I ran, crawled, stumbled, shuffled. I spoke to a man carrying a rucksack. I sat on a wall and counted out about 14 pence from my pockets, socks and underpants. I don't know what order I did these things in but I know I did them. Anyone following me would have thought I had real problems - I was walking through the city shouting "Where the F*** am I" at the top of my voice. And then I got home.
I woke up the next morning with sore legs, not really understanding the odyssey I had taken. At the time I was furious - the next day it was hilarious. It still stands as one of the funniest thing ever in my life, and yet I'm not really sure why - it has never been repeated, and never can be.
Number two tomorrow - a trip to Scandinavia - along with other bits and bobs
There are ups and downs. Hair continues to migrate from my head to my nostrils and ears, the perilous journey through my skull fretting them into greyness. My belly, once chiselled and god like, is now pliant and monk-like. Colds that once lasted a day decide they like their new home, and stay for a long weekend. Admittedly I am more mature and wise, and anyone who disagrees is a wee-wee head, but this is of small benefit when a hangover that in my teens would not even have registered can now make my brain seep out of my nose and my stomach pour out of my arse like acid cleaner down a drain.
So in a purely self indulgent post I decided to look back at a few of the highlights of my twenties. A fun game is to guess how many IQ points I lost per event. I'll start with two tonight, with a few more tomorrow.
1) Time to go back to when I was 20. 1999. Man Utd were bathing in the triumph of Barcelona. Britney was still fit. I had a fashionable "bowl-cut" hairstyle and massive glasses, and was fending off women left right and centre with an erotic blend of constant sarcasm and curry for Breakfast.
On the night in question I was blotto. Drunk. Wrecked. It was a fairly lovely feeling as I was dressed in a tuxedo so I was still the man. We had been at my University sports federation ball, when I suddenly decided to walk home to Coventry. Normally this would take about 25 mins.
I left without telling anyone, smoothly slipping out of the marquee by literally wrestling with a sheet of plastic cover for about two minutes before a steward came to untangle me.
Then I walked out into the bleak night fully loaded on cigars, cheap red wine and hope. The wine lasted, the hope didn't. Within an hour I found myself lying in the middle of an unknown roundabout with an unknown man standing over me. Luckliy my trousers still seemed to be in place. He said, in a monumentally obvious tone: "You don't want to be sleeping here mate." I was lying in a bush, on the outskirts of Coventry, in a tuxedo, in the freezing cold. Thank you for that sage advice. I told him my road name. He said go to the end of this road, then go right, then the end of the next road, right, end of next road, right, then you'll be there. I followed this samaritan's advice to the letter, aprat from the last bit when I completely ignored him.
The journey lasted about 4 hours. I carried a hubcap for one of them.
I heard dogs barking. At one point I climbed over a barbed wired fence. I lay under a tree. I walked through some school grounds. I ran, crawled, stumbled, shuffled. I spoke to a man carrying a rucksack. I sat on a wall and counted out about 14 pence from my pockets, socks and underpants. I don't know what order I did these things in but I know I did them. Anyone following me would have thought I had real problems - I was walking through the city shouting "Where the F*** am I" at the top of my voice. And then I got home.
I woke up the next morning with sore legs, not really understanding the odyssey I had taken. At the time I was furious - the next day it was hilarious. It still stands as one of the funniest thing ever in my life, and yet I'm not really sure why - it has never been repeated, and never can be.
Number two tomorrow - a trip to Scandinavia - along with other bits and bobs
Sunday 7 September 2008
Amir Khan't
This weekend there were two upsets seen by millions of people on TV. Here's Amir Kahn getting trounced by Breidis Prescott (although you may want to avoid reading the fascist posts underneath):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1hLX9j1gEg
The other one was Rachel Rice winning Big Brother
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9wOgh6NSkI
Rice was 11/4 to win, while Prescott was a massive 33/1 outsider for his fight. So if you'd put a tenner on the two, you'd be walking away with around a grand.
Rice has already been dubbed "the dullest winner ever" to win BB, and with good reason. I didn't see the final show, but I would imagine the highlights package lasted less than the Kahn fight. She was devoid of adventure, annoyingly prudish, and contributed very little in terms of coonversation in any way. So why did she win? Two reasons - the whole of Wales was voting for her, and she was a normal person.
The BB producers made another shambolic job of putting the programme together, but getting some relatively run-of-the-mill people in was one thing they got right. The freaks were there - Kat, Darnell, Alex, Dennis and Bex being notably awful - but they were beaten. Ironically Rachel's audition video was completely false - bubbly, dancing drivel, talking about how funny she is and living in a world of bunny rabbits and magic. A right load of garbage basically. But once she was there she sneaked through the rounds and was victorious. At first I was annoyed, now I feel OK about it.
Don't really want to say much more about her or the series because it was pretty dreadful. Putting Rex's girlfriend in halfway through was scandalous and nearly ruined him as a character. Also nobody had the guts to tell him that his hair had morphed into a ginger parrot crest by the end of the series. Luke wore a suit on the way in, and never wore it again. Bex was the worst thing to leave Coventry since the German bombers flew back home. The jail was rubbish. And Davina has got to grow. Her shouting is well documented, but the more annoying trait was that exaggerated, closed-eye, witch's face smile that hung off her face. Her delivery was dreadful, most of her dresses were bordering on S and M, and quite frankly when BB10 comes around - most likely the last series - hopefully she will evaporate with it.
On to Kahn. His chin has failed the test several times before and it did it again.
When you are fighting a guy who's unbeaten and has knocked out 17 of 19 opponents, the one thing you don't do, even if you believe he's been fighting people from the local job centre or bus stops, is run out with your chin stuck out like a flasher's dangly bits. There was no testing the waters, no surveillance of what Prescott had to offer, and he was annihilated.
The first right hand made his legs do a little jig, but rather than grabbing hold with Mr Tickle arms and stopping his opponent punching he traded, and a right hand dropped him almost sideways, in the way that is usually a fight ender. Somehow he got up, and really shouldn't have been allowed to continue, but he was. The second knockdown propelled him against the cornerpost. The 54 worst seconds of his life.
Can he come back? Maybe, but I doubt it. Lots of fighters return from defeat, but rarely defeats like that. In the 70s Duane Bobick, an outstanding amateur in the US team, was wiped out by Kenny Norton after being hit in the windpipe. Never did anything again. Others that spring to mind are Audley Harrison, Michael Grant and Jorge Luis Gonzalez, all crushed when they stepped up a level.
Kahn doesn't have the punch, he blatantly doesn't have the chin, and possibly most worrying he doesn't seem to have any tactical awareness. He will be beaten again within the next year, and this time it will be fatal to his career.
As a matter of fact, I think Manny Pacquiao will beat Oscar De La Hoya - that's one for another blog later in the year.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1hLX9j1gEg
The other one was Rachel Rice winning Big Brother
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9wOgh6NSkI
Rice was 11/4 to win, while Prescott was a massive 33/1 outsider for his fight. So if you'd put a tenner on the two, you'd be walking away with around a grand.
Rice has already been dubbed "the dullest winner ever" to win BB, and with good reason. I didn't see the final show, but I would imagine the highlights package lasted less than the Kahn fight. She was devoid of adventure, annoyingly prudish, and contributed very little in terms of coonversation in any way. So why did she win? Two reasons - the whole of Wales was voting for her, and she was a normal person.
The BB producers made another shambolic job of putting the programme together, but getting some relatively run-of-the-mill people in was one thing they got right. The freaks were there - Kat, Darnell, Alex, Dennis and Bex being notably awful - but they were beaten. Ironically Rachel's audition video was completely false - bubbly, dancing drivel, talking about how funny she is and living in a world of bunny rabbits and magic. A right load of garbage basically. But once she was there she sneaked through the rounds and was victorious. At first I was annoyed, now I feel OK about it.
Don't really want to say much more about her or the series because it was pretty dreadful. Putting Rex's girlfriend in halfway through was scandalous and nearly ruined him as a character. Also nobody had the guts to tell him that his hair had morphed into a ginger parrot crest by the end of the series. Luke wore a suit on the way in, and never wore it again. Bex was the worst thing to leave Coventry since the German bombers flew back home. The jail was rubbish. And Davina has got to grow. Her shouting is well documented, but the more annoying trait was that exaggerated, closed-eye, witch's face smile that hung off her face. Her delivery was dreadful, most of her dresses were bordering on S and M, and quite frankly when BB10 comes around - most likely the last series - hopefully she will evaporate with it.
On to Kahn. His chin has failed the test several times before and it did it again.
When you are fighting a guy who's unbeaten and has knocked out 17 of 19 opponents, the one thing you don't do, even if you believe he's been fighting people from the local job centre or bus stops, is run out with your chin stuck out like a flasher's dangly bits. There was no testing the waters, no surveillance of what Prescott had to offer, and he was annihilated.
The first right hand made his legs do a little jig, but rather than grabbing hold with Mr Tickle arms and stopping his opponent punching he traded, and a right hand dropped him almost sideways, in the way that is usually a fight ender. Somehow he got up, and really shouldn't have been allowed to continue, but he was. The second knockdown propelled him against the cornerpost. The 54 worst seconds of his life.
Can he come back? Maybe, but I doubt it. Lots of fighters return from defeat, but rarely defeats like that. In the 70s Duane Bobick, an outstanding amateur in the US team, was wiped out by Kenny Norton after being hit in the windpipe. Never did anything again. Others that spring to mind are Audley Harrison, Michael Grant and Jorge Luis Gonzalez, all crushed when they stepped up a level.
Kahn doesn't have the punch, he blatantly doesn't have the chin, and possibly most worrying he doesn't seem to have any tactical awareness. He will be beaten again within the next year, and this time it will be fatal to his career.
As a matter of fact, I think Manny Pacquiao will beat Oscar De La Hoya - that's one for another blog later in the year.
Sunday 31 August 2008
Photo Stuff
I realised that I've put photography as one of my interests but not actually put any photos up.
So here we are - scattered views from around the world - see if you can guess where. I'll give you a clue - Spalding is not an option...
X rated viewing
I spent some of last night cursing Clair Breen.
Any idea who she is? Thought not.
She is the producer of X Factor. I have no idea if this is the first time Ms Breen has taken on the task, and to research this would be a waste of valuable internet time which could be better spent gambling or looking for cheap holidays or women.
About three or so years ago I thought X Factor was one of the best programmes on TV, mainly because of the total destruction of wannabes that it engendered. The sight of seeing bright orange 20-somethings who've "always wanted to be a singer" yet never remotely entertained the idea of learning an instrument bought bile rising into my throat. The sight of Cowell taking those dreams and wiping his arse with them made me feel better.
But even with a multi-million pound brand like X Factor growth is needed, otherwise it becomes jaded. Yes, the singers are the stars and their faded brakepad voices are still funny, Cowell's putdowns are still funny, even Walsh's camp banter and hair that looks like a piece of toast can still be good, but in terms of production the whole thing is now very predictable.
To give you an example; Student Laura (20). Pretty, good figure, vacuous as the Wash. Comes in in garish outfit fished out of the drains near Primark. Gets excuse in early. Been training for two months but has bad throat. This is her dream. Goes in. Roars like a lion taking down a Zebra. Suspense. Cue sad music. Cowell says she is through "one million percent", after pausing interminably with his finger metaphorically floating over the "nuke dreams" button. Sad music changes to happy - "for a moment like this". She goes through. Leaves crying, just as I did the last time a job letter confirmed I was through to the last 5,000 applicants. As predictable as flying turds after a Jalfrezi sandwich.
It's as lazy as a retired old major in bed with his 30-something wife. A later example; three bints called "Dolly Mix" singing "I love Rock and Roll". At that moment I loved the idea of seeing their corpses being rolled above red hot rocks on a giant ironic spit, which can only be worked by putting another dime into an operating meter shaped like a jukebox. But as ever the producers didn't exploit their true awfulness. It was just singing, slagged off, complain about judges, bye bye. To give an idea of what they could have done (and bearing in mind these prgrammes are recorded months ago, so they would have had plenty of time to put this together) in American Idol last year there was a brilliant montage of no-hopers singing that very song, six of them howling together on one screen, blended by the producers into a choral arrangement that would make you want to bomb the church. Innovative, and really funny.
There's so much else that's wrong. Dermot is just an identikit Kate Thornton - the same old stuff. After a good act there's always the ..." and Jade wasn't the only act to thrill the judges in Manchester" followed by a procession of other tramps, camps, and scamps all battering out Hit me baby One more time. Cheryl Cole - face of a model, voice like a model car. And the porceleine doll sat next to her with her manga eyes...remind me what the point of her is again?
There were good points. A giant gay sumo lookalike called Jason paired with a tiny little old barmaid. They were known as guilty pleasures. If they're guilty, order the firing squad, although Jason's last supper might be a large one.
A goth-type "holistic vocal coach" called Ariel. Scary: tick. Pretentious: tick. Voice like Kate Bush with bi-polar disorder: tick. She stormed in and threw a piece of paper at Cole saying: "I am not a number". You will be one day love - you'll be holding it in front of you while a camera flashes.
As you will see from the rest of my blog entries I like moaning, so what I've written here is of no surprise. But I do actually like X Factor, I just think it could be so much better. The early stages offer so much opportunity for adventure, innovation and fun. Why not be more creative with graphics and camera work? Why not put some genuine jokes in for Dermot? Why not hold it in different, fun, locations?
The whole vehicle is just a giant cash cow for ITV and Cowell now, but alarm bells should be ringing. Apart from Leona the rest of the "winners" are nowhere (by the way if you fancy a bet the last two winners are Leona, Leon, so a cheeky wager on anyone called Leo, Len or even Eon if they enter a team, might be a good pick). They've gone because Leona was the only one who deserved to win (G4, Andy Abrahams, Rhydian etc were all miles better) and the others were all boring, limited and cliched.
Let's just hope the programme doesn't go the same way.
Any idea who she is? Thought not.
She is the producer of X Factor. I have no idea if this is the first time Ms Breen has taken on the task, and to research this would be a waste of valuable internet time which could be better spent gambling or looking for cheap holidays or women.
About three or so years ago I thought X Factor was one of the best programmes on TV, mainly because of the total destruction of wannabes that it engendered. The sight of seeing bright orange 20-somethings who've "always wanted to be a singer" yet never remotely entertained the idea of learning an instrument bought bile rising into my throat. The sight of Cowell taking those dreams and wiping his arse with them made me feel better.
But even with a multi-million pound brand like X Factor growth is needed, otherwise it becomes jaded. Yes, the singers are the stars and their faded brakepad voices are still funny, Cowell's putdowns are still funny, even Walsh's camp banter and hair that looks like a piece of toast can still be good, but in terms of production the whole thing is now very predictable.
To give you an example; Student Laura (20). Pretty, good figure, vacuous as the Wash. Comes in in garish outfit fished out of the drains near Primark. Gets excuse in early. Been training for two months but has bad throat. This is her dream. Goes in. Roars like a lion taking down a Zebra. Suspense. Cue sad music. Cowell says she is through "one million percent", after pausing interminably with his finger metaphorically floating over the "nuke dreams" button. Sad music changes to happy - "for a moment like this". She goes through. Leaves crying, just as I did the last time a job letter confirmed I was through to the last 5,000 applicants. As predictable as flying turds after a Jalfrezi sandwich.
It's as lazy as a retired old major in bed with his 30-something wife. A later example; three bints called "Dolly Mix" singing "I love Rock and Roll". At that moment I loved the idea of seeing their corpses being rolled above red hot rocks on a giant ironic spit, which can only be worked by putting another dime into an operating meter shaped like a jukebox. But as ever the producers didn't exploit their true awfulness. It was just singing, slagged off, complain about judges, bye bye. To give an idea of what they could have done (and bearing in mind these prgrammes are recorded months ago, so they would have had plenty of time to put this together) in American Idol last year there was a brilliant montage of no-hopers singing that very song, six of them howling together on one screen, blended by the producers into a choral arrangement that would make you want to bomb the church. Innovative, and really funny.
There's so much else that's wrong. Dermot is just an identikit Kate Thornton - the same old stuff. After a good act there's always the ..." and Jade wasn't the only act to thrill the judges in Manchester" followed by a procession of other tramps, camps, and scamps all battering out Hit me baby One more time. Cheryl Cole - face of a model, voice like a model car. And the porceleine doll sat next to her with her manga eyes...remind me what the point of her is again?
There were good points. A giant gay sumo lookalike called Jason paired with a tiny little old barmaid. They were known as guilty pleasures. If they're guilty, order the firing squad, although Jason's last supper might be a large one.
A goth-type "holistic vocal coach" called Ariel. Scary: tick. Pretentious: tick. Voice like Kate Bush with bi-polar disorder: tick. She stormed in and threw a piece of paper at Cole saying: "I am not a number". You will be one day love - you'll be holding it in front of you while a camera flashes.
As you will see from the rest of my blog entries I like moaning, so what I've written here is of no surprise. But I do actually like X Factor, I just think it could be so much better. The early stages offer so much opportunity for adventure, innovation and fun. Why not be more creative with graphics and camera work? Why not put some genuine jokes in for Dermot? Why not hold it in different, fun, locations?
The whole vehicle is just a giant cash cow for ITV and Cowell now, but alarm bells should be ringing. Apart from Leona the rest of the "winners" are nowhere (by the way if you fancy a bet the last two winners are Leona, Leon, so a cheeky wager on anyone called Leo, Len or even Eon if they enter a team, might be a good pick). They've gone because Leona was the only one who deserved to win (G4, Andy Abrahams, Rhydian etc were all miles better) and the others were all boring, limited and cliched.
Let's just hope the programme doesn't go the same way.
Monday 25 August 2008
Better Beckham
The most amazing aspect of the closing ceremony at Beijing for me? The David Beckham interview on BBC.
When Becks first arrived several years ago he was a shy, awkward, boy-band teenager. Then, following the Simeone debacle, he became more morose and his interviews had a tinge of anger to them against the media, probably correctly. Soon, perversely, he courted the media with his tattoos and silly clothes and all the Hollywood razzmatazz.
On Sunday he was expressive. He was smiling. He was - dare I say it -interesting. Sure, there were still more "y'knows" than were comfortable for seven interviews, let alone one, but he was actually comfortable with what he was saying.
It got me wondering whether the Hollywood razzmatazz, the connections his wife has with people who are paid to be expressive, the moves to Madrid and LA, the ambassadorial roles he has...have made him a more rounded person than the freak show we thought.
It bought to mind two other footballer interviews I've seen with England internationals in the past two weeks, one very experienced, the other in the embryonic stages of his career.
Steven Gerrard scored a fabulous winner against Middlesbrough at the weekend, the sort of right-footed screamer that's become his trademark. His teammate Jamie Carragher scored for the first time since the Watergate Scandal and Liverpool won.
The interview afterwards was the broadcasting equivalent of mogadon. The one-tone, emotionless, unexciting, cliched, negative interview that is a blight on the sport. The interviewer tried feeding him - "And your teammate Jamie Carragher scored for the first time in three years, what did you say to him?" Guess what SG's answer was:
a) I said why the hell don't you do it more often, rather than humping balls into the Mersey more often than the goal?
b)The bastard was briefly one up on me in the goalscorer charts so I had to club one in myself to shut him up.
c) I said it was more poetry than football, his velvet foot brushing through the spheroid object, leather and leather repelling, pushing away from each other like Montague and Capulet, the ball swerving into the ropes like a seagull flying into a trawler net, the kop rampant, the Brough fallen.
c) Yeah it was an important goal but the most important thing is that we picked up three points etc etc etc crap.
Gerrard has always resisted move, even to other clubs in England, and his total lack of confidence in front of a microphone is a function of this. If I never hear him speak again I wouldn't care, and I defy anyone to say they actually enjoy listening to interviews like that. Why do sports journalists do it?
Gabby Agbonlahor was even worse. He scored the first hat trick of the season for Villa last week, and his interview was so dull that it literally lasted about three seconds. It was almost grumpy, it was so bad. It was verging on contemptuous.
There is no other sport where the practitioners are so limited in their linguistic gifts. That is a combination of factors but more and more I realise how important changing circumstances, and practice, and trying to communicate, must be.
Beckham, despite probably not being as good a footballer as Gerrard (and maybe even Agbonlahor now), will have a career after football. A spectacular one. And he will fit into it, because he has worked on it as much as his football. Gerrard - and I should say Lampard, Rio Ferdinand, Terry, Giggs etc etc etc - will not. Good for him.
When Becks first arrived several years ago he was a shy, awkward, boy-band teenager. Then, following the Simeone debacle, he became more morose and his interviews had a tinge of anger to them against the media, probably correctly. Soon, perversely, he courted the media with his tattoos and silly clothes and all the Hollywood razzmatazz.
On Sunday he was expressive. He was smiling. He was - dare I say it -interesting. Sure, there were still more "y'knows" than were comfortable for seven interviews, let alone one, but he was actually comfortable with what he was saying.
It got me wondering whether the Hollywood razzmatazz, the connections his wife has with people who are paid to be expressive, the moves to Madrid and LA, the ambassadorial roles he has...have made him a more rounded person than the freak show we thought.
It bought to mind two other footballer interviews I've seen with England internationals in the past two weeks, one very experienced, the other in the embryonic stages of his career.
Steven Gerrard scored a fabulous winner against Middlesbrough at the weekend, the sort of right-footed screamer that's become his trademark. His teammate Jamie Carragher scored for the first time since the Watergate Scandal and Liverpool won.
The interview afterwards was the broadcasting equivalent of mogadon. The one-tone, emotionless, unexciting, cliched, negative interview that is a blight on the sport. The interviewer tried feeding him - "And your teammate Jamie Carragher scored for the first time in three years, what did you say to him?" Guess what SG's answer was:
a) I said why the hell don't you do it more often, rather than humping balls into the Mersey more often than the goal?
b)The bastard was briefly one up on me in the goalscorer charts so I had to club one in myself to shut him up.
c) I said it was more poetry than football, his velvet foot brushing through the spheroid object, leather and leather repelling, pushing away from each other like Montague and Capulet, the ball swerving into the ropes like a seagull flying into a trawler net, the kop rampant, the Brough fallen.
c) Yeah it was an important goal but the most important thing is that we picked up three points etc etc etc crap.
Gerrard has always resisted move, even to other clubs in England, and his total lack of confidence in front of a microphone is a function of this. If I never hear him speak again I wouldn't care, and I defy anyone to say they actually enjoy listening to interviews like that. Why do sports journalists do it?
Gabby Agbonlahor was even worse. He scored the first hat trick of the season for Villa last week, and his interview was so dull that it literally lasted about three seconds. It was almost grumpy, it was so bad. It was verging on contemptuous.
There is no other sport where the practitioners are so limited in their linguistic gifts. That is a combination of factors but more and more I realise how important changing circumstances, and practice, and trying to communicate, must be.
Beckham, despite probably not being as good a footballer as Gerrard (and maybe even Agbonlahor now), will have a career after football. A spectacular one. And he will fit into it, because he has worked on it as much as his football. Gerrard - and I should say Lampard, Rio Ferdinand, Terry, Giggs etc etc etc - will not. Good for him.
Tuesday 19 August 2008
Olympic scam uncovered
The Olympics have been soured like cream tonight by allegations that some of Great Britain's Olympic medal wins have been made up by the BBC.
Using hi-tech graphics, computer-generated soundbites and downright jiggery-pokery the broadcaster has been accused of "conjuring up a load of shite" to make Britain seem great.
The shock claim has been made by disgruntled ex-employee Barry Sport-zpauper, who approached the Comedy Guy journalists after being sacked this afternoon for uncovering shocking dossiers of how the scams happened.
The journalist and retired weasel wrestler told Comedyguy that the real British team were the biggest bunch of misfits, miscreants and mindshits outside of Johnston Press.
He said: "The BBC has been planning this bollocks for years, ever since it realised that people like Gabby Logan are dull as turnips and wouldn't recognise a sharp bit of broadcasting if it bit her in the arse like a leech.
"It knew that as a state broadcast machine it needed to make the Olympics seem as hip and right-on as possible with London coming up god-nows-how-many-thousand-days-that-we-will-no-doubt-be-reminded-of-interminable-times later. We needed definite winners.
"With that in mind it created graphics of the athletes to use in its footage which could be superimposed over the real sportsmen, to prevent us from seeing Chris Hoy peddling round the track backwards and Louis Smith turning up for the gymnastics wearing giant foam hands."
According to Sport-zpauper BBC officials have resorted to desperate measures to "fill in the gaps" when they trawled their archives but were unable to find footage of the athletes.
The journalist said he discovered something was up when he read some notes on Christine Ohurougu "racing" two months ago.
He said: "Ohuruogu is classically forgetful and hasn't even turned up in Beijing. Last time we heard she was seen renting a little apartment in Eastbourne pretending she was called Keith.
"We knew she wasn't going to show, but because she hasn't competed since 1998 in anything meaningful we had trouble getting footage of her.
"So we chose some poor lass from some other country - Ghana, or possibly Guernsey I think it was - while superimposing pre-prepared footage of Floella Benjamin - the closest approximation we had - onto the screen on top of her.
"In the screen I, and everyone at home, could see a heavily pixellated Benjamin outstripping Sanya Richards like she was outpacing Little Ted and Jemima.
"In actual fact we finished with bugger-all medals and people literally pissing on their GB flags around the stadium. It was an absolute Jim Davidson of a joke."
Sport-zpauper said other footage disguising was even more incredible.
"We had a boxer who was so inept that he knocked himself out after he tripped on a pie as he climbed into the ring. Because of headguard graphics we were able to replace this cretin with footage of George Foreman from the Mexico Olympics of 1968 superimposed over another fighter in another fight.
"The fact that he was in black-and-white while his opponent was in full colour hasn't been picked up on yet.
"Then there was the rower in the coxless fours who had not only forgotten his oars, but also his clothes and worryingly, his sexuality.
"Tina Cook turned up on some sort of moose/toad hybrid in the equestrian, while Becky Adlington torched a whole wing of the Olympic Village because she believed she was the reincarnation of Boudicca.
"All of them were recreated, botched, pasted or forced into footage to con the great British public, while arseholes like that bloke from Blue Peter prattled on about it."
With the schemes in place GB has disguised its position as not only being bottom of the medals table but also on minus figures, such is the embarrassment the country has caused its inscrutable guests.
Sport-zpauper said that newspapers and radio had joined in with the con to get better reader figures.
He said that he felt he had an obligation to uncover the truth to the great British public.
Plus, he added: "I'm sick and tired of Bradley Wiggins' blatant cleptomania being disguised on-screen - the twat took my copy of Great Expectations the other day."
Using hi-tech graphics, computer-generated soundbites and downright jiggery-pokery the broadcaster has been accused of "conjuring up a load of shite" to make Britain seem great.
The shock claim has been made by disgruntled ex-employee Barry Sport-zpauper, who approached the Comedy Guy journalists after being sacked this afternoon for uncovering shocking dossiers of how the scams happened.
The journalist and retired weasel wrestler told Comedyguy that the real British team were the biggest bunch of misfits, miscreants and mindshits outside of Johnston Press.
He said: "The BBC has been planning this bollocks for years, ever since it realised that people like Gabby Logan are dull as turnips and wouldn't recognise a sharp bit of broadcasting if it bit her in the arse like a leech.
"It knew that as a state broadcast machine it needed to make the Olympics seem as hip and right-on as possible with London coming up god-nows-how-many-thousand-days-that-we-will-no-doubt-be-reminded-of-interminable-times later. We needed definite winners.
"With that in mind it created graphics of the athletes to use in its footage which could be superimposed over the real sportsmen, to prevent us from seeing Chris Hoy peddling round the track backwards and Louis Smith turning up for the gymnastics wearing giant foam hands."
According to Sport-zpauper BBC officials have resorted to desperate measures to "fill in the gaps" when they trawled their archives but were unable to find footage of the athletes.
The journalist said he discovered something was up when he read some notes on Christine Ohurougu "racing" two months ago.
He said: "Ohuruogu is classically forgetful and hasn't even turned up in Beijing. Last time we heard she was seen renting a little apartment in Eastbourne pretending she was called Keith.
"We knew she wasn't going to show, but because she hasn't competed since 1998 in anything meaningful we had trouble getting footage of her.
"So we chose some poor lass from some other country - Ghana, or possibly Guernsey I think it was - while superimposing pre-prepared footage of Floella Benjamin - the closest approximation we had - onto the screen on top of her.
"In the screen I, and everyone at home, could see a heavily pixellated Benjamin outstripping Sanya Richards like she was outpacing Little Ted and Jemima.
"In actual fact we finished with bugger-all medals and people literally pissing on their GB flags around the stadium. It was an absolute Jim Davidson of a joke."
Sport-zpauper said other footage disguising was even more incredible.
"We had a boxer who was so inept that he knocked himself out after he tripped on a pie as he climbed into the ring. Because of headguard graphics we were able to replace this cretin with footage of George Foreman from the Mexico Olympics of 1968 superimposed over another fighter in another fight.
"The fact that he was in black-and-white while his opponent was in full colour hasn't been picked up on yet.
"Then there was the rower in the coxless fours who had not only forgotten his oars, but also his clothes and worryingly, his sexuality.
"Tina Cook turned up on some sort of moose/toad hybrid in the equestrian, while Becky Adlington torched a whole wing of the Olympic Village because she believed she was the reincarnation of Boudicca.
"All of them were recreated, botched, pasted or forced into footage to con the great British public, while arseholes like that bloke from Blue Peter prattled on about it."
With the schemes in place GB has disguised its position as not only being bottom of the medals table but also on minus figures, such is the embarrassment the country has caused its inscrutable guests.
Sport-zpauper said that newspapers and radio had joined in with the con to get better reader figures.
He said that he felt he had an obligation to uncover the truth to the great British public.
Plus, he added: "I'm sick and tired of Bradley Wiggins' blatant cleptomania being disguised on-screen - the twat took my copy of Great Expectations the other day."
Wednesday 13 August 2008
Championship Johnager
I said on Sunday that I would do a quick preview of the season, specifically concentrating on the Championship. It was a good start financiallly at least, as QPR, Coventry and Brum all won netting me £72. Here's where local knowledge kicks in: Norwich have won three times in nearly 50 games in Coventry - I've seen better strike rates for canaries in cages.
So what can we glean from the opening weekend: A few opinions:
*Birmingham will be the team to beat - They stank on Saturday worse than the Lincolnshire sprout fields on a hot summer night. But they have goals in their side, proven winners, and don't give up. A good outside bet for top scorer might be Gary McSheffrey, who showed none of the ability of the promotion winning side, often drifting randomly like a penny in a urinal. Now he's in the right division to flourish.
*Blackpool are doomed - it's the classic, tight,tetchy game in a dismal ground where the plucky underdogs pull out all the stops in closing down the cliche-ridden game and suddenly the bigger team not only pulls the rug out from under their feet but then steal their Sky Plus and vomit in an expensive vase. 89th minute goals are the currency of relegation, and I'll bet Blackppol will be making quite a few transactions this season.
*Reading aren't going up - the rats are leaving the sinking ship. There's no Sidwell, the FA Cup specialist Kitson has gone to Stoke (nothing like furthering your career - for a year), Shorey's gone - next thing Coppell will be going. Where I have no idea? Manchester City? Macclesfield? Madagascar? Moulton Chapel? Who knows, but when he goes, the "Royals" will have about as much chance of coming back as Henry VIII.
*Doncaster - Playoffs? - I ask the question because when teams have momentum they can often find themselves in the middle of the playoff brawl without knowing how they got there. Before you scoff I'm sure you will tell me that you predicted Bristol City would finish top 6 last year. If so, you're either a lying tart or a demon of some kind - either way I banish you from the blog. This could be the first of several big scalps this year.
*Rule out Watford at your peril - Watford are the lepers of the division. I've heard more positive broadcasting about Basra than Vicarage Road this summer. And yes, they've lost players. But their manager's too good for the relegation dogfight, unless it's in the division above. They'll finish about 16th.
A few other random footballing things:
*I know Michael Owen's injury prone, but things are getting ridiculous. I hear today that he hasn't played any pre-season friendlies because he had mumps. Mumps?? Who the hell gets mumps at his age. It seems his body has been battered more times than Joey Barton's Playstation Controller so his entire nervous system and alimentary canal are now giving up the ghost. I guarantee by the end of the season he'll have chicken pox, herpes, and barely be able to stop shitting himself on the pitch.
*Lovely to see Frank Lampard staying in Britain. Bottled it completely, like most UK players.
*First impressions of Liverpool (against Liege): disjointed and disappointing. Forget the big teams - West Brom, Bolton, Fulham, West Ham, Blackburn,Hull in November and December is the key. Watch that title challenge disappear faster than Benitez' hairline.
So what can we glean from the opening weekend: A few opinions:
*Birmingham will be the team to beat - They stank on Saturday worse than the Lincolnshire sprout fields on a hot summer night. But they have goals in their side, proven winners, and don't give up. A good outside bet for top scorer might be Gary McSheffrey, who showed none of the ability of the promotion winning side, often drifting randomly like a penny in a urinal. Now he's in the right division to flourish.
*Blackpool are doomed - it's the classic, tight,tetchy game in a dismal ground where the plucky underdogs pull out all the stops in closing down the cliche-ridden game and suddenly the bigger team not only pulls the rug out from under their feet but then steal their Sky Plus and vomit in an expensive vase. 89th minute goals are the currency of relegation, and I'll bet Blackppol will be making quite a few transactions this season.
*Reading aren't going up - the rats are leaving the sinking ship. There's no Sidwell, the FA Cup specialist Kitson has gone to Stoke (nothing like furthering your career - for a year), Shorey's gone - next thing Coppell will be going. Where I have no idea? Manchester City? Macclesfield? Madagascar? Moulton Chapel? Who knows, but when he goes, the "Royals" will have about as much chance of coming back as Henry VIII.
*Doncaster - Playoffs? - I ask the question because when teams have momentum they can often find themselves in the middle of the playoff brawl without knowing how they got there. Before you scoff I'm sure you will tell me that you predicted Bristol City would finish top 6 last year. If so, you're either a lying tart or a demon of some kind - either way I banish you from the blog. This could be the first of several big scalps this year.
*Rule out Watford at your peril - Watford are the lepers of the division. I've heard more positive broadcasting about Basra than Vicarage Road this summer. And yes, they've lost players. But their manager's too good for the relegation dogfight, unless it's in the division above. They'll finish about 16th.
A few other random footballing things:
*I know Michael Owen's injury prone, but things are getting ridiculous. I hear today that he hasn't played any pre-season friendlies because he had mumps. Mumps?? Who the hell gets mumps at his age. It seems his body has been battered more times than Joey Barton's Playstation Controller so his entire nervous system and alimentary canal are now giving up the ghost. I guarantee by the end of the season he'll have chicken pox, herpes, and barely be able to stop shitting himself on the pitch.
*Lovely to see Frank Lampard staying in Britain. Bottled it completely, like most UK players.
*First impressions of Liverpool (against Liege): disjointed and disappointing. Forget the big teams - West Brom, Bolton, Fulham, West Ham, Blackburn,Hull in November and December is the key. Watch that title challenge disappear faster than Benitez' hairline.
Sunday 10 August 2008
Artificial Mintelligence
See my MMA blog down below: It's not just boxers who are nutters.
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2008/mma/08/08/rampage.returns/index.html
Just been out doing the gardening in preparation for some BBQs later in the month. Gardens are a fascinating window into evolution and a study of how some organisms can adapt to their surroundings. They say that in the event of a nuclear holocaust only cockroaches will survive; Well I'll tell you what the bastards will be eating: mint.
Mint is the Terminator of plants. It's had more comebacks than Sinatra and has the staying power of Russell Brand on steroids. It doesn't matter what you do, where you dig, where you are in the garden; even in a plot made of asbestos and rubble, there will be mint somewhere, its serrated leaves contorting into a wry,invincible smile amidst the carnage.
I put about three bathfulls of weedkiller on an infestation of the renegade herb a month ago, and it all died. Apparently.
I go out this afternoon, and it appears I had not put down weedkiller; I had in fact doused my garden in shredded lamb, with a sign saying 'insert rampant relevent herb here'. Had it been December, I would have called it a Minter Wonderland. It had not only returned, but decided to broaden its horizens by migrating to the entrance to the garden, the far end of the garden, the other side of the garden, underneath the garden, above the garden, and basically every other part of the garden. My mouth dropped open, immediately letting its bitter, mocking taste pervade my nostrils. I then spent hours slicing the damn things down with shears, chainsaws, machetes, lawnmowers, animals with sharp claws, cheese knives and anything else I could get my hands on in a feverish, sweaty hackfest.
AND YET HERE'S THE RIDICULOUS THING: I have a herb garden. Outside. There's Rosemary, Parsley, Sage and Coriander in the little pot. It did have mint. And it's died. The one place I actually want mint, and it's keeled over like Michelle McManus on Wii Fit.
Meanwhile, its cousins on the grass patch nearby lament its passing by doing what they do best: growing in annoying places. "It's what he would have wanted" they sniff, as they strangle the life out of an errant rose or lilly.
From now on I'm going to become a gardener specifically excelling in grass, thistles, mint, daisies and thorn bushes. And I'll no doubt be overrun with some other swine like dandelions, or broccoli, or some other as-yet-undiscovered plant that smells like fart.
A preview of the Championship, using over-the-top and misguided assumptions following the first game of the season, will follow later this week on this blog. So log onto your minternet and have a look...Jesus Christ it's got to me...
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2008/mma/08/08/rampage.returns/index.html
Just been out doing the gardening in preparation for some BBQs later in the month. Gardens are a fascinating window into evolution and a study of how some organisms can adapt to their surroundings. They say that in the event of a nuclear holocaust only cockroaches will survive; Well I'll tell you what the bastards will be eating: mint.
Mint is the Terminator of plants. It's had more comebacks than Sinatra and has the staying power of Russell Brand on steroids. It doesn't matter what you do, where you dig, where you are in the garden; even in a plot made of asbestos and rubble, there will be mint somewhere, its serrated leaves contorting into a wry,invincible smile amidst the carnage.
I put about three bathfulls of weedkiller on an infestation of the renegade herb a month ago, and it all died. Apparently.
I go out this afternoon, and it appears I had not put down weedkiller; I had in fact doused my garden in shredded lamb, with a sign saying 'insert rampant relevent herb here'. Had it been December, I would have called it a Minter Wonderland. It had not only returned, but decided to broaden its horizens by migrating to the entrance to the garden, the far end of the garden, the other side of the garden, underneath the garden, above the garden, and basically every other part of the garden. My mouth dropped open, immediately letting its bitter, mocking taste pervade my nostrils. I then spent hours slicing the damn things down with shears, chainsaws, machetes, lawnmowers, animals with sharp claws, cheese knives and anything else I could get my hands on in a feverish, sweaty hackfest.
AND YET HERE'S THE RIDICULOUS THING: I have a herb garden. Outside. There's Rosemary, Parsley, Sage and Coriander in the little pot. It did have mint. And it's died. The one place I actually want mint, and it's keeled over like Michelle McManus on Wii Fit.
Meanwhile, its cousins on the grass patch nearby lament its passing by doing what they do best: growing in annoying places. "It's what he would have wanted" they sniff, as they strangle the life out of an errant rose or lilly.
From now on I'm going to become a gardener specifically excelling in grass, thistles, mint, daisies and thorn bushes. And I'll no doubt be overrun with some other swine like dandelions, or broccoli, or some other as-yet-undiscovered plant that smells like fart.
A preview of the Championship, using over-the-top and misguided assumptions following the first game of the season, will follow later this week on this blog. So log onto your minternet and have a look...Jesus Christ it's got to me...
Thursday 7 August 2008
There's still time for London...
Firstly, take a look at this. Hilarious.
http://www.theonion.com/content/news/citing_poor_conditions_china
Olympics tomorrow. All looking forward to it I'm sure, but my letter to the Olympic committee for new events didn't get anywhere. Imagine if these beauties had taken place.
1) The steroid sprint: Everyone in athletics has taken drugs and is on drugs and eats drugs for breakfast, elevenses, lunch, late lunch (although with an injection of these babies you'll never be late) dinner, and tea. The obvious solution is to let them fill up on juice and go for it. Imagine the results - An 8 second 100 metres, which would have been 6 had one competitor not attacked the others with a sharpened crispy duck pancake in roid rage. The urine test afterwards would be like Mount Vesuvius. And the post-race interview would feature more obscenity than Jade Goody wrestling Amy Winehouse naked in Jalfrezi sauce. Although at least Chambers would do well...
2) Backwards walking: The most ridiculous event in the whole games is walking, so let's make it even more ridiculous.They have to go backwards, uphill, dressed as David Bowie circa 1972, while random lorries of varying sizes carrying, oh let's say baboons, come down the hill playing happy hardcore, and nuns and penguins wrestle in the background.
3) Pub Darts: Imagine the Gods seated around Mt Olympus with wise Zeus stroking his chin in wonderment at the feats of physical and mental strength below. Then imagine their contempt as the track and field dissipates in a cloud of smoke. When the mist clears, a 30 stone man eats a steak pie before climbing to his pustule ridden feet, slobbering to the oche and wrapping a grisly mutant hand around a dart and throwing it with all the exertion of an anorexic lettuce into a rubberised board. The gods would weep, and I, in my curry stained dressing gown, would smile.
4) Smog parachuting: As we are well aware, the smog in Beijing is of an exquisite quality. The The winner of a 13,000ft skydive would be the one who dives through the polluted sky and lands with the most limbs.
5) The tibet triathlon: Specifically for Tibetan protestors, the triathlon starts with competitors taking on a 2,000 mile run over broken glass carrying a buffalo, then a 100 mile cycle ride on one of those bikes where you turn the handlebars left and it turns right, concluded with the 100 mile swim along the Yangtze River, while cruel Chinese dictators follow playing that "ooh ooh" song from the 5,6,7,8s.
http://www.theonion.com/content/news/citing_poor_conditions_china
Olympics tomorrow. All looking forward to it I'm sure, but my letter to the Olympic committee for new events didn't get anywhere. Imagine if these beauties had taken place.
1) The steroid sprint: Everyone in athletics has taken drugs and is on drugs and eats drugs for breakfast, elevenses, lunch, late lunch (although with an injection of these babies you'll never be late) dinner, and tea. The obvious solution is to let them fill up on juice and go for it. Imagine the results - An 8 second 100 metres, which would have been 6 had one competitor not attacked the others with a sharpened crispy duck pancake in roid rage. The urine test afterwards would be like Mount Vesuvius. And the post-race interview would feature more obscenity than Jade Goody wrestling Amy Winehouse naked in Jalfrezi sauce. Although at least Chambers would do well...
2) Backwards walking: The most ridiculous event in the whole games is walking, so let's make it even more ridiculous.They have to go backwards, uphill, dressed as David Bowie circa 1972, while random lorries of varying sizes carrying, oh let's say baboons, come down the hill playing happy hardcore, and nuns and penguins wrestle in the background.
3) Pub Darts: Imagine the Gods seated around Mt Olympus with wise Zeus stroking his chin in wonderment at the feats of physical and mental strength below. Then imagine their contempt as the track and field dissipates in a cloud of smoke. When the mist clears, a 30 stone man eats a steak pie before climbing to his pustule ridden feet, slobbering to the oche and wrapping a grisly mutant hand around a dart and throwing it with all the exertion of an anorexic lettuce into a rubberised board. The gods would weep, and I, in my curry stained dressing gown, would smile.
4) Smog parachuting: As we are well aware, the smog in Beijing is of an exquisite quality. The The winner of a 13,000ft skydive would be the one who dives through the polluted sky and lands with the most limbs.
5) The tibet triathlon: Specifically for Tibetan protestors, the triathlon starts with competitors taking on a 2,000 mile run over broken glass carrying a buffalo, then a 100 mile cycle ride on one of those bikes where you turn the handlebars left and it turns right, concluded with the 100 mile swim along the Yangtze River, while cruel Chinese dictators follow playing that "ooh ooh" song from the 5,6,7,8s.
Tuesday 5 August 2008
Not Keane
NME has a pic of Keane's new direction. What the Hell?
http://www.nme.com/blog/index.php?blog=10&title=we_reckon_keane_are_the_new_klaxons_3&more=1&c=1&tb=1&pb=1
Check out the guy on the right. David Walliams turning into Hawk from the Legion of Doom.
He also seems to be wearing Dmitri Kharine's shirt, circa 1994.
And what the hell's that shite on the lead singer's hand? I'll tell you what it is - that hand's been stuck up his backside; everyone else in the industry seems to be up theirs, so why not.
Everybody's changing, but not for the best.
http://www.nme.com/blog/index.php?blog=10&title=we_reckon_keane_are_the_new_klaxons_3&more=1&c=1&tb=1&pb=1
Check out the guy on the right. David Walliams turning into Hawk from the Legion of Doom.
He also seems to be wearing Dmitri Kharine's shirt, circa 1994.
And what the hell's that shite on the lead singer's hand? I'll tell you what it is - that hand's been stuck up his backside; everyone else in the industry seems to be up theirs, so why not.
Everybody's changing, but not for the best.
The Black (Day) Parade
Our newspaper today broke the story that Spalding's flower parade is no more.
Rising costs meant that the carnival trust set up to organise the annual event made the painful decision to scrap it in its 50th year.
For those who've never been, the parade consists of floats - essentially tractors - which have a display of flowers formed into a planet, or a farm scene, or house etc. Each parade, which goes through the heart of Spalding, is themed. Last year's was "thanks for the memories". Ironic I guess.
Hundreds of thousands of people come to the little town, incredibly, for one weekend.
But is it a surprise that it's going? No.
Every year people gripe about the parade (which by the way has as many tulips as rocking horse poo - they've been paper versions in the past few years). The gripes are always summed up in one word: disappointment. The floats come through; there's usually a few that are decent; then they go; then people get drunk at the Poacher and fall in the Welland.
Some floats are obviously well made and a lot of work goes into them. But it always seems people are doing it because no-one had the bravery to say that we should celebrate Spalding differently.
Whether forced by financial constraints, or acting on feedback, or making the decision with other ideas in mind, the Trust has shown that bravery.
So let's go for it. A proper festival at Springfields, with proper celebrities and local groups. An entry fee for a start. As suggested on the inevitable Facebook group, let's have some real ales. Let's have fireworks, Nintendo Wiis, great games. Proper food - Chinese or Indian. Let's support our drama groups more. Let's keep the Flower Queen - all of our Queens have been great ambassadors.
The more ideas people come up with the more an embryonic idea will grow - and then Spalding will still have a standpiece we can be proud of.
Rising costs meant that the carnival trust set up to organise the annual event made the painful decision to scrap it in its 50th year.
For those who've never been, the parade consists of floats - essentially tractors - which have a display of flowers formed into a planet, or a farm scene, or house etc. Each parade, which goes through the heart of Spalding, is themed. Last year's was "thanks for the memories". Ironic I guess.
Hundreds of thousands of people come to the little town, incredibly, for one weekend.
But is it a surprise that it's going? No.
Every year people gripe about the parade (which by the way has as many tulips as rocking horse poo - they've been paper versions in the past few years). The gripes are always summed up in one word: disappointment. The floats come through; there's usually a few that are decent; then they go; then people get drunk at the Poacher and fall in the Welland.
Some floats are obviously well made and a lot of work goes into them. But it always seems people are doing it because no-one had the bravery to say that we should celebrate Spalding differently.
Whether forced by financial constraints, or acting on feedback, or making the decision with other ideas in mind, the Trust has shown that bravery.
So let's go for it. A proper festival at Springfields, with proper celebrities and local groups. An entry fee for a start. As suggested on the inevitable Facebook group, let's have some real ales. Let's have fireworks, Nintendo Wiis, great games. Proper food - Chinese or Indian. Let's support our drama groups more. Let's keep the Flower Queen - all of our Queens have been great ambassadors.
The more ideas people come up with the more an embryonic idea will grow - and then Spalding will still have a standpiece we can be proud of.
Monday 4 August 2008
MMA - Much More Action?
This is known as Sycamore Gap, and if you're sycamore blogs, then maybe it's time to go... I intend to write comments, post jokes, musings, and anything that I can find lurking in the recesses of my mind.
My first piece is on MMA - mixed martial arts.
I have been a boxing fan since I was little (insert obvious joke) and I can't explain why. Part of the attraction was a logical offshoot from wrestling, of which I was a disciple in the early 90s. For anyone who can't remember how a punch was thrown in wrestling, stand up, throw a "roundhouse right hand" making sure you miss by at least three inches, and stomp your right foot as the blow whistles past. Any normal person will look at you bemused, so try and perfect the art on someone called Luke, Butch, Virgil or Haku for the proper effect.
But at some point I grew to savour real punches. The sound of leather on jaw, the joust of mind over matter, the way the stricken fighter sat in his corner peers through a swollen eye at the arse crack of the round card girl. There is no other sport, perhaps excepting grand prix, where an ending can result so explosively and brutally. In football, if a team is 5-0 up with two minutes left there's not a lot of point. In boxing, it's never over (for those who remain unconvinced check out Julio Cesar Chavez vs Meldrick Taylor on Youtube; a desperate final burst from Chavez dropped the brilliant Taylor with two seconds to go, changing the fight and more tragically, Taylor's livelihood.)
The new upstart MMA apparently retains this excitement with interest. It's boxing on acid. It's no-hold barred, multinational playground fighting. It's two men fighting in a steel octagon over three five minute rounds. If it were music, it would be Phats and brawl or Whitknee Houston. If it were food it would be fists and chips, or Monster punch. I'll stop now.
Some would argue it's a higher form of the art, enabling more variation in use of the elbow, knee and foot.
But the sight of two men scuffling on the floor trying to slip blows in-between elbows and arms in a bloody tangle reminded me more of New Road on a Friday night. I half expected one of them to examine a folded-up Zorba menu in his back pocket while the other swigged Sainsburys 22p lager in his corner between rounds.
In one fight a precise elbow split open a guy's eyebrow. Claret was pouring out like a fat woman's hip over a size 6 pair of jeans. One particular blow a minute later sent blood literally flying onto the camera, resembling that scene in Predator where the alien stands above Bill Duke and blasts lasers into his mind.
Rose tinted glasses indeed. By round three, repeated smashes to the wounded patch, by now resembling burger meat, had left a smear of platelets and haemoglobins in an arc of gore at least
5ft long across the canvas.
In boxing it would have been stopped instantly. Henry Cooper was slashed by Cassius Clay and resembled the girl out of Carrie, and was taken to the corner and pulled out. At the very least, a fighter would be taken to the corner to be inspected (Hagler/Hearns etc). In MMA, the referee, obviously thinking about Coronation Street, or his piles, or cheese and onion crisps, let the massacre continue to an eventual one-sided points decision.
The victor's blond hair was salmon colour by the end. The whole episode turned my stomach...and yet I could see what the fuss is about. The bravery, the technique, the atmosphere... somehow it was validated.
When Rampage Jackson and Forrest Griffin squared off in the sold out main event, over 25 minutes of tactical warfare, I was hooked. Griffin, apparently one of the sport's stellar stars, realised he had to take the brutish Jackson's legs away. So he kept kicking them. Hard. It made me wince more than any punch to the face ever could, but you could see Griffin's mind working and appreciate the talent and strategy he was putting together.
The Mandalay Bay in Vegas was sold out, and by the looks of things most of them were kids. Kids who should be boxing fans, but prefer the immediacy and the brutality of MMA. Too many main events in boxing have been bore-a-thons, or more regrettably on one occasion bite-a-thons. The top fighters have avoided each other too many times. COntenders have been avoided, no-names have got title shots.
So fans have turned to MMA and boxing better look out, because it's (insert cliche - "on the ropes", "receiving the count", "in danger of being knocked out", or my choice "clinging on like a punch-drunk old wino who's been clipped round the face more times than Joan Rivers) .
It's still the better sport - anyone who saw the masterpiece that was Margarito and Cotto last week will confirm this - but it needs more otherwise it will be blown out of the ring.
I have several suggestions, but they are for another time.
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