Mr Head, meet Mr Sand

What happens on tour stays on tour. Innit, know what I mean. All for one and one for all, don't break with the team.

Get it? Right. Good, now keep your mouth shut for the good of everybody. Ok?

Or, as Stoke City manager, Tony Pulis, puts it:

I have been a manager for 18 years and you have certain golden rules and one of the rules I stick to is that whatever happens in the dressing room stays in the dressing room.

Meaning what exactly? You don't tell if someone has a small penis or unsightly hairs where society dictates it is socially embarrassing? You don't let on if two people are unhappy with each other? You say nothing about the cliques that are in the team? You stop short of mentioning when everyone is getting along, or who is really drunk and peed in the shower onto an unsuspecting player?

Or you don't bother to mention whether or not an assault has taken place?

But it's ok because it took place in the dressing room. We can do anything in the dressing room. We are untouchable. If we tell them we lose our invincibility.

We can only assume that Mr Pulis will not be writing an autobiography. Or if he does, it will neglect to mention any changing room antics. And can he really stop former players discussing it?

And why would he want to? Can't we break down the barriers that still exist in football, barriers that still assert a male, a macho dominance.

In a week when one of the best coaches in English football, Hope Powell, doubted she would ever get the chance to manage a professional, men's team, it's sad to hear such stuff and nonsense come from with the dressing room of a professional, men's team.

If Tony did not headbutt a player he can say so. If he did, he should face the consequence. Saying that he will say nothing only perpetuates the pathetic, arrogant, macho myth of the sports team.

If he has to resort to this sort of thing, it's a shame that three national newspaper knew about it on the day it happened. That suggests that what happens in the dressing room is rather prone to leak out.

It also suggests that if you have to enforce unity with a blanket manifesto, then you're already too divided.

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum

I'm leaving soon to go to the Reading-Palace match.

I'm not looking forward to it. I can't really afford to go but it will be good to catch up with my Reading supporting friend, Mike. I'm not sure there's any other reason for me to go. I don't think we'll win. I'm not enjoying watching football and haven't for a couple of seasons. The football hasn't been great and the social side of it has become less and less enjoyable.

I've also found myself looking at the occasional internet forum. I haven't looked at one for ages but with Palace's financial crisis, I thought I'd try to judge the mood. I've come to the conclusion that those who frequent these internet forums are the dwindling band. The average attendance has been dropping for some time now and yet these people become more and more vociferous and assume that their opinion is more and more valid.

I know I've written about this before but I was reminded of the subject for a couple of reasons. Firstly, because I wrote an article for When Saturday Comes about not wanting to renew my season ticket despite the crisis and wanted to have a look to see if there was a reaction. Well, I didn't look very deeply. I'm not completely immune to criticism.

However I did see someone state that he was falling out of love with the club and with the game. Whilst he didn't get abused, he view was dismissed out of hand. It was a "you don't count anymore" attitude that made me sad.

The second reason was something Fulham manager Roy Hodgson said when. One of his players, Bobby Zamora, has been getting criticism from fans on a Fulham website.

Zamora scored at the weekend and in his celebration, he let it be known that he did not appreciate all the negative comments. Hodgson, a man widely respected in the game for his achievements and his approach calmly told interviewers, "these people who write into the club's blogs, they're the real experts."

And he's right. They are the real experts in their own opinion. I'm not worried about what anyone says about mine because I thought about it for some weeks, wrote it up, rewrote it, forgot about it, re-rewrote and finally heavily edited it. It was then submitted for publication before receiving another edit by me and, presumably, the editorial team.

The forums are frighteningly immediate and do not reward moderate views. Like radio phone in shows, the ones who shout the loudest are the ones who get lauded.

It's a little bit like being at a football match.

And so the circle goes on.

I'll be sitting on my own at the game and I'll be quiet. Not because I never want to be heard but because when I am, I want it to be for something worth listening to.

A library by any other name would smell as sweet

Today I planned to write about how I was reliving those days between 1991 and 1994 when I used to camp in the Martial Rose Library of the then King Alfred's College in Winchester in order to write essay from scratch on the day they were due in.

Those were great days although in a slightly embarrassing way. I found it really hard to plan and prepare and submit essays before the deadline. So, like a fair number of other students, I used to spend entire days where I'd pull books from the shelves and plough through them and churn out worryingly poor essays.

Today, I planned to do something very similar. My latest Open University course has only two essay. To be honest, there's been a lot going on recently and I just haven't done the work. However, I set myself up today for a Martial Rose day. I knew that I'd be able to knock-off a fairly reasonable essay in eight or nine hours.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the essay was actually due in at noon today. Imagine my surprise when I found this out at 10am today having only put in about half an hours work. Imagine my greater surprise when I found that I managed to get the essay in by 11:47.

It wont be good. It can't be good. It better not be good or I'll probably do it all over again in January.

I would say that I've learned my lesson but the evidence suggests I've had 18 years to learn it. If I haven't by now, I probably never will.

I'm just covering myself here

Let it be known, I was wrong about something.

Shocking, huh?

Anyway, for many years I have harboured a grudge against anyone daring to carry an umbrella. Well, carrying it is fine. Using it is not.

This is really a height thing. Being two metres tall, that's 6' 7" in old money (or 6"7 in Spinal Tap measurements), I am at the optimum height for having my eyes scrapped by umbrellas. Especially golf umbrellas.

Golf umbrellas that are being used on the pavement rather than the golf course would make the list of the modern ten commandments:

Thou shalt not use a golf umbrella anywhere other than a golf course

Because it doesn't take much to work out that there's more room on a fairway than a pavement.

Other commandments would naturally read:

• Thou shalt not wear combat trousers outside a war zone
• Thou shalt not wear a comedy tie
• Thou shalt not walk slowly
• Thou wilt wear thy trousers so that no one can see your underpants

So congratulations to all those people who lift or tilt their umbrellas accordingly. Kudos, in fact.

Anyway, I have noticed that an umbrella has its uses. Interestingly, I have found that it stops me getting wet.

Who knew?

The downside is, being a special cheapskate at the moment (economic conditions, crappy job market, poor decision making, Christmas is coming and the goose isn't even tubby, let alone fat) I bought a £5 M&S umbrella. And it's pretty good. It's compact, it keeps most of the rain off, it folds up and so on.

However, because it cost £5, it has also started to fall apart. Well, you get what pay for. Or I got what I paid for. That by the way is as daft an expression as, "oh, it's cheap at half the price".

Well, I've taken my first step into the wider world of non-golfing umbrellas. I haven't played golf in two and half years. Consequently I haven't used a golfing umbrella in, well around two and a half years. I need to find a happy medium (another silly expression).

This, by the way, would be a good next step I think. I wouldn't want to go for something too expensive until I've confirmed that I'm not just flirting with them.

Raindrops keep falling on my head

Something unusual may happen this week. I may actually make it to a football match.

I've had other things on, you see. Well, for the Watford game I got to the ground and little bit late. On the approach I heard two roars and two announcements. Palace scored twice. There seemed little point in carrying on. The pub beckoned!

Not that I wish to come across in an alpha male context. I had a pint of diet coke with a friend before catching a train up to town to meet the wife so a Thanksgiving celebration.

On Saturday we went to Reading to watch London Irish draw with Worcester in what must be one of the dullest games of rugby ever witnessed. It rained, a lot, the teams kicked, a lot, only Chris Latham was able to catch the ball or kick it with any accuracy.

There shouldn't be many draws in rugby, there normally aren't many draws in rugby. There seems to have been a lot this year. I think that says a lot about the season so far without me bothering to have to research it. Worcester has now had three drawn games in a row, scoring no more than 16 points in any of them.

Anyway, Palace are playing away to Reading on Tuesday night. I am planning on going. I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's been a long time since I've been to an away game on my own. I'm getting a lift from a Reading fan I know so at least I'll have some motivation to get there. Of course, it might be more fun to go in with the home fans. It might be a useful way of making football a little bit more enjoyable for the moment.

Face it, I've been watching trash recently. Palace scored twenty-six goals at home last season. Thirteen came in just four games. This season we have scored eleven goals in ten. That includes 4-1 and 3-0 wins and four games in which Palace has not scored.

Sport is meant to be a lot more fun than this.

Time for revision

There are people who stick to a belief rigidly. It can be too unsettling to go back over what seems true to you and it's often easier to retain a notion, a like or dislike than spend the time rethinking things.

This is the case with Donnie Darko. An odd choice you might say. Why not religion? A political belief? A lifestyle choice?

Well, Donnie Darko will do for now. An it's timely as there is a slew of film reviews for director Richard Kelly's latest film, The Box, that refer to the promise of his directorial debut. Donnie Darko seems to have passed into myth.

I liked the film when I first saw it. I bought it based on word of mouth recommendations. It's that simple, a couple of people thought I'd like it, I watched it, I liked it. When teaching GCSE and A-level I used it as a resource. It baffled most students but that made me like it even more.

However, when Kelly's Southland Tales was laughed out of Cannes, I went back for another look.

I changed my mind.

It's a shambles of a film, a rambling, non-sensical mess that tries ever so hard to be difficult but merely ends up being inexplicable.

So, it's really disappointing to hear the film still be lauded as a work of excellence, as a demonstration of promise yet to be fulfilled. And even more of a shame to hear Mark Kermode peddling this untruth so firmly.

It really doesn't matter. It's not important in the grand scheme of things. I'm not sure why I mentioned it. Perhaps I didn't get enough sleep.

Praise so faint you can barely see it

Just a thought. Next Saturday we are going to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in the West End starring Darth Vadar and Mrs Cosby.

I simplify for effect, of course.

On the train back from London this afternoon, I noticed an advert in the paper for the play. It had a picture of each of the four leads. Above each picture is a word relating their performances, culled from reviews. The words include 'superb' and 'stunning'.

Amongst such praise, the 'excellent' above Phylicia Rashad seems a little flat. I know excellent should be high praise, maybe it is a touch overused. Excellent is not, after all, stunning. It is merely excellent.

But then excellent should not be merely anything. Odd really.

As a footnote, I notice that Richard Blackwood appears in a small role. Remember him? It will be interesting to see if he is worth his place in the cast or if the producers had a very limited imagination when compiling a list of actors to appear in this 'all-black production' (Evening Standard).

Social climbing

It's quite a day.

I guess there are several big events, not least the assembly of the Christmas tree. I mean assembly, not in the sense of putting together all the ornaments for display but attaching the branches to trunk.

Yes, it's artificial, of course it is. However, it's been a long time since I've had any kind of Christmas tree (bah humbug, well not really). The last artificial tree I remember putting up or pulling down had branches that simply folded. Therefore I have no idea is this is the norm now. I didn't notice the dismantling being part of the sales pitch.

It's not a whinge, you understand, just an observation.

Which is kind of important because of what else happened today. I had a meeting with a small charity in London for whom I am doing some writing. The person leading the project was late. I was therefore left in a meeting with two cats marking their territory.

I felt thoroughly patronised. The level of condescension reached epic proportions every time I opened my mouth. Of course, because I do not work there, because I am merely an outsider, I do not understand the subtle nuances of the organisation., blah, blah, blah.

When the project leader (terrible expression) arrived, he proceeded to completely change the course of the meeting and we ended up a million miles away from where the cats wanted to be.

Hilarious.

Make up your mind!

I think it's very easy to say what you don't want to do. It's easier to say what you don't like.

Even now I struggle to get out the words "I want to write for a living". It just seems a little, well awkward as parodied by Monty Python. Whenever I think that it's what I should be doing I hear the words:

What do you know about getting up at five o'clock in t'morning to fly to Paris... back at the Old Vic for drinks at twelve, sweating the day through press interviews, television interviews and getting back here at ten to wrestle with the problem of a homosexual nymphomaniac drug-addict involved in the ritual murder of a well known Scottish footballer· That's a full working day, lad, and don't you forget it!

So, for the second time, I've tried to go back to teaching as a means of solving a job crisis. And for the second time, it's gone wrong.

I have to remember this now. It's just not for me anymore. And I think the trouble was that it was lurking behind me during my last job search, don't worry, there's always teaching!

I'm not trying to denigrate the profession. I've got nothing against teachers, I married one. Mind you, I think that was part of the problem. We are both natural teachers, we both have a way in the classroom (she much, much, much more so than me). She, however, can do all the other crap too, the marking, planning, preparing, the dedicating sundry hours to the job to get things done.

So I have to make sure the career choices work this time.

Day one led to having an article accepted by a national magazine only for them to offer £75 for its publication. I assumed it was a negotiating position and asked for me prompting the magazine to threaten to withdraw its offer altogether.

It's a start. I have some ideas and I have a couple of regular sources of writing income. It's up to me to make sure that there are more sources. I need to do it properly this time. After all, there's no going back to school. Not anymore.

How did it come to this?

I'm planning a lesson on similes and metaphors. For a year 8 English class.

How did that happen. Not so long ago I was writing articles for headteachers on complicated school issues. Now I'm back putting together worksheets with poems about greyhounds.

I'm not sure what I make of that yet.

However, today I visited a charitable foundation in central London who will hopefully be offering opportunities to write for them. The pay is low but the opportunity is fantastic.

Patience is required.

In case of emergencies, pull the plug

Facebook, the final frontier. These are voyages of people who have forgotten how to communicate outside of a set of pre-defined options.

Or, how I learned to stop worrying about Facebook and just get on with my life.

I do not need to know what you are thinking and when you thought it. If you need me to know, tell me. If you've read a good book, recommend it to me. If you want me to know which Simpsons/Rocky Horror Picture Show/historical age/American state best represents you, give me a call and let's discuss it.

In the meantime, I'm going to withdraw from Facebook and try to remember how to communicate with people by other means. But this is not a crusade or a campaign. It's just something I'm doing.

What interests me is that I am not the only one. I am not a pioneer, I am a follower. There are plenty of website dedicate to rolling back the advance of social networking.

Of course, the net is stupidly addictive and I'd be a fool to think that leaving Facebook would be the end of it. I haven't looked at www.cpfc.org for three years because I was wasting too much time reading the opinions of people I had not interest in meeting.

I don't write this because I think anyone will read it. Sometimes it pleases me to think that no one does because it means I can be less inhibited about what I write. All this is to me is a replacement for pen and paper, a means of self-expression.

And so, in just over a week, I'll leave Facebook. Why a week? Why not now? Well, because in a week I'll have a photograph to post on there, something I'm really proud of. And before I disappear from social networking, I want as many people to see it as possible. Whatever else I think about Facebook, it's an easy way to do it. Does that make me a hypocrite? Yes, of course. But I'll get over it. In about a week in fact.

Leaving Facebook:
Quitting Facebook
Permanently deleting a Facebook account
Why I'm deleting my Facebook account
Urban dictionary: Facebook withdrawl

You have the right to remain silent

Internet forums. They are great. Where else could you read pure, unadulterated bile?

So, Ted Kennedy died. It's been coming for a while. It's not a shock to anyone. It is, however, a form of catharsis for those people who disagreed with him to be able to express their disagreement in a public place, the internet forum.

I went on the Fox News website (it likes to refer to itself as Fox Nation, oh so many issues...) to see what it made of the death of someone who is the opposite of everything it stands for. And, well, the news coverage was dignified.

The comments from the public were not. I saw vile, disgusting comments that can only serve as an act of transference. I saw comments from people who, whilst not defending Kennedy, were at least suggesting a little respect was due. And consequently bile poured onto them. Mind you, not all of the counter comments were particularly well thought out.

So as not to thrash away at the members of the Fox Nation (because they just don't like the one they've already got), I read the comments on the Guardian's website.

It was more of the same only with more comments related to Northern Ireland.

Now, I realise there is a pot/kettle/black scenario here but the internet has really given a voice to some of the most disgusting views. It allows them to be written down, to be given a sense of permanence, a sense of perceived importance. After all, education system constant espouse the importance of literacy as the principal form of intelligence. Without proficiency in reading and writing there is no success in education. If someone has the opportunity to write something where others can see it, it must be important and worthwhile.

Good job no one reads this but then it isn't attached to a news organisation's website.

There comes a time when saying nothing is more than enough, when internet forums should be substituted for genuine human interaction. If you want to hear more, give me a ring.

Advice for those in HR

Firstly, even if you do receive "over thirty applications" and it does take two days to shortlist, do not tell those who did not make the shortlist.

It may help you to pad out an otherwise awkward letter, it may even help you to justify what you've done but it just sounds patronising.

Of course, if it did take two days to shortlist from "over thirty applications", you're not doing it correctly.

Secondly, when firing someone do not fall into the trap of "this is the hardest thing I've ever had to do" type comments and certainly do not commit then to print. It is undeniably a difficult thing for some to do but at least you still have a job. Bleating about it in a national newspaper, especially in a section that contains job adverts is just slightly on the bad side of sadistic.

And yes, the newspaper itself is culpable but that's a whole other issue for those of us on the receiving end of the type of letter referred to earlier.

Facebook, the final frontier

It's not much of a secret. I didn't really enjoy school. I'm lazy, what did you expect?
The other side is that I wasn't the most rounded of individuals. I don't remember myself at that age with any affection. And I'm sure I'm not alone.
Consequently, there are no people from school that I'd regard as friends. Facebook hasn't really changed that. I have two "friends" on there from secondary school. One lives in Canada, the other in New Zealand.
There are others on there from my school although they are not there in their legions.
The thing that strikes me about seeing people from twenty years ago, having not seen them in the meantime, is just how old they look. And how much they've filled out.
That's not to say I don't or I haven't but I can hardly be surprised by the way I look. But I am surprised by the way others look. It's not what I'd imagined. No one is what I'd imagined.
Perhaps my imagination, like my appearance, is not what it was.

I second that emulsion

In 1997, I spent the first day of the Edgbaston Test Match painting my parent's dining room. I painted it pretty badly but that's not the point of the story.

That day, England bowled Australia out for 118. England went on to win the match but lose the series.

Today, I painted my bathroom. Badly as it turned out, but that's not the point of the story.

England were bowled out by Australia for 102. England will probably go on to lose the match. And the series.

After all, it's just a coincidence rather than the cause.

As a footnote, the game in 1997 also marked the test debut of Mark Butcher (see below). All the more reason to fall under the spell of one of society's cheap psychological tricks and feel incredibly old and worthless.

And age shall weary them

Today marks the funeral of Harry Patch, the last British survivor of the trench warfare of the so-called Great War.

I have my own, admittedly selfish, reasons for feeling aged today.

When I was younger, I played cricket. When I was younger still I was reasonably ok at cricket. Like many other people who are young and ok at cricket I represented my local area, in this case Croydon.

Like some of those other people, once things got a little bit hard, I tended to put less effort in, not more and as a result, after the age of about 13 I stopped being picked. The last game I remember playing in was against on the day of the 1985 FA Cup Final. I opened the batting and scored somewhere between 0 and 3 (which is my way of saying I can't remember how many it was but it certainly wasn't more than 3 runs.

I think I flattered myself with the thought that the ball that bowled me kept low but I seem to remember batting for quite some time and missing a lot of the deliveries that came my way.

I first started to feel the age factor when one member of the Croydon schools team, Jamie Moralee, became a professional footballer. On a Wednesday night in March 1992, I saw him play for Crystal Palace at Southampton and, aged 19, stated to feel my age.

Today, the boy who by far the best player in the Croydon schools team retired from professional cricket. Mark Butcher of Surrey and England has retired at the age of 36. I sometimes glibly throw into conversations that I have opened the batting with someone who played 71 test matches for England. I didn't open with him very often. But it did happen and now I wish I'd pay more attention.

There's a line in the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy that goes something like:
It's at time like that I wish I'd listened to what my mother said.
Why, what did she say?
I don't know, I didn't listen.

I think I was so scared that I was out of my depth that I didn't pay much attention to what was going on around me.

Anyway, he's retired from cricket now. And I feel incredibly old.

The one saving grace is Alistair Brown. Two years older than me, he played with my brother. He's still playing professional cricket for Nottinghamshire. As long as he holds in there for a bit longer, I'll be all right.

Interior design gone mad.

Quoth the Simpsons:

Lisa: Okay, I'd like 25 copies in canary, 25 in goldenrod, 25 in saffron, and 25 in paella.
Clerk: OK, 100 yellow.

In order to forget the disastrous attempts at following my dad's gambling habits (following them would have brought success, my arsed attempts brought penury), I am rejuvenating myself and the house with a bit of do-it-yourself and gardening.

Having plumbed, drilled, shelved and weeded, I have moved on to the most pointless task in history, choosing between several different shades of the same colour.

This would be all well and good if the shades were of the light and dark variety but I know that the living room is going to end up a light shade of yellow. It may come down to a choice between Dulux's "lemon tropics" and "lemon pie".

And what is the difference between the two?

I have no idea. And I suspect no one else does either.

It's a far better thing I do now...

I could have been at home on the sofa cheering home a 25-1 Mark Johnston winner at Goodwood and each and every Australian wicket that fell.

Instead I was touring National Trust properties with my mother.

Although I felt a sharp pain and had the temptation to let out a cry of anguish on finding out that Laa Rayb had won the big mile handicap (damn you Corals for not putting odds up before 9:30), it was only a brief lapse.

It was a good day with good company and in very pleasant surroundings. That's all that matters.

Right, where's the form book gone...

Scrub that

I didn't notice the off time of 2:10 and completely missed putting money on the third Johnston horse.

Just as well, it came nowhere. Instead one of the other won! Roman Republic won at 9/2 but I had a fiver on at 11/2 this morning. So, I'm almost back to where I was at the end of Tuesday.

Funny old game.

If you're so clever, why aren't you rich?

Systems and strategies are all pretty hopeless when up against humans and/or animals.

So, Tuesday's gains were wiped out by a poor day on Wednesday. Two third places managed to keep things respectable. However, in context, the 4:00 race had six horses with money on. That the third place was around 20-1 helped the recovery.

I think dad would have found a different way to make a couple of quid.

And so to Thursday, a much quieter day save for three in the first race. I am being bolder and yet more selective by ignoring one of these runners altogether. This tactic on Tuesday meant I missed an 8-1 winner. Today is could be 20-1. I'm starting to think that a £3 place on the Tote might be in order...

Goodwood day two

The next stage of the Channon/Johnston adventure is considerably more complicated.
Multiple entries is a theme again and Mr Johnston has taken it to extremes today.

1st race
Som Tala & Aaim to Prosper are both trained by Mick Channon. I think a couple of tiny each way bets there will suffice.
2nd
No entries
3rd
Lahaleeb runs for Channon but is a big outsider.
4th
Mark Johnston runs five:
Sabotage
Matraash
Topolski
Becausewecan
Fin Vin de Leu
Not sure what I'll do here yet.

Once that race is out of the way, I'll have a look at these:
5th race
Specialising (Channon)
6th race
Atabaas Allure (Johnston)
7th race
Proclaim (Johnston)

I'm torn between the following thoughts:

1. Following the plan
2. Ruling out one or two that obviously have no chance
3. Backing some for a place only on the Tote
4. Stopping because it's unlikely to work two days running, life just isn't that obvious

But I'm a relatively weak person so I think I know what will happen.

Day One - for the record

So, here's how it finished:

Mick Channon had one runner and it finished third at 8/1 (but I had 16/1 earlier in the day, dad would be proud).
Mark Johnston had seven runners across four races. I backed six in the end. The one I missed was an 8/1 winner. However, one of his horses also won the last race and two others managed third places.
If I'd backed the other winner, I'd be substantially in front but then if I'd written A Christmas Carol I'd be Charles Dickens.
Day one of the homage to dad's canniness was a modest success.

Canniness update

4th race

Archers Road came third. I had a mighty £3 each way at 16-1!

Have brought home an astonishingly wonderful £11 from Urban Poet, I got £12.60 back from Archers Road.

It doesn't sound like much but it's exactly what he would have done (see below). It's a bizarre tribute but it's my tribute.

Right, I can now put a couple of quid on the other Johnston horse in the next!

Canny, very canny

My dad was incredibly canny although he tried hard to hide it sometimes.

Glorious Goodwood always saw him at his most canny. Despite not following racing closely, he always managed to come away with a profit. My brother and I, who paid considerably more interest, managed infrequent wins. I used to rely on getting the short priced winner of a two year-old maiden late in the day to get back somewhere close to breaking even.

His strategy was:

• Back anything trained by Mark Johnston or Mick Channon, preferably each way

Especially:

• Any two year-old horse trained by Channon
• Any horse trained by Johnston, running in a handicap

In addition, he would also back any horse trained by Dandy Nicholls running over five furlongs.

On the way I went last year, the first since dad died, this strategy yielded winners at 11/4 and 8/1.

So, I'm going to do it all over again this year. Annoyingly Mark Johnston has a lot of runners.

Day One

• 1st race

A Johnston horse won the opening race of the meeting at 8/1! He had two in the race and I backed the one that came 4th.

• 2nd race

Urban Poet, Johnston's horse came 3rd at 6/1. I backed it each way so there's a little in the bank (but not much).

• 3rd race

No runners

There are a further four races left today:

• 4th race

Mick Channon has an outsider in this at around 14-1 so there's a couple of quid each way invested there two.

• 5th race

Mark Johnstone has three here and I've put a little on two so you can bet that the third one will win.

• 6th race

Nothing here

• 7th race

Mark Johnston has the favourite. No bet made yet.

Come on the canny man!

For what it's worth, language aint what it used to be

If I read that a firework display has been cancelled at the last moment, I would expect to hear tales of people trying to blow on the burning fuse to avoid a catastrophe. Perhaps the fireworks had been knocked and were accidentally aiming at a school at our heroes raced to the rescue.

I would not expect the fireworks to be cancelled by the local council, 48 hours in advance. In Berkshire it seems the last moment can last for days.

Give me a break!

It looks like the football season has started all over again. Notice how I resisted the urge to it has "kicked off" and then publicised the fact that I resisted the urge.

UEFA has announced that if the football season ever drops below 30mph, the bus will blow up.

Well the blues had a baby and the bastard couldn't sing

The dinner party questions.

What are your:

• Top five songs/bands/albums
• Top five films/movies/flicks

The answers vary. Partially through memory, or lack there of. Partially due to the audience. Mostly because I don't go to dinner parties.

Anyway, I should put on the record (ho ho ho) my thanks to Richard Duffy. Although I haven't seen or spoken to him since about 1992, if he hadn't lent my brother a copy of Julian Cope's Peggy Suicide then I would not have been able to fill one of the slots in order to answer one of the questions.

Which is kind of a long winded way of saying that Peggy Suicide is really good and if I hadn't committed it to paper (!) then I might forget when it comes to actually having to answer the question.

There was another point. I forget it now.

So I go out and come in again, so I go out and come in again

I can't get started. Which is pretty obvious really considering the last post was in 2008.
I have all the creativity of M Night Shamalanadingdong. Which is pretty frustrating.
I want to get started on some work but can't until someone called Cherry gets in touch which means my deadline is going to be really tight.
I also seem to have bruised my elbow which is, of course, is much worse.
It's funny how the small things are the most annoying.

What goes up does not always have to come down in the intended fashion

Just a quick reference back to my travel arrangements.

Five people on a nineteen seater flight is not fun. But then nineteen people on that flight would have been worse. At least only four people were able to see the fear in my eyes, the whiteness of my knuckles and the intensity with which I kissed the tarmac at Silver City Airport.

There are reasons why I don't enjoy rollercoaster rides, the main one being that I don't like paying for the feeling that I'm going to die.

Sadly, I have a return ticket and the distinct lack of public transportation out here means that if I don't want to get on the plane next Wednesday, I'm going to have to start walking to Albuquerque now.

Other than that, joy to the world is immense although I can't quite get the hang of following the football at 7:36, even if the news is good.

Tea and coffee may not be served

This is the interior of a Beechcraft 1900D. It is the type of plane used by Great Lakes Airlines. I will be flying into Silver City, NM in one of these tomorrow.

To find this picture, I typed Beechwood 1900D into Google. A worrying slip.

This is the first trip where I've taken out travel insurance since I was 18 and going skiing.

Draw your own conclusions.

The full turning circle

Three years ago I bought the traditional Christmas present for my grandmother: tickets for the ballet, The Nutcracker at the Coliseum .

The plan was that she would go with mum (her daughter-in-law). They both loved going to the ballet and they both loved The Nutcracker. As it turned out, my grandmother was too ill to go, and it was the illness that killed her five months later. She was hiding how bad it was, worried that others might see her as weak.

Not being able to get a refund and not being anywhere near well enough to go myself, dad went. This was a palaver and a half because he was determined not to enjoy himself but to make it clear that it was a far, far better thing he did etc. That's fair enough when you consider that his only exposure to ballet was the Paul Hogan Foster's adverts ("Streuth, there's a bloke down there with no strides on!") and maybe a snippet or two of The Red Shoes.

On his return I was a little disappointed to find that his reaction was predictable. Whatever he felt on the inside, he was determined only to remind us all of the sacrifice he made by going, making sure the ticket wouldn't go to waste, helping mum navigate the dangerous waters of central London. I had hoped that the Gerald Scarfe designs might, at the very least, have given him some pleasure.

Three years dad, like his mother has passed on. Yesterday, mum, Diana and I went to see The Nutcracker at the Coliseum. It was a revival of the Scarfe designed production and I really can't see why dad too so negatively to it.

1. It's short
2. The music is mostly familiar to any one who has watched more than fifteen year of adverts on ITV
3. The clever use of the sets in the first Act more than makes up for the quieter moments
4. There's great value to be had in peering down into the orchestra pit
5. Not only were the children in the audience majestically behaved (apart from a little raucous coughing) but one child was trying to copy the dancing in the aisle
6. The Coliseum itself is a beautiful (if a tad gaudy) building
7. Everyone is a fruit and nut case
   

I'm sure I thought of more. It hardly matters. Anyway, I couldn't come away saying I love ballet. I'd struggle to come away saying I can even see the point of it. But it was a good day and it's always interesting to experience new things (as long as there's no threat to life or limb).

There isn't a huge amount of plot, the second Act looks like a greatest hits package and forgets some of the inventiveness of the first. But the music is much better than before the interval so there's a trade off.

Having been to reasonable amount of live theatre (or legitimate, as Homer once said) this year, I'd much rather go back to see this than say, Six Character in Search of an Author. And it wouldn't be the first time a second half has failed to live up to the promise of the first with Never So Good starring that nice young Mr Irons being the best example.

I'm sure that, three years ago, dad probably did have an all right time. He just forgot how to express himself when it came to things that were outside his norm.

He was more worried about self-image than he ever let on. And at times like this I think it's important to let go of preconceptions. I had a good time at the ballet with two of the people who are most important to me. What else matters?

Sometimes life is simply about letting go of the preconceptions you have about yourself. I think I've got better at it over the last three years. If someone had wanted to make a funny remark about going to the ballet it would have said more about them than me. I wish dad had been able to see that a little more clearly. I worry that he stopped himself from opening up and that, as a result, he didn't get as much out of life as he could have.

I'm not about to become an advert for a new movie with a positive affirmation in the title. But I'm not going to rule anything out straight away either.

I might be trying too hard to find meaning from yesterday, perhaps it was (as Homer also said( just a bunch of stuff that happened.

Etiquette guide for all facets of modern life

When at the National Theatre on a Saturday night, if someone asks what your seat number is, the correct answer is not "row H".
When outside Norbury station on a Sunday afternoon, if someone asks you if you would some skunk or dope, the correct answer is not "no, no thanks".

A word of praise

In the run-in to Christmas, everyone needs a little help with ideas for presents. If all else fails (and assuming the recipient isn't a raving neo-conservative/fervent free market capitalist/fascist dictator) you could try the magnificent output of the best t-shirt company around.
Welcome to the world of Philosophy Football.

Any excuse or How to take the rough with the smooth

I don't need an excuse to go to Winchester.
That said, in stark contrast to the opening statement, I have managed the following excuses to go there in the last three months:
1 It's a convenient place to stop for lunch on the way to the where we're going
2 It's a useful route away from the the traffic jam on the way back from where we were going
3 It's a convenient place to stay when visiting a friend who lives in a town 15-20 miles away
4 It's a nice place to meet up with another friend and his wife for Sunday lunch tomorrow

It's hardly the social whirl of the century. But it is good to remind myself that the place I want to live is somewhere I always want to go back to.
Other excuses could have included
1 The torch lit procession through town for Guy Fawkes day
2 Because I want to
3 It's a really nice place to go
4 I feel at home there. In fact, I almost feel as though I own it although I know that I will probably never have the money to own so much as a bath and a sandwich toaster there

Tomorrow's trip is pretty important in that it will give Diana the chance to meet the final piece of my friend jigsaw. It's the man I inappropriately call Fildew. It's also the man I should accurately call Paul. He's married to Sarah whom I've never met. Should all the invited people turn up to our wedding next year, there will be three Sarahs and three Pauls. So, Fildew he remains.

And Fildew is an enigma wrapped up in cling film. If he felt comfortable with communicating with the outside world he'd be the most popular person around. But he's not so he has to make do with those who are dogged. In this case, that's me.

Anyway, if I thought he'd be able to stand the pressure of being sociable and organised for an entire day, I'd consider asking him to be my best man. But, like me, he's not.

Of bricks and mortar
After much gentle persuasion and idiotic determination, Nationwide finally deigned to lend us the money to buy the house in Ascot. Even after the decided to tell us that we had to stump up an extra £12,500 or go to hell, it took them three days to make a decision.

And within 24 hours of finally having the mortgage approved? The phone call. The estate agent. The news. The vendors have been knocked back by the owner of the house they wanted to buy. So, we're back in limbo. They want to sell us the house. We want to buy it. Where we go from here is anyone's guess.

Bonus!

For anyone who may be upset by the result of the US election, here's a potentially unexpected bonus:
Sarah Palin's daughter no longer has to enter into a politically expedient marriage

By the way, if you are upset by the US election, why?

Isn't it frightening that a democratically elected politician in the great democracy on the planet has to give his first speech as president elect behind bullet proof glass?

Isn't it more frightening that the glass is there because of the fear that a fellow American is likely to be the one pulling the trigger?

Hope has sprung

The fat lady is warming up. I am going to bed.

Hope springs eternal or Waiting for the great leap forwards.

I remember 1992. I remember expecting Labour to win the general election and the crushing disappointment that followed. I couldn't believe that after 13 years, people still wanted to vote Conservative.
What crushed the spirit were the polls. Right up until the exit polls, Labour were destined to be the largest party in parliament. The result would reshape Britain's political boundaries. The pollsters got it wrong.
At least, the pollsters were said to have got it wrong. Perhaps they asked the wrong questions or wrote the answers down without really listening. Perhaps people were ashamed to admit that after 13 years of social division and policies that began the credit boom which is only now unraveling, they were still voting for the government.
Anyway, it's unfair to say anyone got it wrong. That would suggest that people used their democratic right frivolously and I'd hate to think that anyone would ever do that.
Well tonight my fear is that it is 1992 all over again. I had personal reasons to be deeply interested in the outcome of the 1992 general election. I have personal reasons for being deeply affected by the outcome of the 2008 presidential election.
In the last 18 months I have met and befriended more Americans than in the previous 34 put together. In under a year I am marrying an American and it's possible we may eventually live in the States. In the last four days I have become acutely of my dependence on prescription medicine. My heart condition is controlled by various prescription drugs and being without one of those drugs over the last few days has been intolerable.
And so I have been following the debates about health insurance with great interest. Only, there haven't really been any. It's been a non-existent issue.
It does rear its head in conjunction with the rhetoric of the campaign. From the right, the rhetoric has been all about socialism. Considering one of the main ways to get at Obama is to call him a socialist, it is amazing to think that no one in the US knows what a socialist actually is.
To think that anyone espousing a health scheme that still revolves around private insurance is a socialist is idiocy and juvenile propaganda. To claim that taxing those earning over $250,000 to help lower (not remove, lower) the cost of health care is as far removed from socialism as I am from a getting a book deal. Taxing the wealthiest to help the middle classes is not socialism. It's a glimmer of the redistribution of wealth.
Can you imagine a European socialist party with a limited tax plan to slightly reduce the cost of private health insurance by slightly raising the tax of a few? A socialist government would destroy the private system and replace it with a universal, centrally funded system that ensured equity regardless of social standing or wealth. A socialist government would increase the safety net for the poorest, funding it with the excessive wealth of those who had previously benefited from tax breaks designed to win votes rather than improve society.
Obama is no socialist. But until that term stops being thrown around with the same weight as thief or murderer, then sensible political debate will not happen.
But then calling him a liberal didn't stop people telling the pollsters they were going to vote Democrat. Socialist is one step further down the line. And I'm worried that the label will stick, that enough people will believe he cannot be trusted and it'll be 1992 all over again. That the (mental) energy invested in this election will bring only disappointment.

Anyway, I'll honour the outgoing president with one of my favourite Steve Bell cartoons:

Hope springs eternal. Every four years.

Were you just being kind?

I can't seem to stop sighing. What's that all about?

In an ideal world

In an ideal world I'd buy one of the huge houses at the top of Oram's Arbour in Winchester. I'd enjoy the view through the trees across this magical strip of urban park. The view expands over the city itself and onto the Downs, rising proudly on the other side.

This isn't an idea world. So, although we are planning a move out of London, it wont be to Winchester yet. Instead a more affordable house in Ascot awaits and yes, you did read that correctly. It's a nice house, about the best we can afford even at this time of dropping house prices and although it's not the Arbour, it is next to the strip of land below. And, for the moment, that will more than do.

If at first you don't succeed

History is a funny old thing. Or not as the case may be. But with history it is possible to take yours eyes off the present.
We are currently so obsessed with 1929 and the depression that followed that we are in danger of missing impact of the depression.
There are two major government initiatives that must be stopped. Firstly the attempt to alter the rules of detention so that someone can be detained for up to 42 days without charge. The second is the expensive farrago of the identity card scheme. I abhor these ideas without reservation.
I abhor them because of the manner in which the whole nature of innocent until proven guilty is challenged by them. I abhor the necessity to collect information to which the government in not entitled. But I fear what could happen should the benign, paternal nature of modern government be replaced by something more repressive or authoritarian.
It couldn't happen here? Could it? Britain escaped fascism in the 1930s and has, whatever anyone may tell you, avoided extremes of governments. Although the Thatcher government seems to have been located on the extremity of British politics, its driven ideology has, until the last two weeks, become the norm. From 1979 until 2008 the centre of British politics shifted so that monetarist, decentralised, deregulated economics has been the accepted way for the economy to be run. Want to do it differently? Look at the States where anyone who disagrees with this philosophy is automatically a dangerous liberal or even a socialist (although let's face, those are tags used without any understanding of what they actually mean).
What would it take for our system to collapse? A sustained economic crisis perhaps? A collapse in faith in politicians? A charismatic figure to draw attention away from the issues and create folk devils to feed on an irrational hatred? Well, two out of the three are in place. Thank god for the lack of charisma in this country.
But who might these folk devils be? Well, Facebook groups suggesting that if people don't like it they should return home, do not help. Even if some of the comments may be attempts at humour, these groups do more damage than the Daily Mail ever could. By normalising these opinions it becomes easier for them to be expressed publicly in a manner which can become accepted.
The underlying current is that someone must be blamed. We are not conditioned to be able to challenge those who may actually be responsible. We ought to be attacking the monsters who have deregulated everything. We ought to be attacking upwards. As usual we are attacking downwards.
So, it couldn't happen here could it?

Love knows no boundaries

Love overcomes all barriers. Apparently. That includes the Home Office Border Agency.

There was a time when obtaining permission to get married meant appeasing parents.

More recently it alluded to convincing priests that you really had been going to church all this time, not just at Christmas and Easter if at all. Now getting a certificate of approval is required for all non-British people who dare to marry someone from these shores.

There will be those who say that it will stop marriages of convenience. But charging £295 and requiring a couple of photographs is hardly the way to do it. It’s not a measure to stop illegal immigration; it’s a method of raising revenue. Just like the £500 it cost for Diana’s Leave to Remain (and the £500 is cost last year too). Now doubt, once we’re married Diana’s visa will need to be altered to reflect her right to remain here indefinitely. That’s the big one at £795.

Marriage will not get Diana her ‘indefinite leave to remain straight away’. Marriage will give Diana another two years on her visa. After a further two years she will get resident status.

There are many conflicts here. First is the desire amongst our politicians to promote the family as the means of fixing an apparently broken society. Second is the desire amongst our politicians to promote strict immigration controls as a means of preventing our society becoming ever more broken. Third comes the promise to keep taxes low, direct income tax that is. Well, taxing foreigners who want to come here, or who are already here is hardly going to be unpopular as it helps to reinforce the fears stoked by numbers one and two.

And so marriage becomes a political football. Except for those involved. So, for those invited, forgive us if we don’t have a brass band at our wedding in October 2009, if we try and pass off the wedding cake as dessert or if we don’t have the finest champagne. Just remember the £1100 we’ve had to pay the government and enjoy the party we have managed to put on.

No news might actually be good news

Pre-season. Ah the joy of a few brief football free hours. David Mitchell wrote in the Guardian about the pain of constant media focus on football in the summer and he's right, although not funny which is, after all what he's there for.
For Crystal Palace fans, it has been a pre-season of unrelenting gloom. Players leaving. Players not coming back. Chairman leaving.
None of which individually bother me other than the probable departure of Ben Watson. It's just that taken together, it spells another mediocre season where the focus is on anything other than football.
My enthusiasm is slightly tweaked though by an email from an American here in London. He's got friends coming over in September and wants to know if the Palace Swansea game was likely to sell out. Not at £30 a ticket. I'll break the cost to him nearer the time.

You make me brave

I'm sure there are cliches that go here. I'm sure that the first year is the hardest. I'm certain there are millions of people worse off than myself, whose pain is greater and constant, whose lives are masked by pain, poverty and hunger, humiliation and exploitation, disease and despair. It doesn't mean I can't feel loss and be affected by it on a daily basis. The suffering of others should never prevent you from
This Thursday is dad's birthday. I used to feel embarrassed that he would take flowers or wine to his mother on his late father's birthday or their anniversary. I felt certain that she would be over it or that she wouldn't want to be reminded of his absence.
And as I approach what would be his birthday, the first since he died I am drawn to follow his lead. And I see that it is what I have to do. Not just to help mum with her pain but to get help with my own.

That was the river

There are certain things I know now:

• I know that when you try to make conversation with the butcher and he says, "Like I said, sir..." then you should just be grateful that you have a butcher you can go to. But don't expect him to be grateful that you're grateful
• A conservatory is fine in the heat but it's even better when it's raining
• You shouldn't really mention having a conservatory
  
• Sometimes you have do a bad thing to appreciate all that is good
• There are green parrots in the wild in Twickenham. I suspect they're following me. I used to see them in Greenwich Park. They may not, of course, be the same ones
• Bristol is a nice city. I'm going back there soon
• Radiohead didn't deliberately become avant-garde and obscure. They just forgot how to write songs
• I'm not celebrating England's win over New Zealand. It felt like a low quality game between two low quality teams. A win only confirms that Michael Vaughan is a great captain. Michael Vaughan is not a great captain.. Ok, he might be quite good but he's such an arse. His interviews are limp cliches held together but simplistic, political analysis designed to promote the self than express honest emotions
• Spot the odd one out in this picture (clue: the answer is Michael Vaughan)

• Why is he the odd one out? Well, much like his interview technique, he's trying to be something he's not. He wants to look tough. He actually looks camp. Very, very camp
• It doesn't matter what I think
• It doesn't matter what anyone thinks
• Strangers are often the people who help you to see more clearly
• These days I only write in order to avoid writing. It would be nice to think that this essay really might write itself. Somehow I doubt it
  

Five months on

Diana and I took mum out for lunch. There was an empty chair. It still hurts like hell.

Never Again. Never Ever Ever Ever Ever. Until Next Year

New Year's Eve on a plane. All bonhomie, champagne and good wishes? Not a hope in a million. Instead, it's blinds down, lights out and not even the merest sniff of an announcement. So this year I celebrated New Year (GMT) at 17:00 on a bus between the car rental office and Phoenix Airport (they call it a Sky Harbor, I wont be doing such a thing). I celebrated New Year (actual) twenty minutes late and somewhere over Ohio.
That said, it's more than I'd usually do. Celebrating and New Year aren't things I'd normally put together. I'd be more inclined to celebrate if it took an effort to move the clock forward but as time moves on regardless it hardly seems like it's done anything to deserve my praise.

New Rules For Monday

Learn about business in sport. Quickly.
Avoid all HMV/Virgin type record shops.
Avoid all independent record shops too.
All participants in property programmes should be forced to buy a property by the end of the show. Unless they're selling, in which case the production company should hand over the cheque if their advice has not lead to a sale.

For reasons I wont explain because it's far too nauseating, I was in a Virgin Megastore (sic) on Saturday, somewhere in a mall in Kent. It was one of the more depressing moments in my life so far. Not because I was in a Virgin Megastore on a Saturday afternoon somewhere inside a ghastly mall in Kent which is depressing enough. It had more to do with with the quick trawl of the album section (rock and pop). With my little eye I spied a large number of records I currently own, have owned and dispensed with or have downloaded. The remainder of the CDs on display were ones I have absolutely no interest in owning or by bands I have heard of but sound vaguely reminiscent of something I already own.

There are no CDs I want anymore. My music buying life seems to be over (unless I suddenly take an interest in Country or Hip Hop and that's fairly unlikely to happen). That may not be such a bad thing.

As for business in sport, well lets simply say that's a flight of fancy. I'll probably stick to reading David Conn in the Guardian. It's a lot easier when someone does the footwork for you.

And today's lesson is on 'delusion'.

If you're not doing what you want to do, do what you want to do.

Make sense? If not why not?

I'm not doing what I want to do but I am doing what I trained to do. It's time to change. Going back into teaching was a mistake. I was a teacher. I got terribly ill. I left teaching. I recovered. I went back into teaching because it was easier to find the jobs, fill in the forms and be successful at the interviews than for any other line of work. I knew what I was doing. And now? Well, apart from asking questions like, 'And now?', well I guess I'm finding there's a danger of becoming ill again. So out of the way everyone, it's looks like I'm going to have to do the difficult thing for once.

There, that feels better. You know, that's the reason this thing is here. It's not because I actually think anyone will want to read it but because it's cathartic. That's stage one. Catharsis. Stage two is actually publishing. But let's not get carried away or anything, after all this is the first thing I've written on here since the end of May.

By the way, that restaurant was absolutely the worst I have ever had the misfortune to visit. But you'll need to look at the previous posts to check up on that. I love the way you can write on here as though someone might actually read it. A quick, cheeky little second person address is all you need to raise the spirits. Some call it second person address, others self-delusion. I'll stick for second person delusion and see how far that gets me.

Much has happened in the last five months. Most of it is none of your business, so don't go asking questions. Quite nice to have the man Kelner add a comment to a previous post although it does make me worry Mr K that you engage in the pursuit of entering your own name into search engines. Now there's an additional delusion folks, the one that suggests that just because someone has read this blog before they might come back again, especially when it's someone who might get recognised on the street (in Wakefield at least).

Ok, so this is going nowhere fast. I'll be gone then.

I'm not brought up that way, like.

I don't mean to be rude although often it just happens. And I'm not normally one for restaurant reviews although I used to enjoy Will Self's in the Observer all those years ago and I'm rather taken by Martin Kelner's reviews of Jay Rayner's reviews in an oddly post-modern way.

But the point I'm slowly dawdling towards is that there a fair number of websites where diners can leave their reviews of restaurants. I happen to be going to a restaurant called Sarastro on Drury Lane tonight and I'm not entirely comfortable with it as a choice. It stems from knowing that it was chosen more for the decor, as a place to go, rather than as a means to eating enjoyable food. From reading the reviews, which can be described as extreme to say the least, I have trepidation writ large across my face (not a pretty sight).

It could be that the negative reviews are penned by other Drury Lane restaurant owners and the glowing ones by Sarastro's owners. But I've seen the menu. The cheapo set meal offers you the choice either hot or cold salmon. Well thank you very much. And I know that cheapo set meal in London, blah blah blah, what do you expect you snob and all that but there's no effort to make it sound anything other than what it is; a begrudging effort at raking in numbers rather than diners.

The meal is all in the name of entertaining my girlfriend's parents. Since they flew in from the States they've experienced from fairly mixed service at the hands of cafes, pubs and restaurants. And fairly mixed food too. I'm keeping my stomach crossed that tonight's meal doesn't live down to expectations. They're good people. I'd like them to come back. They deserve better.

Review to follow...

Did I hear that right?

I'm having a bad day. I normally have some every two or three weeks. It used to be a lot worse. Today is like one of bad days from the bad days (if you see what I mean) so please forgive me if this starts with the following phrase:

I was lying in bed listening to the World At One... (see what I mean?)

Anyway, having spent two hours wrestling with the temptation of popping up to Lord's for the last day of the Test and having the temptation removed by my poor state of health and the rain, I retired to bed have a little dignity and decorum as I suffered. Little did I know that the World At One, that venerable Radio 4 institution was now asking for opinions.

I'll give you mine Martha. I don't listen to shows like yours in order to hear the views of the public on issues such as the Cutty Sark fire. And I really don't want to hear the view's of the public when they arrive in text format.

I'm hoping it wasn't Martha Kearney's idea because she is a journalist I have some time for. However, the whole moment reminded me of Jeremy Paxman's on-air huff against the lowering of production standards on Newsnight. Perhaps Martha is too new in the job to be able to arrange such a protest.

It's a million miles away from the half hour of magical radio that took place on Radio 4 Long Wave and Five Live Sports Extra etc in the run up to the official lunch interval at Lord's. The three current long-standing Test Match Special commentators, Messers Agnew, Martin-Jenkins and Bloefeld. Together the just talked, mostly from memory, about their time as commentators. The pleasure at hearing three professional broadcasters just talk was overwhelming and so refreshing when compared to numb skull ex-pros who litter broadcasting simply because they are ex-pros (and I know Agnew played himself but I feel he's served his dues but why is Andy Townsend still so poor?).

And feminism has yet to take root in the sports world either. Can you name the four major(ish) sports broadcasters who are also daughters of successful sportsmen/coaches? Sisters are doing for themselves, although they are willing to take on board any help that their standing gives them. Sure, they're probably all very good and are no doubt breaking down barriers for everyone else, blah blah blah. But it's only a matter of time before Zara Phillips is a roving reporters on Derby Day.

Ranting again. Sorry about that. It was so much more fun when the writing was strangely odd instead oddly angry. Which reminds me of something else but that can wait. I've had enough for now.

Protecting Us From The Hooded Claw Since 1821

I really like Martin Kelner. I can't help it. His podcasts are truly terrible, a totally unprofessional mixture of bad jokes, appalling accents and woeful singing. And yet I have subscribed even though I now have to pay. From time to time I listen to his BBC Radio Leeds show, even though I live in London (although his untimely sacking has led to him charging for his podcasts...). And I make a point of reading his Screen Break column in the Guardian.

Today I have been rewarded with this excellent piece on my current bete noir ("Edouard, what's the French for bete noir?" "Martin, we don't have one."), Inside Sport.

Read. Enjoy. Complain to the BBC about the utter shite they are passing off as journalism. Or you could try posting on their "blog" (cough) and wait to see if they bother to add it to their celebratory comments.

I'll have egg and chips please

And maybe some baked beans. And a sausage. Or four.

That's what I'd put on the Great British Menu.

Actually I'd probably make it slightly more sophisticated as I've never cooked egg and chips anyway. But that's not the point. But then nothing ever is. With my militant Marxist head on I'd like to question why a group of chefs who produce expensive food out of the range of the ordinary people are producing expensive food that doesn't fulfill its primary purpose of sating hunger to be served to a group of elitist Frenchmen (that's not all Frenchmen, just the group the food will be served to) in the opulent surroundings of the expensively produced British Embassy.

However:

With my lazy arse head on (?) I find it very hard to get worked up about it at all. It's just not interesting enough. A bit like that whole Paris Hilton thing. Friends expect me to be angry with her for whatever it is she did and rant about how it is typical of the celebrity obsessed nature of English-speaking societies that she can seek to overturn her sentence because of who she is. But I can't be bothered to have an opinion about her at all. Someone please explain to me why I should have an opinion about her or the Great British Menu.

And for the record, I'd serve toad in the hole. As her last meal.

I got yet another email from the Daily Telegraph this morning

The editor of the Telegraph wrote to me. He did! The email had his picture and everything. He said he wanted to know what I thought of his paper so I followed the link. Of course, imagine my surprise when it turn out to be nothing more than a brazen effort to find out what products they can sell me. So, back to the original email I went and low and behold I discovered that the silly man had left his email address on it. I'd have used a 'no reply' jobbie (if I knew how to do it of course).

Mr William Lewis - Editor, Daily Telegraph

Anyway, this is what I wrote:

Thank you for your email. I don't expect you to read this. Perhaps one of your junior bods will have the pleasure of ignoring it on your behalf.

Here's what I would like to see. I would like to the Telegraph contribute to a debate rather than spout one dimensional Tory propaganda. I'd like to read columnists who have something to discuss rather pour personal bile and prejudice out. I'd like to hear alternative view points given and considered. I'd like the Telegraph to actually admit when someone with an alternative view is correct or has done something good. I'd like you to admit that not everything this government had done has been to feather its own nest and that perhaps it has made the odd decision on the basis that they think it will improve the country. I'd like the Telegraph to admit that the country isn't going to the dogs (stop apeing the Mail) and I'd really like you to get Alan Hansen to write something outside his comfort zone. Get him to actually research a piece and prevent him from using cliches. For goodness sake, he was interesting once (about 1999 I think) but like many who receive unquestioning support from their employers because they mistakenly think their name brings readers to the paper, he has got lazy and predictable. And I'm not even going to start on your other one-dimensional sports "journos".

Thank you for the time it has taken to delete this email. I'm sure I will sleep better tonight knowing that you will automatically assume that you know best. On the other hand, feel free to get in touch and criticise the quality of my writing.

It's called Dovetailing. No one really knows why.

Consider the lilies. Consider the rousing climax in the snooker. Quickly go back the lilies.

Two things are apparent tonight.

For the love of god will someone stop calling Inside Sport 'journalism'. If that's journalism then there really is a need for Steve Davis to be wearing fulling evening regalia at a quarter to one on a Tuesday morning. Guess what? Andy Murray, a tennis player, nominally from these fair shores, would like to play tennis in the Olympics when they come to these fair shores.

Well bugger me sideways with a fish fork. I'd never had guessed that he might dream of wanting to do that.

And to cap that, the BBC's investigative sporting shit stirrer Mihir 'Conspiracy' Bose has revealed tonight that someone from a foreign country wants to buy a football club from these fair shores.

Mind you, he then rather ruins the story by claiming the club is Charlton. He could have picked a club someone cares about rather than the archetypal 'well-run/family orientated/community/too lazy to do anything other than send a border collie out to do my research and then rehash some tired old generalisations' tripe that follows Charlton around.

What worries me the most is my genuine love for the BBC and my acceptance that they still do this tripe better than anyone else (cue rousing rendition of "There's Always Be An England" with England scrubbed out and replaced with United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland). For all the Murdoch Millions behind Sky Spots (sic) News, if there isn't a Sky Sports product to be promoted then it aint getting on.

If a wicket falls in the forest and there's no one watching county cricket, can we truly say that it's out?

And the BBC is sadly going the same way. News programmes cover blatant adverts for TV programmes to follow later in the day. Consequence? They depend upon each other. News journalism can go soft in the knowledge there's always a story to be thrown their way. Programme makers know their product can be promoted across the BBC networks and can even create a news story (Gary Richardson you useless bastard, I'm talking to you here even though you're on radio you Alan Partridge wannabe) for the many platforms to gobble up because they're too lazy to find something themselves and so on.

Breathe.

Now, about those lilies...

Quick poser

9pm.
Monday 7th May.

You have 45 minutes to salvage an entire year's work.
No one really cares if you make it or not.

Who are you?

Answer in 45 minutes?
Although probably not due to a total lack of interest on the part of anyone whatsoever.

I don't mean to be rude. Was I being rude?

Sports journalism is one of those over-confident areas, so sure of itself because it deals in big names and big fan numbers. When a new show comes along that wants to be taken seriously and is described in these terms:


Inside Sport is new, so it's not emulating anything. Our aim is to have a good balance of original journalism, features that other areas of television don't have the inclination to do, and interviews that have more depth about the individual.

then the inclination is always going to be to knock it as pretentious twaddle. The nature of this programme is to create news content for all the 24 hour providers connected with the channel (in this case www.bbc.co.uk, BBC News24 and Five Live). Here's the big scoop the BBC's new sports journalism programme Inside Sport managed last night:


Chelsea captain John Terry says he has spoken to the club about becoming their manager when he retires.

Stunning. Absolutely stunning. The blurb has pretentions way and above the content. Once again proving that simply because we have more information, it doesn't mean we have better information.

We wait, more in hope than expectation

Secure Mail Services, neither secure nor much of a mail service, are hopefully, finally scheduled to be here between 12 and 2. I wait, all baited in the breath department.


UPDATE: They came at 13:55.

Secure Mail Services (Part Two)

Dear sir,

You are a liar. We did try to deliver your package. Your door entry system may well be linked to your caller id telephone. And it may well display DOOR when someone presses your number. And you didn't have DOOR displayed on Friday other than for the other two people who came to your property when they said they would. And we didn't call your mobile number even though we specifically asked for it. But you are a liar. We did try to deliver the package.

Yours

Secure (sic) Mail Services

Secure Mail Services

So secure, in fact, are the services of Secure Mail Services that they don't deliver. Security therefore is threefold. You are secure in your residence. Their drivers are secure in the cafe. My package is secure in the depot. Everybody is happy, even if they don't realise it.