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.

Dear Sir,

Or Madam, because in fact we couldn't be bothered to read what you sent us, that includes the letter attached to your other sheets, I suppose we should call them a manuscript. Anyway, the basic gist is that whatever you sent us to read is being returned in this envelope because we couldn't be bothered to read it, however we are sending you this note to give the impression that we at least glanced at it although we are aware that only a monkey in the middle of lobotomy conducted by some half-eaten scampi will be gullible enough to believe us. At least we're keeping the Post Office busy and, in the end, isn't that the most important thing?

Yours, with a distinct lack of sincerity, whatever the letter says,



A.N. Agent

The Marching Song of the Covert Battalions

"Within minutes flames leapt into the sky along the banks of the Thames from burning warehouses and factories... Acrid black smoke from the bombed warehouse of the Silvertown rubber factory flowed across the North Woolwich Road, bogging down fire engines, ambulances and Civil Defence vehicles. The ghastly fumes of rubber, tar and paint mixed with a sweet odour of caramel as Tate & Lyle's sugar barges blazed."


North Woolwich, April 6th 2007 Photograph "borrowed" from flickr.com (http://www.flickr.com/photos/iandh/448204305/)
There is, of course nearly sixty seven years between the report and the picture. The report is taken from Juliet Gardiner's Wartime: Britain at War 1939-1945, a period of history, an element of the war that seems to be neglected, much like the area round here which took a fearful pounding. But much like the area today it scarcely warrants much of a mention. It's not a pretty area and although the north bank of the river may well get the boost of the 2012 knock on effect, it's still an area in need of regeneration. Of course, regeneration only works if it also regenerates the community currently living there, giving them a greater reason to participate and integrate. It's amazing how often solving the poverty gap reduces the social gap.
The fire last week was reported. It made the news! Well, the local news but considering the local news has a reach of around 8-10 million people (although an actual audience of three bored children waiting for their tea and a stoned hamster).
It's a shame no one made the link back to September 7th, 1940.
I've been reading about wartime Britain to aid some research I'm undertaking. It's a confusing period but a fascinating one. Descriptions of the Blitz leave me shuddering but wondering whether or not we bother to appreciate the bombing we conducted. We all know what images the word Dresden brings to mind but there's still a feeling, albeit relatively unspoken these days, that they had it coming. But us noble Brits, well, we really suffered.
We still haven't really come to terms with the idea that wars are brought about by a few people and conducted by the masses. Dying on someone else's behalf if not my idea of fun. Being the victim of bombing as a non-combatant (as I believe the terminology makes us) is even more pointless whether you are German, Japanese, British in World War Two or Iraqi, Iranian, British of Brazilian in the War on Terror (sic). But as Juliet Gardiner's book makes clear, there were many people who profited from the wartime economy, legally or otherwise. Although the Sun and ITV are £100,000 poorer and an individual member of the armed forces £100,000 richer, this is not a cause for celebration of redistribution of wealth. As a national it leaves us morally bankrupt.

And in all the excitement of multiple seaside visits I nearly missed it.

The return of Danger Mouse



Ah, them were days, when men were men and international heroes were mice. Gawd bless BBC2 for showing it. A quick glance at the old schedules suggests it's not on next week (crikey!). So for all you who've missed it this week (crumbs!) it's off to the DVD store for you.

Mind you the animation is/was pretty crappy anyway.

You went where?

Four days ago I got back from lovely Bilbao.
Twenty four hours ago I was trekking back from



Or sunny Southend as it's otherwise known.
Now it's a bit of an unfair comparison due to the time of day/quality of camera etc etc etc.
But there's a world of difference between stepping off the train at Southend Victoria to be confronted by a concrete circle of hell and the graceful style of Bilbao. There's several hectares difference between the sophisticated if somewhat faded chic of the sea-side suburbs to the north of Bilbao and the bright lights of the front at Southend in February. And you have to cross the galaxy to find a greater difference than the one that exists between the cool, cultured (if decidedly weird) Basque variations on the tapas theme and this:



Didn't Teddy Taylor used to MP for Sarfend on Sea? Teddy, "I'll defend England 'til I die even though I'm Scottish" Taylor? I could be wrong. But if he was, I get the feeling he was defending the indefensible. Those crazy continentals know a thing or two, Teddy. Perhaps we could even learn something from them about food, culture, bars, transport.
And football. Despite the glory of the mighty Crystal Palace's thumping (i.e. extremely lucky) one nil win over Southend United, the game was of the most atrocious standard (and I use the word standard with due caution). So bad was it that we felt no guilt about arriving late and leaving early. And as much as I loathe the indentikit blandness of Pride Park, the "Walkers" stadium, the Stadium of Light and so on, the sooner Roots Hall gets turned in low-cost housing the better everyone will feel. When the best things about a football ground are the turnstiles, you know you're in for a bad evening.

Where in the world is this monster?

Te he he.
A few days in the sun, a spot of culture and Rioja. And although these pictures do not really show Bilbao at it's most beautiful (and it is, in places, very beautiful) I'm putting them here anyway.



I have often been accused of being obsessed with the Woolwich Ferry although that exclusion order is frankly a disgrace. So I have to travel to the Basque Country to get satisfaction. It's an odd attraction, the transporter bridge. It's even funnier how they charge you 30 cents to ride its mechanised transporter thingy and 4 euros to walk across the non-mechanised bit at the top.



Everywhere you look their trees are ready for the next shot of the Magnificent Seven.



And now that the actors are here...



Ok already, that's enough. It's early and I have the gym to go to and an essay to write...

And the last shall be first and the first shall be last

Or to paraphrase Billy Bragg:

Help Save The Youth of Australia.

There was a moment, just one special moment for me. When Strauss caught Ponting. The reaction of the England team was not one of surprise but of belief. At that moment they weren't mopping brows because the greatest batsman of his generation was out cheaply, they were celebrating in a manner that suggested a win was inevitable.
And they won.
So I guess it was.
But thank god that tour's over and I can rest my radio until the latter stages of the World Cup (not that I'm expecting us to beat the giants of Bolivia and Guam (or whoever it is that clogs up the group stages of the second most pointless world cup - after rugby league...)

About fucking time too.

Rickey Ponting, Glen Mcgrath, Don Bradman, Alf Ramsey, John Howard, all the bar staff and supply teachers in London, Paul Hogan, David Campese, Jim Robinson, Burke and Wills, Men At Work, Skippy the Kangeroo, Oliva Newton John, Dame Edna Everage:
Your boys took one hell of beating.*




Picture from BBC website courtesy of my license fee.



(Ok, here's a slightly more accurate take on the actual translation but the first one was much more fun)
We are best in the world! We are best in the world! We have beaten Australia at cricket!! It is completely unbelievable! We have beaten Australia! Australia, birthplace of giants. Paul Hogan, David Campese, Jim Robinson, Men At Work, Skippy the Kangeroo--we have beaten them all. We have beaten them all. John Howard can you hear me?
John Howard, I have a message to you during your election campaign. I have a message to you: We have knocked Australia back in the Commonwealth Bank series of cricket. John Howard, as they say in your language in boxing bars around Madison Square Garden in New York: Your boys took a hell of a beating! Your boys took a hell of a beating!"









(Just don't mention the test series, please)

Normal service resumed...

Left flat at the end of the second over of England's reply. By the time I got to the gym three wickets had been lost.
It's better now.
We still wont win.
But in the spirit of the day I salute our dour bravery (?) with this:

Er, this doesn't sound right

I woke up around five and as has been the habit, stuck the cricket on the radio expecting to hear doom, gloom and disaster. And I did. Ponting and Hayden were on the go, and how. One hour later and suddenly it's time for a jig in the style of:



Now, I'm not suffering any delusions of associated grandeur. I know how this teams work. They shall overcome, we shall be undercooked. However, I know a bit more about cricket then your average media commentator/mug punter and there's always hope. That's why 170-1 can become 250-9.
Of course, to use the expression us followers of both Crystal Palace Football Club and the England cricket team are only too painfully aware of, and in homage to Escape To Victory:
"Come on lads, we can still loose this."

There's No Smoke Without Fire

I'm sure that's probably not entirely true. What do I know? I have an F for my GCSE in Chemistry which I often proudly told students, especially when covering Science lessons for weird professor types who, despite being exactly forty-three brain cells and two A levels short of starting a medical degree, should really have known more about looking after themselves in the winter time.
If there a point? Not usually. Anyway, here's a question for those of you out there in Her Britannic Maj's United Kingdom of So On And So Forth. The estimable Matt Haynes has said that for the third issue running he'd quite like to use something I'd submitted for Smoke (see links on the side guys). And that's brilliant because I love that magazine. But I feel I need to branch out a bit as well. Don't get me wrong, I plan to keep submitting to Smoke as long as I have ideas in my brain (stop drumming your fingers dear reader). Well, where are the opportunities? Ambit looks a bit, well, erm, pretentiously intimidating. Same for Stand. And don't even bother mentioning Granta. And there are some ho-hum websites around. Come on, I challenge you, where are the British Lit Mags that take things from little old writers like little old me?
And I'm not bothered whether or not they pay. Really. I'm not.
So, what do you think?
Out with it?

Riding Along In My Automobile, My Baby Beside Me At The Wheel

Every time I start one of these I know picture myself narrating The Wonder Years. And frankly that's getting annoying. Little did we know at the time...
Worth mentioning that Decoration's new CD, Flippant, is out and jolly fine it is too. Candidate is a blinder of a song in anyone's book although I'm not convinced this is the best version of it that exists. Oh, get me. Anyway, follow the link on the right and by the latest CD from the least hard working band in British rock! (makes stupid gesture with his fingers even though the term "rawk" doesn't actually apply to Decoration because they're the band that could make you like the Wedding Present, should you be so inclined, which, let's face it, not many people are. So, big recommendation from me then) Ok, I've got a reason why you should buy it, how many albums do you own that have songs with the word "fickle" in the title? Well, this one has got two! There you go.

So, this weekend I will be:
Using words like fickle and harrumph.
In the Bluebottle pub in Crystal Palace, annoying Liverpool fans while they try and watch the "Merseyside Derby" (insert squeaky voice) by adapting their songs to suggest that they might not win anything this year or by telling them they should support their local team however crap they are.
Supporting my local team, however crap they are (actually, technically Charlton, Millwall and West Ham are now more local than my beloved CPFC but that's not the point).
Getting half cut in The Cut (geddit, huh, huh, oh ok, it's a street near Waterloo with some bars on it).
And, retrieving half of my CD collection from the world's most environmental pixie (he's the man who put the mental into...) on Sunday. This will be the best part of the weekend, not because I love my CD collection (harrumph) but because the pixie and I haven't seen each other for ages (he lives in some backward country now, Gloucestershire I think it's called. It may be near the Cook Islands) and he wont have seen me in my new, improved, thin, contact lens, vaguely all right looking state. As Brian Moore (whose head looked uncannily like the London Planetarium) once said as Alan Pardew actually managed to pass the ball accurately for Ian Wright to score in the play-off final, second leg, against Blackburn in 1989, "That's the part I like."

Every picture tells a story but sometimes the story is similar from picture to picture

Get the picture? Right, let's go.
This was last Monday. Or was it Tuesday. Anyway, the water over the rail covers a footpath. I live in sight of the Thames Barrier. The wrong side of the Thames Barrier. The high tide level was high anyway but the whole of the barrier was up. Now, call me thick if you like but this surely means that the tide level down 'ere in old Woolwich Town was even higher as a result. I'm in one of the thin white buildings on the left here, sixth floor, don't panic the water wasn't that high. What do you mean you weren't panicking? What do you mean why are talking to yourself? What do you mean... enough already.

The sign here being obscured by the flash gives out details of how to contact the coastguard. Previously thought this was a redundant sign but if the tides keep rising then I may need them (or a small boat of my own) if I want to walk along the path there. The path that leads to Thamesmead. I appear to be able to hear the drumming of fingers on tables.

Or if I can't find a boat then I could always find an alternative means of transportation...
(Warning, you may need to tilt your head to view this picture properly. Grrrr, grrrrrrrrr, hrumph)