"... I assure you, it's much more serious than that". Those were the words of the late Bill Shankly of Liverpool fame.
Football was even talked about when it could be your last conversation.
"Three Tommies sat in a trench one day,
Discussing the war in the normal way.
They talked of mud and they talked of the Hun,
Of what was to do and what had been done.
They talked about Rum...
But they point that they argued from post back to pillar,
Was whether Notts County could beat Aston Villa."
Football is part and parcel of old and modern day Britain. Fans turned out in their many thousands, crammed into unsuitably small terraces to watch their heroes take the field. These were ordinary men who often held down another job and lived just down the road from you or even next door.
They were generally men from ordinary beginnings, inflated to hero status, but preserved their wholesome attitude, integrity and rarely would you find a player with air and graces and a feeling of superiority. In short, most of the local heroes at the very top were a completely different breed to the current football player - Yes, John Terry, I am talking about you and your fellow professionals.
Having read the rather excellent My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes by Gary Imlach, you can see why football was embedded as an essential ingredient in English society, during the golden era. Professional footballers went off to war, covered by ageing pros to warm their boots, fell and died fighting for the King. Can you imagine Rio or 'JT' doing the same?
Football nowadays is a greedy sport. I used to love it. I still love Brighton & Hove Albion, but football as a whole has grown into a gruesome monstrosity. I am not sure how comfortable I would feel supporting a club that pays a player more in the space of 10 days than our premier, Gordon Brown (ignoring whether or not you think he is a doing a good job!), earns in a year.
I would rather not contribute towards some rotating alloys for a materialistic thug with a limited footballing ability, earning 20 times the amount a nurse or entry level teacher.
Fans are being priced out of live (in the flesh) football. People are turning their backs on their local club simply because it is easier to stay seated in the armchair and follow a team courtesy of Sky television.
Day-by-day my dislike for professional football grows at an alarming rate. The whole Premiership bubble makes me sick to the bottom of my stomach.
The 39th farcical game, allowing the brand to be spread across the world, was obviously about sharing the love of the game and nothing to do with filling the pockets of those that are already bulging and splitting.
'Super Sundays' for the best league in the world, encouraging those who do not know better to spend the day glued to the sofa. £50m for finishing bottom of the top flight with a guaranteed £24m parachute payment to soften the blow.
Hours before a potential winding up order and deadline for Rotherham United, their 'headline' was a little subtitle, the main news being that Man Utd's Wes Brown was on the verge of signing a multi-million pound deal. A community was on the verge of losing their football team and various news sources were focusing on a contract for that donkey.
'Stevie G' holding out for a new contract with Liverpool. "I am not willing to sign yet as I want to concentrate on the game itself". Cue a fortnight of flirting with other clubs and an eventual £20,000 a week pay rise offer. "It has always been about Liverpool. No-one else".
Phil Gartside, of Bolton Wanderers, wanting a two tier Premiership with no relegation from the lower tier. A closed shop.
Restless 20 year olds not content with their £2,000 per week salary, despite giving up edukation (sic) at the tender age of 14.
A game run by buffoons at the very highest level with corruption galore across the globe.
An (Ex-)England captain with no regard for anyone but himself - I won't list his numerous misdemeanours.
Fit and proper persons tests for Premier League ownership that apparently ignores abuse of the Human Rights Act.
It's ludicrous. A world away from the happy smiling faces of African children making do with a ball made from a multitude of plastic bags and some twine. Imagine what the £2000 spent on a Newcastle United heated substitutes seat could do for a little village of keen footballers without access to clean water?
To be fair, I am sure that the footballers earning obscene wages do have some links to charitable work and do sign off the odd cheque. However, they could do so much more.
Generally, money and footballers are an unhappy marriage in more ways than one.
Ulises De La Cruz did not forget where he came from. He went that step further and set up 'Friends of FundeCruz' in which he donated 10% of his wages. This money was spent supplying basic needs of his Ecuadorian village. He was later named a UNICEF ambassador.
http://ulisesdelacruz.org/
Even a pantomime villain in the shape of Craig Bellamy has set up a foundation and poured some of his money into the fund to give some Sierra Leonians a fighting chance after years of civil war and oppression. Liverpool FC refused to insure him, but he went anyway and has not looked back.
http://www.craigbellamyfoundation.org/
Bah. I lost my train of thought after the trench poem.
Hopefully this doesn't come across as being a jealous rant.
Quote of the Day: "Many men, of course, became extremely rich, but this was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of as no-one was really poor, at least no-one worth speaking of" - Douglas Adams
Word of the Day: Cagamosis - An unhappy marriage.
Those NASA guys are pretty good with their cameras, but they should be with an annual budget of £17.9bn.
Truly remarkable pictures. A shame that the two released images (thus far) neglected to include GREAT Britain. I take that as a direct snub from out Atlantic cousins.
On the subject of space, the word reminded me of my second year bedroom at University. Think of the smallest possible room imaginable and stick up a party wall dividing it into two bedrooms. You could swing a cat in it, but you would have to be prepared for a swift visit to the local veterinary surgery, a hefty bill and a sad goodbye to the faithful moggy. There was enough room for a cupboard, a single bed and a minute desk.
There was literally a square metre of floorspace which invariably got covered with a small pile of dirty linen and some discarded beer cans. There was no room for more than two people in the bedroom at one time and you needed to bend like a professional ballerina to exit the room in one piece and any false move would recreate a scene from the Nutcracker, if you didn't keep a keen eye on the door-handle.
I made a fatal mistake of demanding the big bedroom to house my rather archaic PC, whereas the others were talking about needing a double bed for the occasional 'visitor'. Why did I pipe up first?
One plus was that it literally took less than 5 seconds to hoover the floor - not that I ever did. My good friend Ross had the other half of my room and suffered from a year long snorefest - not my conversation (I hope), but the noise and vibration penetrating the tracing paper like dividing wall.
However poor my bedroom was, I did like that house. It was extremely well placed and we had access to multiple pubs within spitting distance, a bakery round the corner, a kebab shop within sniffing distance and Blockbuster videos. What more could a student want?
In actual fact, we were the closest property to Blockbusters and I believe we were the house that collected the most fines. Sadly, I lost the paper-scissor-stone and the account was linked to my credit card, leaving me to face the brunt of the vicious capitalistic system. There was one particular film called 'The Wonder Boys' that racked up an obscene £104 worth of fines before a final charge of £20 to replace the errant DVD. No-one claimed responsibility, so I was left with the charge.
Years later, I was offered the chance to buy a DVD for £2 as I had spent over £20 on petrol - Brilliant, I thought! Only to cast my eye on the selection and the only disc available was...you guessed it. Out of principle I declined the offer. I was not going to put another penny towards that blasted film, seeing as I personally funded a sequel.
My next bedroom was a step in the right direction. It wasn't the smallest for a change! Unfortunately, I was on the ground floor and facing the road. Divinity Road was a bit of a mecca for students and invariably there would always be someone you knew that would pass the house. I generally always sleep with my window slightly open to allow a circulation of air (I shall not tell you my current address) and more often than not, I got someone clambering in my window at silly o'clock, if they had forgotten their keys or fancied visiting one of the residents.
The worst of that was when my good friend Adam decided to pay us a 3 am visit, the morning of an important exam. Most of the students had finished by then and drunk themselves silly in Fuzzy Duck's. I was awoken by a silhouette of a beer swilling gentleman trying to gain access to the house. I think he was stuck and after an exchange of some blue language he managed to free himself and scurried upstairs. I think I passed the exam in the end, but...
I had a rather delightful abode in Southsea. My friend Nick and I managed to snag a place on the seafront, halfway between his work place to the west and my work place to the east. Wood flooring through out, high ceilings and a delightful decking out the back to sun ourselves whilst we watched Euro 2000 (a TV rigged up outdoors). It made living in Southsea and Portsmouth almost bearable.
Nick found the house, so he bagged the big bedroom with a built in wardrobe. The built in wardrobe was then turned into a laboratory to cultivate, pick and smoke homegrown marijuana. Foil covered plaster board was shipped in, halogen lamps were purchased, various lotions and potions were collected and the seeds were sown. It was quite an impressive sight and the plants began to grow.
I was charged with looking after them for a week, after Nick upped sticks and went to join his father for a holiday in Spain. I was gifted a rather complicated list of things to do, including cutting back dead plants, ensuring there was enough light and checking the pH of the water.
One fine day, I headed towards my local shop for some supplies and had to carefully dodge a chap sprinting along with 48 cans of Carling in his arms. Only when I saw the police searching the shop later that day did it occur to me that he had just lifted them. I thought he was just thirsty and in a rush. I made myself known to the police and they thanked me and asked for my address so that they could come round and take a statement... Oh f*ck!
Chances are they would not have carried out a search of my premises, but there were various smoking devices, loose rizzla papers, actual marijuana floating about and a prolonged odour of hashish lingering in the air. I stuttered and stumbled, claiming that I had forgotten my address as I had only just moved here and gave them my email address. Thankfully, they bought it (not the weed, I should hasten to add).
That is all for now...
Word of the Day: Runcation - the act of weeding.
Quote of the Day: "Space isn't remote at all. It's only half an hours drive away if your car could go straight upwards." - Anon.
(One for Scott and Wizzy)
Barrack Obama is visiting an Edinburgh hospital.
He enters a ward full of patients with no obvious sign of injury or illness, He greets one.
The patient replies:
Fair fa your honest sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin race,
Aboon them a ye take yer place,
Painch, tripe or thairm,
As langs my airm.
Confused and sporting a grin rivalling the Chesire Cat, the President moved on to the next patient, who immediately begins to chant:
Wee sleekit, cowerin, timorous beasty, O the panic in thy breasty,
Thou needna start awa sae hastie,
Wi bickering brattle.
Now seriously troubled, Obama turns to the accompanying doctor and asks, 'Is this a psychiatric ward?'
'No,' replies the doctor, 'this is the serious Burns unit.
I can't claim any credit for that, but it did make me chuckle.
Anyway...
I managed to heave myself up to the Doctors surgery to register. I had forgotten how unique the British waiting room is. A wide collection of different people with differing ailments. I am not a regular attendee, but I always try and pass the time by guessing the illness of each particular patient. There are some obvious signs to look for, of course. A cough or a uncomfortable fidget are sure fire signs of influenza or piles, respectively. It is certainly more preferable than fingering through a germ infested copy of the December 1972 edition of the Horse and Hound
I had to announce my reason for wanting to see the doctor to a room full of coughing and fidgeting patients. So much for confidentiality! Reminds me of Dr Karl (of Neighbours fame), when he wasn't too busy curing an epidemic in the hospital, he used to march his patients out through a busy waiting room saying something along the lines of "Apply the cream twice a day Mrs Benzel, they should clear up in no time."
Something else that tickled my fancy was a small poster. It went something like this...
____________________________________________
Free Numeracy Classes for Single Parents
Children should be aged between 2 - 5
There are 4 classes being held between 12:00 & 16:00
18th March 2010
22nd March 2010
2nd April 2010
5th April 2010
____________________________________________
That's an awful lot of numbers. Unless I have misunderstood numeracy, I am minded to believe that there may be trouble ahead when it comes to the actual classes.
I was ushered in to meet a rather mad professor looking Indian lady, who was busy losing herself in a pile of papers. The doctor in question was aghast that I had not visited or needed to visit a GP for over 6 years (perhaps more), not as much as I was with her computer literacy or should I say illiteracy?
Apparently, my condition (depression) entitles me to a massive discount at the local gymnasiums. Exercise is good for the physical AND mental health. Instead of paying close to £50, I shall only be required to part with £11 a month. A bargain, I am sure you will agree. Not as much of a bargain as someone who is suffering from dual personality syndrome. That's a minimum of two members for £11 a month! I shall be sad to leave behind the personal trainers and buoyancy aids of David Lloyd, but what can you do?
Anyway, I have been prescribed a drug with a name that comes straight out of the Arsenal line up. Apparently it might make me feel slightly anxious and I should avoid alcohol. That should cheer me up..?
My blood pressure was relatively normal - thanks for asking - and I was shepherded up to see the nurse to finalise my visit. A rather switched on lady who promised to text me sometime this week. Getting texts from a nurse? Why didn't I think about signing up sooner.
Things are taking shape. Watch this space.
Word of the Day: Zeroable - Able to be * from a sentence without any loss of meaning.
Quote of the Day: "One can't complain. I have my friends. Someone spoke to me only yesterday" - Eeyore (AA Milne)
* Omitted: non-zeroable
Sang the late, great Roy Castle.
I am not on course to break any records, but I have made some tentative steps towards getting fit again. David Lloyd is the temporary gymnasium of choice and it has served me well, thus far.
I finally got back on the saddle of a bike, albeit an exercise bike, after my jaunt to Bristol from London. I do enjoy cycling, but the particular bike I picked was positioned in front of a large TV showing the morning edition of 'Jeremy Kyle'. Three participants of the show, looking much like the result of generations of inbreeding, were arguing about text flirting, drinking too much and the paternity of a little boy caught up in the middle of the whole debacle.
Somewhere along the lines after many foul mouthed tirades, goading from the presenter and a passage of multiple gesticulations, the paternity issue was resolved and they were sent packing to carry on with their miserable existence of swearing, drinking and texting.
I tried my hardest to pedal away from the heinous torture, but alas exercise bikes are not renown for their moveable capabilities and I was trapped with 5 minutes left of my exercise programme. My pulse was racing from both experiences before I decided to head off to the weights section.
I have never been a great fan of any of the weight sections I have ever come across. In a previous existence, I used to visit a gym near my parents house. More often than not, I managed to time my visit with NASA boys (National Anabolic Steroids Association) - I jest with the last bit. The sort of man that would spend much of the morning, having polished off an 18 egg omelette, counting how many protruding veins he had and carefully selecting the smallest pair of cycling shorts from his closet. The stench of protein shakes and ego polish normally sent me packing early doors.
I've never quite got to grips with the whole mirrored atmosphere either. It is not that I dislike looking at myself in the mirror, but I just don't see the point of gazing, puppy eyed, at my sweaty efforts to lift 20kg weight above my head - but whatever floats your boat.
I beat a retreat and headed down to the pool. Supposedly the best exercise one can get, unless like me, you have trouble staying afloat and risk suffocation by filling your lungs with liquid. Thankfully, the pool is relatively shallow and I did my very best impression of a frog for 25 lengths or so.
The Sauna was the next port of call and gladly it was not rammed to the ceiling with Swedish bodybuilders and their frying pans. I did my best to wheeze my way through the 15 minutes of sweating before retiring for a much deserved spa.
The bubbles were working their magic and my mind begin to drift. Bliss. It was then that I was joined by a rather attractive bikini clad lady, who, how should I describe it? She entered the bubbling cauldron complete with artificially enlarged buoyancy aids and I am not talking about water-wings here. I wasn't quite sure where to look (or perhaps I did?). Anyway, the bubbles ceased and I made my excuses and retired to the shower before meeting Joy to take me home.
Thoroughly enjoyable and bound to become a habit.
Word of the Day: Colposinquanonia - Estimating a woman's beauty based on her chest
Quote of the Day: "A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise" - A A Milne
It was an intriguing contrast. At one o'clock I was doing my very best impression of 'Desperate Dan' and eating my way through a herd of cows and a Yorkshire Pudding. Two hours later, I was wandering around an exhibition about the Holocaust and confronted with pictures of innocent people being sent to their death - scared, hungry, fearful and sometimes unknowingly.
I spent a very pleasant hour or so wandering from London Bridge to Lambeth North. The rain was dribbling away and it took me about an hour, I didn't feel like upping the pace. The most disappointing aspect was the closure of the Waterloo Bridge book fair. It is quite an archaic bridge and tends to leak during rainy periods - books and rain don't mix too well.
I made it to Lambeth North, just in time for the Church service to finish. Therese, Mark and I ended up in the Doghouse. Not because we missed the church service, Mark and Therese made it, it was the name of the pub. A veritable feast ensued, later joined by Helen (the victim of an oversleep and dodgy public transport). 
It didn't look quite so good, but it was devoured nonetheless.
Mark departed to play some soccerball and the three of us were left to recount old tales, plans for the immediate future and merits of a Teutonic existence (I jest with the last part, obviously). The three of us digested the lunchtime feast, Therese and Helen opted for a crumble and custard to round things off...and eventually headed towards the Imperial War Museum.
The main aim of the visit was to sit ourselves in the bomb shelter experience - something I have not tired of despite numerous visits. However, we headed up to the heavens and stumbled across an exhibition dedicated to the the Holocaust.
Harrowing would not come close to describing the experience. I have read the Diary of Anne Frank and have paid a visit to Struthof concentration camp, but it really did bring to home the horrors of the ordeal facing 4 million plus civilians. Ironically, there were two people locked out of the camp tour (circa 1991) and they were German. "Let us in!". Not that I am wishing to label all Germans as being Nazi's, I hasten to add.
There have been and there will always be movements hoping to wipe out a particular race, tribe or creed. We have to be brave and stand up to those.
It was emotionally draining. We were faced with faces and actual real live people who were destroyed for the sake political policies. Innocent lives treated no better (worse, obviously) than cattle destined to end up on our dinner plates. I believe I have done a complete circle there.
Word of the Day: Anosmia -is a lack of functioning olfaction, or in other words, an inability to perceive odours or smell.
Quote of the Day: "... in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquillity will return again." - Anne Frank
I'm sat here watching Wales take on our Gallic cousins in the third match of the 2010 Six Nations Championship. I am certain there is no better National Anthem and no better venue for a live rendition of "Land of My Fathers".
Whilst I must admit I haven't heard every single anthem, I can't think of one that is more rousing and inspiring . It truly is a work of art. Slightly less entertaining now that Katherine Jenkins and her famous...er...lungs have been shelved, but awe-inspiring nevertheless.
I certainly prefer it to the dirge that passes off as our anthem. Whilst I do tend to get caught up in singing it at various events through out the year, I would certainly do a swap with Wales if that were a possibility. Still, we can look forward to a brand new version when Prince Charles steps into his mothers' jewel encrusted, dainty slippers. Oh.
The English do seem to get a rough deal from the whole anthem business. I would personally select 'Land of Hope and Glory', but then my opinion counts for...nada (sadly).
What makes you proud of your country? I am not turning my back on the St George's cross, but stilll? I am slightly ashamed (sorry) about our rough handed heritage. It is all very well having a a huge collection of territories or 'properties' and sharing our knowledge with them, but it all seems very partizan and an emphasis on owning somewhere with natural resources. Goodness. The US of A get grief for going into a country with something worth saving, but we have built our whole nation on exploiting other places.
Maybe I am some sort of socialist at heart. Not a Champagne one. Can't afford that. Cava perhaps.
Quote of the Day: "If you were my husband, I would put Arsenic in your coffee" - Lady Astor
"Madam. If you were my wife. I would drink it." - Sir Winston Churchill
Word of the Day: Agelast - A person who never laughs
I, more than likely, did lie when I was seventeen, but I am not sure I should shoulder all the blame and I am not convinced Travis should be wholly trusted.
Actually one lie does stand out. I borrowed my fathers hip flask, complete with some whisky in it. The only time of the year he actually needed (sneaking some booze into Twickenham for the Varsity Match. Tut tut) it was when I decided to take it on loan. I denied all knowledge of its mysterious disappearance and consumed the Scottish potion at school. Craftily (or so I thought), I hid the flask down the back of the drinks cabinet to be discovered at a later date. I would have got away with the ghastly crime had I bothered to wash it out. The lingering aroma of the whisky was my ultimate downfall and I was suitably chastised.
I am getting a bit fed up with the weather. And yes, it does happen every year. Well, weather happens all the time, but hopefully you know what I am writing about.
I quite like rain, in patches. There is nothing like a heavy downpour on a summers day to refresh the dusty surfaces. That lovely earthy smell is a joy to behold. Only last year, Therese and I decided to go for a pleasant and exceedingly wet stroll in a thunderous August downpour. Drenched, but entirely refreshed.
It is the incessant drizzling of cold rain that drives me round the twist. That rain that really does permeate through to the skin. Even the hardiest of waterproofs wave the white flag. On the subjest of waterproofs, I carefully selected the cheapest available for my trip to Ecuador, one of the wettest parts of the globe. As it turns out, my investment in a garment from the bargain bin was not the greatest purchase. The jacket as a whole invited rain to seep through it and the only part that was actually waterproof was the insides of my pockets and they tended to flood during the afternoon downpours. Rendering my essentials (matches, cigarettes and maps) useless.
Having grumbled about the rain, I shall grumble about unnaturally hot places. I have often been faced with tuts and despairing glares after I have succumbed to the power of The Sandman in a theatre or cinema. Can you blame me? The seat are generally extremely comfortable, the lighting is dim and it is warm. Perfect sleeping conditions, don't you agree?
Not forgetting to mention the shops that seem fit to recreate a Saharan type atmosphere in their rented space. You go from one extreme, losing a toe or three to frost bite, to being exposed to a midday blast of heat somewhere close to the equator and the patrons seems fit to give you a distasteful glare as you sweat away like a carb-a-holic in a bakery.
I am bored of this grey weather. Roll on spring and the delights of new life blossoming every step of the way.
Oh dear. I would imagine I have established myself as a true Englishman ranting on about the weather.
Never mind.
Quote of the Day: "Rainbows apologise for angry skies" - Sylvia Voirol
Word of the Day: Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder
They were generally men from ordinary beginnings, inflated to hero status, but preserved their wholesome attitude, integrity and rarely would you find a player with air and graces and a feeling of superiority. In short, most of the local heroes at the very top were a completely different breed to the current football player - Yes, John Terry, I am talking about you and your fellow professionals.
