There's nowt so (insert derogatory adjective of choice) as a footballer

Ashley Cole, a man who in my opinion encapsulates in one talented but arrogant selfish and greed obsessed body everything that is wrong about the modern game, is alledgedly being investigated by both his club and the rozzers over an incident where a sports sciences work placement trainee was accidentally shot by an air rifle at Chelsea's training ground. Why does this not surprise me?
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From BBC's football gossip column...

"(Avram) Grant also revealed that Hammers midfielder Scott Parker could not walk hours before the vital victory (over t'Shite -yeehah!) after falling on his shoulder....." Huh?
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Everton's fragile French striker, the delicate fleur that is Louis Saha, a man who could put himself out of action for a month just by sneezing, amazingly emerged unscathed after crashing his Ferrari 458 into a fence near Manchester airport. Methinks he'll wake up in about a week with delayed whiplash so severe that it will end his season.

The fence Saha hit was in the same vicinty where "The Gelled Tumbler" aka Cristiano Ronaldo totalled his Ferrari a few years back. Louis should have taken the Nissan Micra that night!
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We watched it disappear over the horizon, dragged ourselves back into it, then took command, fell to pieces, and defying all logic, salvaged a tie on the last ball. Who said 50 over cricket was dull?
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Not at all sprot related, but apparently some folk with more time and money than sense indulge themselves at the Fiona's Beauty Salon by sticking their gnarled and stinky feet into a fish tank, and several tiny Garra Rufa fish, a type of toothless carp, nibble away at the said loons' dead skin. I know, how can a toothless fish "nibble"? I'm only relaying what I've read!

"Mmmmm, Tinea Pedis, scrummy"

The treatment, rather unimaginatively, is called a Fish Pedicure, and it looks like falling foul (well it would, there's crusty feet involved) of H&S rules. Health professionals are worried that infections could be spread by folk putting their feet in water previously occupied by other's infested leg ends. Lovely image is it not? I read the story while eating my lunch, which was probably not a wise thing to do!
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Gazpacho Soup - Part Eleventyone - Smaller and Smaller

It was whilst traversing the bleak and arid cultural deserts of Ballantrae on a camel called Dave, and accoutered by only a toga and a fez, that I noticed that everything around me was incrementally increasing in size. I put it down to over-enthusiastic consumption of Crème De Menthe and mescaline with the White Rabbit and William Burroughs the previous evening back at base camp. No, it was definitely happening, the camel, the toga, and the fez were all growing in size, as was the surrounding scenery, or was I shrinking? A moot philosophical point, but not one I was in any mood to ponder. This was, as they say, serious shit.

I set up camp that evening in the back of a burnt out VW Golf in the idyllic surroundings of the car park at the back of the Doon Bingo & Social Club in a nearby hellhole of rampant Protestantism, as tumbleweeds of past nightmares rolled across the vistas of long dead industry. This was not before the slack jawed local populace inveigled me of their fine hospitality by inviting me "Fook off, ye Sassenach weirdo, and tek ye camel wi' ye." I was very tempted to take them up on the offer, but Dave the camel needed to feed his smack habit and this seemed like just the place.

A fine entertainment establishment in Ballantrae, note the lyrical curves of the architecture...

The following morning I awoke bathed in the sweat of recurrent nightmares involving fish, ledgers, and cheese, and those strange three wheeled lorries with the shark toothed radiator grilles that used to deliver fizzy drinks to your door. Dave the camel was nowhere to be seen, did he even exist? Quantum theory, he say yes, and in two places at once, forsooth! I leaped out of the VW Golf, dressed in a jiffy, which are bloody difficult to get in my size I can tell you, and I noticed it was happening again, the world had increased in size, or I had shrunk. This was a tad disconcerting, so I vowed to see the local doctor, who it turns out was a wizened little man with the fragrance of cheap whisky and fag smoke clinging to him like drool on an idiot's chin. I sat there in a surgery waiting room full of fat men and fatter women, standing out like a caring thought in a Tory Cabinet meeting. Every so often the Doc would poke his head out of the office and shout "Next Double Whopper with Cheese if you'd be so kind", which I later discovered equated to obese females with genital thrush. A greasy and sloppily fat man appeared from the surgery, blubbing as he said to his wife "Aye, I be a-suffrin' from Dunlap Syndrome, my belly dun lapped over my waistband ..........." As he blubbered, a 1980s TV remote control the size of a housebrick fell from a fold of hitherto undisturbed fat and hit floor with a dull thud, slimily and snail-like slithering across the polished floor. There was a deafening silence in the room as this seemed to be a move of extreme gaucheness on the part of our lardy friend. He should have done that behind closed doors.

When it came to my turn I had just walked through the surgery door in my by now slightly too large clothing, and it happened again, right in front of the mad quack's eyes!

"Ach" said the doc, "Ah havnae seen one of these in a while".
"Good" says I, "So you know what it is then?".
"Aye sonny - what do you do for a living?"
" I try to avoid it as much as possible, but, nay, for I am an accountant for my sins"
"I thought as much, and do you frequently make disparaging remarks about your profession and yourself in a mildly humorous stylee?"
"It has been known, good Sir, yes"
"Then I'm afraid you are suffering from self-depreciating humour..."

I got my coat and.......almost disappeared....

Next time - Norbert Dentressangle joins the British Oxygen Company, why and wheretofore, therein and hereabouts, hitherto and suchlike. I cannot remember the 1830s, so I must have been there, and a heron and a cucumber sandwich make hay in the midday sun....

You say to-ma-to.....

"Me stormcock, buy elephantitis for your hatstand women? No?"



The phone rings on my desk today...

Me - A**** Accountants, can I help you?

Caller of indeterminate, probably Asian origin - let's call him Muamar - "Allo is beginning to call??"

Me - I'm sorry could you repeat that?

Muamar - Bergun I see, can fishtramplemybicycle (...actually something completely unintelligible), no?

Me - I'm sorry, but you're making no sense at all. Are you able to speak English?

Muamar -  Bergum, is this time I say again. Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense....(actually he didn't say that, but he may as well have done!)

Me - What? (followed by a silent "the fuck?") You do realise the number you have called is a firm of accountants?

Muamar - Oh, (strange sounding doggerel), me go now....(hangs up)

Me, to dead line - Ground Control to Major Tom....

Shajahan - a very friendly Indian restaurant

Visiting friends in Kingsthorpe we decided on a visit to the Shajahan Restaurant in Kingsthorpe High Street, just off the beaten track, or Welford Road if you want to be more specific. We've eaten here before so we knew what to expect. The young front of house staff are all very friendly and helpful and the service is fast and efficient. We arrived around 7:30 and within 30 minutes the small but intimate eaterie was full, and was soon full of laughter.

Although what some would describe as another generic Anglicised Indian restaurant, some of which are best forgotten, I found the food at Shajahan well presented and rather tasty. For starters I had Aloo Chat, a lightly spiced potato pancake, followed by Chicken Rogan with Pilau Rice. My only criticism of the main course was a lack of chili, but then I've become used to authentic Southern Indian food over the years, which is much more fiery than its Anglicised "Indian" counterpart. My main course was still very tasty though, and to be honest made a nice change from the fare offered at our usual venue of choice.

B, who is not a fan of overly hot dishes, had Salmon Tikka Massala which looked great, and according to her was very tasty indeed. One of our friends had the hottest dish of the four of us, a lamb mince based dish called Lucknowi Keema, which I tasted, and although hot by the standards of the night, was about average on the heat scale compared to what I am used to.

A good night out, recommended for those of a more tender palate than mine, but I enjoyed it too! By no means expensive, and they operate a takeaway and delivery service too. I would say there is space for about 22 covers in one sitting, so if you are going out on a Friday or Saturday evening booking is advisable. Remember to bring your own alcoholic beverages.

Shajahan, 62 High Street, Kingsthorpe, Northampton, NN2 6QE
Tel: 01604 717500

Procrastination Is The Thief Of Time

I can well remember when I was a nipper my Grandad intoning the title of this piece in his soft North Wales lilt whenever anyone around him was dithering about. I used to think he had made up this marvellously poetic homily, because seemingly ancient Grandads are wise beyond measure when you're seven years old, but it turns out to be a quote from Edward Young, English poet, critic and dramatist 1683-1765...(isn't the interwebby a great thing!)...

“Procrastination is the thief of time:
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene"

Groovy baby, I really like that!

As I'm sure you know, procrastination is the act of putting off making a big decision by concentrating on more trivial ones, a theme only very tenuously relevant to two things that came up for consideration during my march to work this morning, in that I cannot make my mind up one way or t'other on either.

Firstly, the proposal in the pipeline to put the clocks forward two hours in March, thereby putting us permanently in line with Western Europe. This is the unintentionally funny opening gambit in a reply to BBC Breakfast's Facebook debate on the issue...

"We have become slaves to time since its creation........."  I don't consider that the poster thought that through properly!

Seriously though, do I agree or disagree with the proposal? Well, from a personal point of view I find getting up in the dark and going to work under the orange glow of street lighting a real downer, much more so than coming home under artificial light. Presently dark mornings only happen for a brief period between mid December and mid January, but under a GMT+1 winter scenario that period would be greatly extended, even here at the southern end of the East Midlands.

Then there's the old chestnut about the possibility of more road accidents in the dark winter mornings, but surely there would be less in the early evening to compensate?

I can also sympathise with those in Northern England who would find dark mornings even more of a problem. The Scots could surely opt out as they have their own over-subsidised Parliament (stop that - that's another story).

The pro double summertime lobby will say that it would be good for business, particularly for tourism based economies in the summer. Conversely surely that means more disruption for those who are trying to get some kip caused by late night (but still in the light) revellers?

In mid June it would stay light until around 11pm on a clear day here in Shoesville, with sunset being around 10:30pm, and obviously even later up North, see the table in this BBC article for projected sunset and sunrise times.

I can actually see both sides of the argument, so my conclusion is inconclusive!
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The second choice we will soon have is whether or not to approve the Alternative Vote method to replace the current first past the post system for electing MPs to Parliament. Again, I cannot make my mind up on this one. It may give a slightly more fair result than at present, but the thousands who vote Green, or for that matter BNP, and indeed any other minority party will be no nearer having any representation in Parliament in my opinion.

Take a specific example, Brighton, which was won by the Greens in May 2010 with a vote of 16238, a small majority of 1292 over Labour, with the Tories a further 2711 behind. The Lib Dems came a distant 4th with 7159 votes. This seat would surely have reverted to a two horse race between Labour and the Greens under the Alternative Vote system, as Tory second choices would be split between UKIP and Lib Dem, but not enough to the latter to make a difference. Although it is hard to say for certain, my guess is enough of the 4th place Lib Dem second choice vote would have gone to Labour to eventually give them the 1 vote over 50% required to win the seat after the Tories had dropped out of the race, so AV would not have helped the minority party in this case, quite the reverse.

In principle I'm all for PR but I think AV achieves the least for true democracy, so I'll maybe possibly definitely vote No, but I'm open to persuasion either way. I also think the electorate, who have far more pressing worries in these hard times, will provide a miniscule turnout, and when that happens it is usually those who have the conviction to vote for an issue who win the day, so AV might get the nod by default.
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Finally, with decision making still in mind, a thought - The alarm goes off in the morning - is your next action, be it hitting the snooze button or turning on the radio or whatever, a reflex action or a choice? Do you choose to brush your teeth in the morning or do you just do it? When is an action the result of a decision or simply a reflex conditioned over time? Discuss.....
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Did you know that Kenny Dalglish plays spoons on Jona Lewie's "You'll Always Find Me In The Kitchen At Parties"?
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Feline Terpsichorean Shapes

A few weeks ago, our old girl Molly was diagnosed with hyper-thyroidism, a common condition amongst older cats, which results in a metabolism running way too fast, leading to weight loss and incessant demands for food, and an inability to chill. For an animal that likes to spend most of the daylight hours snoozing, the latter must be some burden!

Luckily the condition can be brought under control by a daily pill. Moll has now been on the pills for four weeks and today was her check up at the vet.  A blood test is taken to determine if the presrcibed pills are of the right dosage. Normally the blood is taken from an injection into one of the front legs.

Our Moll has always been a feisty little bugger, and B tells me that the vets couldn't keep her still for long enough to enable the blood to be drawn in the usual manner, so it was eventually taken from a back leg. Moll emerged from the treatment room with a bandage on her front leg where the aborted initial attempts had been made, and B, by now as traumatised as Moll, eventually got them both home an hour and a half after the appointment time!

While all this was going on I was in the local hospital having the final straightening cast removed from my wonky finger. Boy it's stiff....and so is the finger!" Boom boom.


 

Molly, The World's Loudest Small Ginger Cat © enjoys some relaxing sounds after shredding three vets



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So, our trees are, temporarily at least, safe from being sold to the French so they can build nuclear power stations and chemical weapons factories on the cleared land, or not. Probably an act of political expediency, but at least 500000 people signing a petition actually achieved something.
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PS - Ask your local Tory or LibDem MP what voluntary unpaid work they do in support of the Big Society. No, really, ask them. Their reply cannot be funnier than this:



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Have you ever watched Masterchef? No? Me neither, but the new series, promoted to BBC1 because of its popularity has at least 93 million viewers up in arms over the changed format that now involves the now dismayingly and increasingly obligatory public blubbing by relatives of the contestants, and X-Factor (nope, never watched that either) stylee humilation in front of a baying panel judges where the contestants are force fed bucket loads of their own culinary mess until they are sick. Some of these assertions might not be true.

As I say I've never watched nor am I likely to ever watch this programme, or the programme it now apes, so I make no comment!

Thank you and goodnight.
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Gazpacho Soup - Part Three - The Windermere Self-Immolation Society

After the war I decamped to the English Lake District, where inspired by a song from West Country beat combo XTC's first long playing phonograph recording, I set about establishing a quasi-religious cult under the banner of The Windermere Self-Immolation Society, whose headquarters was to be local eaterie Woger's Westawant, featured dish Woast Wack Of Wamb with Tawagon Gwavy.

mmm...my favewit

Formed on Tuesday morning at 10:07, our two strong cabal, the other member being Colonius Theokojak, honorary Purloiner Of Sticky Buns and otherwise known as Bob Dylan's Grandmother , were soon aware of the arrival in town of retired pirate and one-legged psychopath Bryan Gurvitz, cousin of Adrian who, as we all know, once wrote a song in an attic. He need not have bothered.

Gurvitz was to set up rival cult The TeePees, a shortened version of the full name Twenty Pints Of Boddies On A Friday Night And I'm Looking For A Fight. Bryan would attempt to induct and brainwash unsuspecting travellers and passers-by by luring them onto his pirate ship, the Jolly Roger festooned Good Ship Jaaaag and forcing his by now quaking shipmates to listen to looped music consisting solely of Straight Outta Compton by the charmingly monikered Niggers With Attitude, followed by Beer & Sex & Chips & Gravy by talent free uncouth Northerners The Macc Lads, ad infinitum. Now gibbering and dribbling a bit and in a trance-like state, the passengers could be bent to Bryan's evil will. Although first thought to be wickedness personified, it transpires that the sole aim of the TeePees cult was to encourage its members to roll gigantic spliffs which were then consumed with alarming speed rendering all but the hardiest unconscious. Quite harmless in the grand scheme of things, and frankly better than the second degree burns being suffered over at the Westawant. The Windermere Self-Immolation Society disbanded at Tuesday lunchtime, around 1:30. They were stoned, but certainly not immaculate.

Next time.....the cream cake incident, giggling, Cheesy String on the Isle of Wight, French kissing, mad dogs and Welshmen, Denmark 1 England 2, and the machinations of NATSO, a secret society of Wesleyan Baptists dedicated to two dimensional fauna.

Fear & Loathing from Wood Lane

Below is a dreadful piece of sensationalist scaremongering on BBC Breakfast's Facebook status update re the announcement of the proposed curtailing of the Orwellian scope of CRB checks for workers and volunteers who work or are in contact with children and vulnerable adults:

Plans to scrap criminal record checks for anyone (my highlights) working or volunteering with children will be published by the government today, do you think this is right or will it make it easier for adults in positions of trust to abuse children. Nick Clegg will be speaking to us later. Please send your opinions and any questions you have for Nick Clegg

That first attention grabbing line is completely wrong, as the proposal is to remove the need for CRB checks on those who only occasionally come into contact with the groups in question, for example if one of your friends or relatives or trusted neighbours very occasionally take your kids to school or to social activities, the finger of suspicion currently pointing at them requires a CRB check, and under the new proposals this draconian measure will be removed. Those in regular contact with the kids and the vulnerable will have the same scrutiny applied to them as before.

If the intention of those who run BBC Breakfast's Facebook page was to engender a stream of paranoid ranting in response from folk who have not read the full story, ironically available on the BBC News webpage, then they have succeeded. When I wrote this there were over 200 replies , most along the lines of this mangled effort:

They should not be scrapped, or you're giving a green light to pedophiles (sic) etc coming into contact and harming children. Betcha ass (no comment!) if Nick Cleggs kids were at risk (instead of being in a safe private school cocoon (sic)) this would not ever be scrapped.

Obviously some responders have said the whole piece is wrong and pointed the Mr & Mrs Angries at the true story, but it just shows the unsettling levels of fear and paranoia rampant in this country. It's no wonder kids are getting fatter by the minute and developing all sorts of strange allergies as their parents never dare let them out of their sight for more than five seconds. This sort of Daily Mail style rubbish from the BBC does not help in the slightest.

I have urged the more sensible respondees on the BBC Breakfast Facebook page to complain about this shoddy piece of journalism, and I'll post up any reply the BBC may give to my moan.
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The proposed curtailing of the CRB checks system forms part of the Lib Dem sponsored The Protection Of Freedoms Bill along with limiting police powers to keep DNA test results, reducing the Big Brother intrusion of CCTV which has advanced to the stage where the average citizen is now "on camera" dozens of times a day*, and barring wheel clampers from private land.

One thing that always happens when a Labour administration is in power for any length of time is the increase of unnecessary bureaucracy which goes hand in hand with burgeoning state surveillance. Remember the ludicrous folly that was the ID cards scheme for example? Although Tories when in opposition always pay lip service to the idea of rolling back the State, when in power, and economic cuts aside, often do little about it.

Liberty has always been high up the agenda of the Liberals and subsequently the Lib Dems, and Clegg's party have actually managed with this Bill to do something that was in their manifesto, and the principal behind this Bill was one of the reasons I voted for them. It may be a tiny step towards regaining a soupçon of their lost credibility in some of their voters' eyes, but could well be too little too late to stop them being decimated at the next General Election.

* Anything up to a frankly unbelievable 300 times a day, depending whhich statistic you find!
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If like me you consider the way the current Government is going about cutting our budget deficit is ill-considered, too fast and far too harsh - to put it mildly - on Saturday 26th March there will be a big protest march in London. Be there if you can, and if you can't, shout at a Tory!

More here http://www.coalitionofresistance.org.uk/2011/01/make-march-26th-a-massive-show-of-strength-cor-newsletter-25-january/
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Gazpacho Soup - Part Two - The War Years

How I became ".....trapped in a box, help, I'm trapped in a box...."  in the cupboard under the stairs for six days is still a mystery but to wile away the time I conceived of a cunning plan to sting a Whist Drive at my local Home For The Terminally Bewildered. Although my Steve McQueen disguise held , unfortunately due to a fluke Jack of Hearts and an incident with Lily and Rosemary, I was almost rumbled, and were it not for breaking my finger in the bra strap of a Filipino care assistant I would have got clean away. At my trial I pleaded guilty and a stern faced member (of the judiciary) sentenced me to three Chinese Burns. That stung I can tell you.

Suitably chastised I decided to restore my reputation with Good Works, but an ill-timed follow through in an Oxfam charity shop left me embarrassed and covered in my own vomit. Ejected onto the pavement I was run over by an elderly fellow on a motability scooter, who had the temerity to reverse over me to finish the job. Luckily I was spotted by my driver and whisked back to Burwood Towers, where under the warm summer sun I steamed gently on the Upper Lawn, and while thinking hard of a Welsh redheaded Breakfast presenter by the shadow cast could mimic a small lighthouse.

The outbreak of war was not good, in fact it was quite bad. Drafted into the kitchens of the 4th Bullingdon Toffs Cavalry I learned of a plan by Lord Mackaroon and his butler, the obsequious and fawning Clegg, to fleece our dear motherland of every spare penny in order to make good his Mephistophelean pact with The Two Horned Usurers of Canary Wharf. Armed only with an office stapler and a toothbrush I rushed headlong into battle, the tension hanging in the air like unforseen halitosis. Bringing the stapler down in a looping arc to fix Clegg's lip to Mackaroon's left buttock, thereby giving Clegg closer access to the origin of all Mackaroon's pronouncements, I left triumphant. The toothbrush was unused.

Next...find out how to retrieve a tv remote control hidden for years under folds of surplus fat, and how to construct a psychological theorem using only an empty cornflake box and some double sided sticky tape....

See See Rider

....which in my case, unaided by a pair of glasses I can from about 20 yards away, and as it's been over two years since I last had my eyes tested, I thought it was about time to have my rheumy peepers checked out. If you're apt to follow popular (mis)conceptions then opticians, along with dentists, are two professions where it is allegedly common to have work done where none is needed, thus generating more income for your white coated practitioner.

Well today Boots Opticians restored a little bit of faith in one of those two professions at least. I was told that my ocular prescription has remained almost unchanged since late 2008, and although I could be asked to get new glasses, the difference I would notice would be so minimal as to make it not worth my while. Marvellous!
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My right ring finger will remain in a cast for this week and possibly for next week too, depending on how much straighter it is by Friday. So far there has been a 10 degree improvement - woohoo! The obvious question folk ask when seeing it is "How did you do that?" Tiring of saying I have Dupuytren's Contracture followed by an explanation of the condition, here are a few differing reasons, some of which I've used...

1. I broke it skiing down our road during the December snow storms.
2. It broke during a frenzied desk top calculator session on 31st January in order to get a client's accounts finished in time. No, really.
3. I broke it after I got my arm stuck behind a radiator while attempting to retrieve a plectrum. I also have burn marks on my arm - do you want to see them?
4. My finger got caught in the cat's collar, and she jumped off the arm of the chair - crack - ouch!
5. Punching a garden gnome.
6. Slapping a Tory MP.
7. I broke it playing Water Polo.
8. It broke while vigorously kneading dough.

Which do you think I've used?
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While writing this I've been listening to current flavour of the month The Boxer Rebellion. Meh.....ok in parts, a bit formless...they can't write a tune...
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Anybody watched BBC1's sci-fi thriller The Outcasts last night? I thought it was quite good and shows some promise. Perhaps the Brits can make serious modern sci fi drama for adults after all? Battlestar Galactica's Jamie Bamber (I keep wanting to call him Jeremy!) was in it as a barking mad military type with the suitably macho name of Mitchell Hoban who leads an expeditionary force to explore the hinterland, and wants to set up a splinter survivalist group away from the prying eyes of President Tate (Liam Cunningham). I say Bamber "was" in it because he's been offed IN THE FIRST EPISODE! Unless there's flashbacks coming, or he plays his son sometime in the future, that's your lot.

Set in 2040, mankind has developed interstellar travel, and the inhabitants of colony planet Carpathia have been there for 10 years, implying that faster than light travel has been around at least since 2030, a mere 19 years away. The fact that technology has advanced to such an extent in such a short space of time is so far the only Dr Who-like techno bollocks leap of faith in the show. OK, we've also got a device called Deep Brain Visualisation that can project your thoughts and memories on screen, but somehow this is more believable than the faster than light bit.

Living in a city of piled Portacabins and dressed in semi-dirty sundry shades of army surplus, our heroes are eking out a fairly joyless existence, and had they washed out the colour a bit more you could indeed have been watching Battlestar Galactica, given the projected level of grimness. The colonists soon hear that the final rescue ship is about to arrive from a nuclear war benighted Earth, and on board is the daughter of head of security Dr Stella Isen (the wonderfully fierce Hermione Norris). Earlier ships have burned up in the atmosphere, and so does this one, cue much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But....there appear to be survivors as we see an escape pod parachuting to ground at the end.

A decent enough start, I'll stick with it.
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I probably won't stick with Sky Living's Bedlam though. At last starting to use some of their obscene profits to make new drama, Sky have come up with this load of supernatural hosreshit. Set in a luxury block of apartments converted from, you've guessed it. an old mental asylum, or "loony bin" as it would have been known, this unpromising piece of real estate is of course haunted by the ghosts of former inmates.

The main characters are a bunch of unlikeable self-obsessed twenty somethings, one of whom (Ryan) is played straight by former warbler Will Young - he must be a thirty something by now surely? The central character Jed (Theo James - nope, me neither) is sent charging around rescuing damsels and guys in distress from ghosties and ghoulies. He is alerted to imminent danger by being sent text messages from the ether, which say things like SAVE KATE SAVE KATE ad infinitum. In the past he's been "in the bin" himself as his ability to see spooks was naturally enough misinterpreted as certifiable madness. He also forgets to wear a shirt most of the time. In a similar state of permanent semi nude is said Kate (Charlotte Salt - ?), Jed's cousin, who even almost shags Will Young at one point.

I digress. If this week's horror movie clichés are anything to go by - malevolent spirits attempting to drown our Katie in the bath, green slime pouring down the walls - it's a clunker! Obviously aimed at the Being Human market it misses by a good few rattles of the chains I can tell you.
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The Big Dish

Congrats to Karen Murphy of the Red White & Blue pub in Portsmouth on winning round one of her battle with that corporate font of greed BSkyB. Temporarily at least she now has the right to broadcast English Premier League football matches, some at Saturday kick off times, via a provider from Greece, or anywhere else in the EU for that matter, apparently at a yearly cost of £800 as opposed to BskyB's unsurprisingly extortionate demand for £600 per month, a figure which drove her to this course of action in the first instance.

One of the EPL's arguments against this landmark ruling is that by broadcasting games at 3pm on a Saturday afternoon, attendances would suffer throughout the football pyramid. That may be the case for clubs with large fanbases outside their immediate area, for example the more fickle fan of Man Utd who lives in Surrey could well decide to stay at home in Esher and watch the game on his 40" LCD HD TV on a cold wet February afternoon rather than make the long trek up to Old Trafford, and eventually may stop buying his season ticket. However countering this are a not insignificant number of Liverpool fans in particular who fly in to every home game from Scandinavia and all points in Northern Europe, places where they can quite legitimately receive the Saturday game live via their own country's satellite provider. They are obviously all a smoked herring short of a Smörgåsbord, but a whole lot less fickle than the Esher dweller.

Clubs like Everton, Stoke, Fulham, Sunderland, Newcastle, Spurs etc, and all clubs in leagues below the Premier League where 95% upwards of the fanbase live within 30 miles of their team's ground tend to have a much less fickle support who will still go to the game regardless of whether or not they can watch it live on TV. Would a devout Cobblers fan who also follows Liverpool stay home on a Saturday so he could see Liverpool play Blackburn Rovers? I think not, he'd simply record it and watch it when he got home. Effectively the EPL are saying it would adversely affect the rich elite, but not the majority of the other clubs, so we're against it. The argument does not wash with me I'm afraid.

Mind you, if the ruling is upheld, the EPL would simply end all the country by country deals and sell one package for the whole of Europe at a much higher price than before to compensate for the reduction of Sky money for UK exclusive rights, so Bill Kenwright et al can rest easy for now. Also, guess which is the only broadcaster with the clout both financial and technical to deliver Europewide coverage? Irritating though this may be for BSkyB, ultimately they end up making even more money out it.

The real moolah to be made for the EPL is from overseas deals in Asia and the USA, and of course this ruling has no bearing on these arrangements. Unfortunately, even allowing for the continued rise of decent quality but illegal internet streaming the gravy train looks set to roll for some time to come, but on the upside we would see much cheaper monthly subs for our legal footy fix.

You probably won't find this story given any prominence in any of Murdoch's rags for obvious reasons. BSkyB will not take this lying down, and you can be sure that unfortunate though it may be, big business will likely beat the little man (or in this case woman) every time, but for the time being keep up the good fight Karen!
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El Camerero Gordo is at it again. The funniest man in football has revealed how he "thinks" £70 million was "talked about" in relation to his compatriot, the famous hair gel consumer Fernando Torres, while he was in charge at Anfield, and "maybe you (Liverpool) receive an offer", and how he reckons Chelsea got a bargain! Beggars belief really, but we are talking about Rafael Benitez, so jaw dropping complacency combined with a deliberate vagueness are nothing new. He "thinks" an obscene but unremarked £70 million was talked about, and "maybe" an offer was made? What, doesn't he know one way or the other? He was there after all. You can bet all the Britneys in Essex that if this was during Waldorf & Statler's tenure and they had been offered £70 million for Torres they would have leapt at it with all the fenzied glee of Keef being let loose in a cocaine factory.

Also Mr B revealed he wants to manage Liverpool again. Sure, after Dalglish has painstakingly rebuilt the team from the dregs left by the FSW any owner would be a fool not to re-employ him. However for sheer entertainment value I say give him the job back now. In fact, let's start a campaign!
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Those rather funny middle aged schoolboys on Top Gear are in trouble again, this time for slating a Mexican sports car and implying that Mexicans and by extension the car are "lazy" and "feckless" and that Mexican food resembles "refried sick". Admittedly taken out of context it is a tiny bit OTT, but come on! Apparently the Mexican ambassador demanded an apology from the BBC and called the comments "offensive, xenophobic and humiliating". The skit was raised in the Mexican Senate no less, and an all party group of MPs over there on a beano (sic - but not refried) were told the remarks were  "ignorant, derogatory and racist", with more apologies being demanded.

Jaysus Hairy Christ, if these people ever had to advertise in a lonely hearts column they would have to advertise themselves as having NSOH. Have they not got more pressing matters to worry about like drug trafficking, kidnappings, border control and gun running, or am I being stereotypical?
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Overheard mobile phone conversation in a hospital waiting area:

Heavily accented and be-tracksuited local yokel..."...well we've already got an Emma, Jemma, Carol..(plus 3 or 4 other girl's names) so we can't call her any of those.." I sincerely hope he was talking about gerbils or somesuch and not children!

The Pain Recedes ......a bit

Well, the finger is now back in a cast, hand sculpted by Jen, and a magnificent construct it is too! Over the course of the next fortnight the cast will be taken off and replaced twice, and at the end of it my finger will be a straight as it's ever likely to be.

With the help of trusty old friend Nurofen, my back pain is more bearable today. Only two knee buckling spasms on the way to the hospital, instead of one evey 50 yards as was the case yesterday. Whilst hobbling along with a peculiar gait the thought occurs to me that what I could really do with is a walking stick. I've got one of those carbon fibre hill walking jobbies at home, but as it ends in a blunt spike it is rather impractical around the house, as it would leave carpets full of holes. B would not be pleased. No, I need a real "old geezer's" walking stick with a rubber wassname on the end.

After the hospital appointment I limp into town, pondering where does one buy a walking stick? First off I tried Millets the camping equipment shop, as I know I've seen sticks in there before. A trusty pole carved from Appalachian pine might be just the thing. Millets is shut for refurbishment until April. Next up a wander through the market. A long shot I know, and if I had wanted a handbag or some luggage, or my mobile unlocked, or some fruit & veg, I'd have had no problem. Hmmmm... I know! Old peoples clothes shop M&S; they must sell walking sticks surely? Not as far as I could see, and I wasn't about to ask, it's bad enough admitting to myself that I need the bloody thing in the first place. Last chance was old people's cheaper clothes shop BHS. Nope. So I hobbled back to the office, by now in some discomfort, and I now sit here typing this self-pitying nonsense.

If anyone has any sensible suggestions, or indeed silly ones, do tell.....

Gazpacho Soup - Part One

In an alternate reality I was born standing up, and, talking back no less. Raised by pater, a travelling atomic weapons salesman, and mamma, a kindly teacher of Welsh Sanskrit in the deep dark fields of Lancashire, at the age of three I had the ability to draw like Picasso in his Blue Period but thought better of it. At age seven I won small Lancashire village Holcombe Brook in a game of marbles, swapped it for the early beat single Ain't She Sweet by Tony Sheridan and The Beatles, and swapped this for a large hadron collider, which I still have in the loft somewhere.

School was a breeze, nay several breeze blocks with a roof. It was while at school in the winter of '67 that I collapsed in Quantum Mechanics Class 2B, and was rushed to hospital where it was discovered I had a severe allergy to v-neck jumpers. Age 9 I met and had a clandestine affair with Gina Lollobrigida, behind the bike sheds with a variety of exotic fruit. Nothing nefarious you understand, but the fruit was beautifully arranged. Behind the bike sheds was also where I smoked my first fag. He wasn't best pleased. Discretion being the better part of discretionary, I ran away from home and sailed the world with Sir Francis Chichester. He wasn't best pleased either. Abandoned on Diego Garcia, the US Navy mistook me for a small Russian spy and built the prison at Guantanamo Bay specially to hold me. Bet you didn't know that did you? I escaped from Cuba by disguising myself as a cigar, but not before being hand rolled on the thigh of a dusky maiden, a most pleasurable experience and I recommend it highly.

On returning to school and having used bribery, bread pudding and subtle thought manipulation I passed my 11-plus and invented Steve Jobs. It was 1970 and he was no use at all. It was around this time that I first kindled an interest in Association Football, and the new fangled concept of jumpers for goalposts. A use for the v-neck at last! Unfortunately this sporting interest was curtailed by a then lifelong fear of whistles which was overcome by 17 sessions of whistle aversion therapy. It is believed the phobia was caused by my pater, Gawd Bless 'Im, a cheery bloke who used to rise with the larks and whistle a happy tune while crashing about the ramshackle hut in a carefree fashion.

Although the scholarly life was pushing me in the direction of a life of drudgery as an accountant, I followed my inner calling and went on the road with the Goombay Dance Band for five years, along with my staff of thirteen. Just before setting out Patrick Spens the arse wiper and Mrs Shreeves the spittle groomer both had to be fired for crimes of passion with a carrot on the Upper Lawn, so I was soon down to a paltry staff of eleven, but enough to make a team. And so it came to pass that many a dull afternoon betwixt gigs were spent playing Association Fitbah with The Goombay Dance Band and their roadies. After the game it was regular practice for Joe Goombay and Mick Dance and the Band to hold court in their hotel room and make ginormous cakes which were passed around with gay abandon. Our heads were swimming with the effects of too much marzipan I can tell you! At some point during this malarkey a cherry was lost with a green haired girl from Scunthorpe whose name has receded into the mists of time. We'll call her Sophie Tightly, and why not?

Flying off at several tangents, more may follow, or not.
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Feel The Pain

Stress affects different people in different ways.

As you may know, as an accountant, my busiest time of year is December/January when clients finally get round to giving us the info we need to complete their Tax Returns, the online filing deadline being 31st January. As the deadline approaches work gets more and more manic. This year was worse than most as folk don't want to think about the taxman on top of all the other shite the Government are currently landing on us, and so even the more efficient of clients were much later than normal.

Anyway, I always have 1st February off to recover, and usually the stress release factor does not kick in until two or three days later, so at least I can have a day off slobbing about in comfort. Not this time though.

My pressure valve blowing is usually followed by a migraine, which with me are not so bad, and within 24 hours I'm back to normal. In years gone by the release was always muscle seizure in the lower back, which takes a lot longer to get over. I thought I had beaten that particular manifestation with visits to the osteopath having done the trick, but last Friday I noticed a low level pain in the top of my left hip. It went away over the weekend, but on Monday (deadline day) it got slowly more and more intense, to the point that come 5 o'clock I could barely hobble home, getting spasms every so often that almost made me fall over. Last night was hell. I got about 4 hours sleep all told, as every time I had to turn over was bloody agony. Today is a little better, but I can't sit or stand for more than 10 minutes at a time otherwise I get shooting pains down the legs. So far I've resisted taking the as yet untouched elephant strength pain killers I was given when I had my finger operation last November but if tonight is anything like last night the bottle could well be cracked open.

Bloody annoying waste of a day off if you ask me! And there's no way I'll be going to the weekly piss up, err, sorry, pub quiz tonight. Bastard****~~~##

Tomorrow I have a morning hospital appointment with Jen at Hand Therapy (that reads all wrong...) to re-cast my still too wonky finger in a last ditch attempt to straighten it out, and unless I can't move at all I am determined to go. Could be interesting....

B reckons I need more exercise which is probably true, but I am a a lazy git and the idea of "exercise" fills me with....ennui! Having said that, I've got get up and hobble about a bit or I'll seize up completely. Ho-hum.