Episodes
I am one of only four people in the entire population of the UK & the USA who can lay claim to the statistical anomaly of never having watched an entire episode of enormo-hit sitcom Friends. I watched about three quarters of either the first or second episode of the first season, decided it was full of self absorbed smug self satisfied arseholes who in normal life one would cross the street to avoid, and never watched it again. Not that I've anything against self absorbed smug self satisfied arseholes as I thought Ricky Gervais in The Office was marvellous, it's just that in the twenty minutes or so of Friends I watched not a glimmer of an inward smile could even be detected. Enough reason to not watch it, after all I had a life back then!
The fact that new BBC2 non-comedy Episodes is written by the writers behind Friends initially put me off, but starring as it does Tamsin Greig & Stephen Mangan reprising a partnership first forged in the mad C4 comedy drama Green Wing, which I loved, was enough reason to give it a go. The first - ahem - episode as scene setter introduces us to a husband and wife writing partnership Sean & Beverly Lincoln (Mangan & Greig) who are transported to LA in order to recreate their hit UK sitcom for American audiences. Matt Le Blanc, who apparently was a star of Friends, playing himself, is briefly introduced in the first scene when his car collides with an oncoming car being driven on the wrong (UK) side of the road by Beverley. It is also apparent that Sean harbours fantasies for one of the American TV company's hot totties. Then we go back "Two years earlier" to the real beginning when they were first approached by the US TV executive at a UK awards show.
Although there were no laugh out loud moments, Episodes shows some promise, but the running gag with the guard at the entrance to the gated Hollywood community Bev & Sean are staying not recognising them, and the electronic voice that lets everyone know "The front door is ajar" each time it's opened are already tiresome. I can see it disappearing up its own anus in a fog of self reference, but I might be wrong.
Episodes will have to go some to even come close to BBC2's last two quiet comedies, Roger & Val Just Got In and the excruciatingly good The Trip.
Is Episodes a turkey? Very possibly, but watch this space.
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Primeval
This load of old guff on ITV, involving time travelling dinosaurs and time travelling ex-wives with a grudge was scrapped in 2009 for being, well, shite, has, for some inexplicable reason been given a reprieve. With the help of, among others, BBC Worldwide, who know a thing or two about exporting TV shows, it has had a load of cash thrown at it, so the special effects now at least merit the first part of the description, and the HQ of the Anomaly Research Centre has been given a complete makeover and now looks like a modern era Star Trek set.
An extra £5.36 has been spent on the script and there's now evolving sub-plots centred around an enigmatic academic looking chap who seems to live in a country pile in the middle of The Lost Gardens Of Heligan, along with another featuring a strange couple from the nineteenth century, the male of whom could well be a Victorian serial killer. Primeval still seems to be a "Monster Of The Week" fest for all that.
A turkey? Most certainly, but entertaining in a mindlessly bonkers fashion.
15 Jan 2011
13 Jan 2011
Moral dualism
Wayne Rooney, Emmanuel Adebayor, Carlos Tevez, John Terry, Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard, Rio Ferdinand, Kolo Toure, Didier Drogba, Ashley Cole, Fernando Torres, Gareth Barry, Wayne Bridge, Dimitar Berbatov, Andre Arshavin, Nicolas Anelka, Ryan Giggs.
According to this somewhat out of date list of the 50 highest paid football players, the blokes above earn a combined £98 million per year for kicking a football about, falling over and whinging a lot, and generally acting the arse. Mr Rooney's earnings in the list have been amended to reflect the alleged £250K per week he now receives since throwing his toys out of the pram a few months back. No doubt Tevez' salary is under reported too after his copycat tantrum recently was settled "amicably". In addition you could probably increase the rest listed by at least 10% to make it more accurate, so we're probably talking over £110 million a year in total. Note this is what these overpaid excuses for sportsmen are paid by their clubs. You could probably double the figures if you add in sponsorship deals.
The figure of £110 million is significant because this is the figure Manchester City Council are looking to save by axing 2000 (!) jobs, as announced today. Doubly ironic is that 9 of the 17 players listed play for the Manchester clubs. Perhaps they should reflect on this when they next drive their ludicrous motors through the city.
...............................................................................................
That first T20 game against the beleaguered Aussies was a bit squeaky bum time was it not? As much as we tried we still couldn't quite manage to throw the game away, rescued on the last ball by Warwickshire bowler Chris Woakes, who I freely admit I'd never heard of before this game. The problem is by being a Northants follower (fan is far too strong a term) I've rather lost interest in the county game, as, to be frank, throughout most of my 45 years in the county Northants have been shite. They were once bowled out for 12 by Gloucestershire in 1907, about 58 years before my time in the Rose of the Shires I hasten to add, but prescient nonetheless. Are they the only major county never to have won the County Championship? Probably!
My fondest memory of Northants is during their all too brief period of ascendancy in the late 70s and early 80s, when I got to see their three one day finals at Lords, winning two. Sarfraz Nawaz! Allan Lamb! David Steele! Jim Griffiths the Irthlingborough Paceman! Some other blokes! During one of these beanos at some point after lunch, by which time us lads were somewhat inebriated, my mate Martin found that using his legs to move about was becoming a tad problematic, so he resulted to crawling about on all fours. In this state he found himself staring at a pair of immaculately shined size twelve hobnail boots. Looking up and grinning sheepishly at PC Plod he uttered the immortal words "My, you have got big feet haven't you"! Luckily for him the copper saw the funny side, hoisted Martin up by one ear, and, grinning replied "Yes I have, and if I see you doing that again I will shove one right up yer scrawny pathetic arse". Hysterics ensued.
Digression is the thief of time as my Grandad used to say, or was it procrastination? Anyway, the marvellous bunch of Saffers that wear the three lions at the moment has made me think that I should take more interest in the county game in the coming season. Expect some barely formed sentences on the subject later in the year.
.............................................................................................
At least the Aussies haven't lost their sense of humour. This is from the Australian ABC commentary during the fifth test:
Aussie commentator Kerry O'Keefe: What was for lunch today Aggers?
Aggers: I had a nice meat pie for lunch thanks Kerry. And I have to say, you Australians certainly know how to make a good pie.
O'Keefe: We know how to bowl them too! Poor ball from Mitchell Johnson there..
...and...
Aggers: Can you guess who they've arranged to present the Ashes trophy to the victorious England team?
O'Keefe: Nelson Mandela?
Chortle!
..............................................................................................
According to this somewhat out of date list of the 50 highest paid football players, the blokes above earn a combined £98 million per year for kicking a football about, falling over and whinging a lot, and generally acting the arse. Mr Rooney's earnings in the list have been amended to reflect the alleged £250K per week he now receives since throwing his toys out of the pram a few months back. No doubt Tevez' salary is under reported too after his copycat tantrum recently was settled "amicably". In addition you could probably increase the rest listed by at least 10% to make it more accurate, so we're probably talking over £110 million a year in total. Note this is what these overpaid excuses for sportsmen are paid by their clubs. You could probably double the figures if you add in sponsorship deals.
The figure of £110 million is significant because this is the figure Manchester City Council are looking to save by axing 2000 (!) jobs, as announced today. Doubly ironic is that 9 of the 17 players listed play for the Manchester clubs. Perhaps they should reflect on this when they next drive their ludicrous motors through the city.
...............................................................................................
That first T20 game against the beleaguered Aussies was a bit squeaky bum time was it not? As much as we tried we still couldn't quite manage to throw the game away, rescued on the last ball by Warwickshire bowler Chris Woakes, who I freely admit I'd never heard of before this game. The problem is by being a Northants follower (fan is far too strong a term) I've rather lost interest in the county game, as, to be frank, throughout most of my 45 years in the county Northants have been shite. They were once bowled out for 12 by Gloucestershire in 1907, about 58 years before my time in the Rose of the Shires I hasten to add, but prescient nonetheless. Are they the only major county never to have won the County Championship? Probably!
My fondest memory of Northants is during their all too brief period of ascendancy in the late 70s and early 80s, when I got to see their three one day finals at Lords, winning two. Sarfraz Nawaz! Allan Lamb! David Steele! Jim Griffiths the Irthlingborough Paceman! Some other blokes! During one of these beanos at some point after lunch, by which time us lads were somewhat inebriated, my mate Martin found that using his legs to move about was becoming a tad problematic, so he resulted to crawling about on all fours. In this state he found himself staring at a pair of immaculately shined size twelve hobnail boots. Looking up and grinning sheepishly at PC Plod he uttered the immortal words "My, you have got big feet haven't you"! Luckily for him the copper saw the funny side, hoisted Martin up by one ear, and, grinning replied "Yes I have, and if I see you doing that again I will shove one right up yer scrawny pathetic arse". Hysterics ensued.
Digression is the thief of time as my Grandad used to say, or was it procrastination? Anyway, the marvellous bunch of Saffers that wear the three lions at the moment has made me think that I should take more interest in the county game in the coming season. Expect some barely formed sentences on the subject later in the year.
.............................................................................................
At least the Aussies haven't lost their sense of humour. This is from the Australian ABC commentary during the fifth test:
Aussie commentator Kerry O'Keefe: What was for lunch today Aggers?
Aggers: I had a nice meat pie for lunch thanks Kerry. And I have to say, you Australians certainly know how to make a good pie.
O'Keefe: We know how to bowl them too! Poor ball from Mitchell Johnson there..
...and...
Aggers: Can you guess who they've arranged to present the Ashes trophy to the victorious England team?
O'Keefe: Nelson Mandela?
Chortle!
..............................................................................................
10 Jan 2011
A treatise on modern dialectism and the new dualism, or How I Escaped A Slippery Cyclicality Of Thought
Bet that scared you shitless!
....the first in a series of surreal ankle bites, inspired by Non-Sequiturs-R-Us....
....the first in a series of surreal ankle bites, inspired by Non-Sequiturs-R-Us....
9 Jan 2011
Is it a boat, or two-thirds of a pint?
A schooner is both the above. In Australia you can buy a glass of beer in a schooner, roughly two thirds of a pint. Our wonderful rulers have decided in their infinite wisdom that us befuddled consumers need more "choice" when buying a beer in a pub. We will still be able to buy pints and halves, but will soon be able to buy a schooner.
According to Science Minister David Willetts "We have listened to consumers and businesses. They have called for fixed quantities to be kept but with greater flexibility. That is what this change will deliver." Bollocks I say, and exactly what has science got to do with it? Why would anyone want to buy two thirds of a pint? Pubs need the extra cost of stocking schooner glasses like Alastair Cook needs batting tips from Ricky Ponting. What a dumb idea!
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Phill tells me that as a result of atrophying for three months, he wore himself to a frazzle emptying a filing cabinet during a brief visit to what I believe is called "work", the poor lamb. Mind you I was overcome with dizzying exhaustion the other day after the physically arduous act of filing a Tax Return online....
.............................................................................................
Overheard street conversation...
Ugly 50 to 60 something unshaven chav bloke replete with hoody and tracky bottoms and can of Red Bull (see below) to "lady" friend, angrily.."...if I get meself alone in a room wiv 'er, I dunno, I might,...er well y'know I just dunno, but I won't be responsible." I guess not....
..............................................................................................
On his blog, Phill has highlighted the "plight" of local(ish) drain on NHS resources Paul Mason http://networkedblogs.com/cLcCR which makes me consider the amount of pointless sustenance there is for sale in every town in our sceptered isle. Here are a few examples:
Red Bull - Why would anyone want to drink something that smells, from a considerable distance away downwind, exactly like freshly heaved child's vomit? The only purpose of this evil whiffing brew seems to be to enable chavs to stay up longer while drinking voddy, thereby guaranteeing more fights in our town centres in the middle of the night. What fuckwit at the Food Standards Agency gave this shite a licence?
Burger chains (all of 'em) - I can proudly testify that the one and only time I have visited a certain chain "restaurant" was to take a long stinky dump in one of their Madrid outlets (in the loo, not the restaurant!), the after effects of enjoying local anchovy tapas the day before. I wish I had known the Spanish for "I'd leave it a while mate, if I were you".
Anyway, I digress. These ultimate expressions of capitalist homogeneity are more than partly responsible for the rapid destruction of Amazonian rain forest to enable the locals to herd cattle to initially feed the insatiable American, and later UK and the rest of the world's appetite for MSG enhanced gloop encased in what is loosely termed a bun. Even the discerning French have got these dreadful things in their cities. A pox on them all.
I doubt tracts of forest the size of Wales are disappearing each year to accommodate battery chicken farms, but those nugget things are vile too. A bucket of dry tasteless pieces of white meat probably farmed in the most horrible way imaginable encased in white hot deep fried congealed dandruff is not my cup of larks' vomit.
If you've had the good sense to turn down the litre of Coca-Cola that's inevitably offered to wash this shite down why not visit a chain coffee shop (sorry Will), yet another expression of bland utilitarianism. I recently visited a Starbucks, or it might have been a Costa Coffee, or Imperialist Fascist Republic or whatever, and asked for "A cup of coffee". The disinterested Eastern European minimum wage slave behind the counter then reeled off a list of progressively bizarre sounding combos of coffee, milk, chocolate, cream, frog spawn and hatstand. "No, I want a cup of coffee" I said in a doubtless bored fashion. B said "Sit down, I'll sort it out". I believe I had an Americano (Will can correct me if I'm wrong), which is a cup of coffee!
...............................................................................................
Stevenage, what a team!........
Have a good day. :)
According to Science Minister David Willetts "We have listened to consumers and businesses. They have called for fixed quantities to be kept but with greater flexibility. That is what this change will deliver." Bollocks I say, and exactly what has science got to do with it? Why would anyone want to buy two thirds of a pint? Pubs need the extra cost of stocking schooner glasses like Alastair Cook needs batting tips from Ricky Ponting. What a dumb idea!
.............................................................................................
Phill tells me that as a result of atrophying for three months, he wore himself to a frazzle emptying a filing cabinet during a brief visit to what I believe is called "work", the poor lamb. Mind you I was overcome with dizzying exhaustion the other day after the physically arduous act of filing a Tax Return online....
.............................................................................................
Overheard street conversation...
Ugly 50 to 60 something unshaven chav bloke replete with hoody and tracky bottoms and can of Red Bull (see below) to "lady" friend, angrily.."...if I get meself alone in a room wiv 'er, I dunno, I might,...er well y'know I just dunno, but I won't be responsible." I guess not....
..............................................................................................
On his blog, Phill has highlighted the "plight" of local(ish) drain on NHS resources Paul Mason http://networkedblogs.com/cLcCR which makes me consider the amount of pointless sustenance there is for sale in every town in our sceptered isle. Here are a few examples:
Red Bull - Why would anyone want to drink something that smells, from a considerable distance away downwind, exactly like freshly heaved child's vomit? The only purpose of this evil whiffing brew seems to be to enable chavs to stay up longer while drinking voddy, thereby guaranteeing more fights in our town centres in the middle of the night. What fuckwit at the Food Standards Agency gave this shite a licence?
Burger chains (all of 'em) - I can proudly testify that the one and only time I have visited a certain chain "restaurant" was to take a long stinky dump in one of their Madrid outlets (in the loo, not the restaurant!), the after effects of enjoying local anchovy tapas the day before. I wish I had known the Spanish for "I'd leave it a while mate, if I were you".
Anyway, I digress. These ultimate expressions of capitalist homogeneity are more than partly responsible for the rapid destruction of Amazonian rain forest to enable the locals to herd cattle to initially feed the insatiable American, and later UK and the rest of the world's appetite for MSG enhanced gloop encased in what is loosely termed a bun. Even the discerning French have got these dreadful things in their cities. A pox on them all.
I doubt tracts of forest the size of Wales are disappearing each year to accommodate battery chicken farms, but those nugget things are vile too. A bucket of dry tasteless pieces of white meat probably farmed in the most horrible way imaginable encased in white hot deep fried congealed dandruff is not my cup of larks' vomit.
If you've had the good sense to turn down the litre of Coca-Cola that's inevitably offered to wash this shite down why not visit a chain coffee shop (sorry Will), yet another expression of bland utilitarianism. I recently visited a Starbucks, or it might have been a Costa Coffee, or Imperialist Fascist Republic or whatever, and asked for "A cup of coffee". The disinterested Eastern European minimum wage slave behind the counter then reeled off a list of progressively bizarre sounding combos of coffee, milk, chocolate, cream, frog spawn and hatstand. "No, I want a cup of coffee" I said in a doubtless bored fashion. B said "Sit down, I'll sort it out". I believe I had an Americano (Will can correct me if I'm wrong), which is a cup of coffee!
...............................................................................................
Stevenage, what a team!........
Have a good day. :)
7 Jan 2011
He can bowl to the left and to the right!
 |
| Yeehah!!! |
The smack of Pommie willow on leather, the mastery of Sir Alastair Cook, the deadly eye of Jimmy Anderson, the no-nonsense approach of Jonathan Trott, the easy dominance of Andrew Strauss, the towering menace of Chris Tremlett, jeez, even Matt Prior looked like a world class batsman against the Aussies. Bloody marvellous, innit? :)))
Some records were smashed into another dimension....
50178459 runs scored by England - the highest total recorded anywhere in any reality by anyone or thing.
Lord Cook of Brisbane scored 7041 of those in one innings at The Gabba, one-handed while texting his wife with t'other.
King Cook of Essex also recorded a relativity busting 703 hours 4 minutes 15 seconds at the crease, miraculously avoiding growing a beard by sheer force of will.
Multitudinous majestic thumpings of the Saggy Greens by an innings in one series - another universe straddling triumph.
Other highlights included....
All 17 England squad members scored centuries at one time or another. So plentiful were the tons that Monty Panesar's 103 not out in a tenth wicket stand with Andy Flowers' mum against the Ricardo "Chunder" Ponderosa Cricket cloob select XI went by unnoticed - until now. Well done Monty.
At a rain drenched Adelaide Andrew Strauss appeared to walk on water. Oz captain Dick "Muncher" Poontang referred the decision but Hawkeye footage was inconclusive, so the miracle stands.
So quick was Jimmy Anderson, that he managed to give birth between the fourth and fifth ball of one over in Melbourne, send the future Aussie-terrorising speedster back home to mum in Blighty and still have the strength of character to grab a wicket with the sixth ball. Or did I make that one up?
The only Australian to win anything at all was Ricky "Hopeless Punt" Ponting, who received the inaugural The Most Fun To Be Had With A Name Award, presented by former Green Bay Packers linebacker Michael Hunt, who nobody had seen for years.
Finally the Sydney Fire Department was stretched to breaking point tonight as all its resources were called upon to extinguish a raging inferno caused by the production line overheating at Sydney Humble Pies Pty. The tearful owner, one Glenn McGrath, was found hunched in a corner pleading with his maker for forgiveness.
This is quite amusing...note the author's name is an anagram of Wanton Swill...
http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/sport/cricket/reasons-why-poms-wont-win/story-e6frey50-1225955985591
And just in case you've forgotten the words to the song....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2JZnzu3vKPM
One El - Thanks for the links!
Some old but still good jokes...
What’s the difference between Ricky Ponting and a funeral director?
A funeral director doesn’t keep losing the ashes
What do you call an Australian with 100 by his mane?
A bowler
And finally, finally, more history - some classic ripostes to typically witless sledging from Glenn McGrath, who it was soooo good to see handing out awards to England players at the end of the game...
Glenn McGrath (bowling to portly Zimbabwean chicken farmer Eddo Brandes): "Hey Eddo, why are you so f***ing fat?" Eddo Brandes: "Because every time I f*** your wife, she throws me a biscuit"
McGrath to Ramnaresh Sarwan: "So what does Brian Lara's d*ck taste like?" Sarwan: "I don't know. Ask your wife." McGrath (losing it): "If you ever f***ing mention my wife again, I'll f***ing rip your f***ing throat out."
But my favourite wind up has to be....
Malcolm Marshall was bowling to David Boon who had played and missed a couple of times. Marshall : "Now David, Are you going to get out now or am I going to have to bowl around the wicket and kill you?"
Wahey!
Seriously though...
It would be great to thrash 'em in the T20 and the one dayers, but I predict the Aussies to at least win the one day series, as our foot will be well and truly off the gas, having won the only contest that really matters, and Jimmy Anderson will be missing for most of the time on a well deserved 10 day paternity leave break (none of your 6 months off for paternity leave or whatever nonsense is currently law - they do things properly these cricketing types!). Similar in reverse to us winning the one dayers 4 years ago off the back of a 5 nil thumping in the Test series.
Still.......bring it on!
3 Jan 2011
Come in David Moyes, your time is up
Everybody admires David Moyes for turning Everton from perennial relegation candidates under a succession of hopeless managers into regular contenders for the Europa League. In last year's close season all the pundits, and Moyes himself were talking of Everton having the best squad in 20 years, and there was talk of us pushing on to challenge for a coveted top 4 place.
Like I said, everybody loves David Moyes. Apart that is from what was a small but is now a growing and vociferous section of home support who see him as being tactically stubborn to the point of exasperation, unimaginative and indecisive where substitutions were concerned, showing favouritism towards certain players who would play no matter how out of form, and having far too cosy a relationship with Blue Bill, who is another story to be told.
I was never of that ilk, until this season that is. It has been obvious to the even most cluelessly loyal fan and neutral alike that Moyes' continued obsession with 4-5-1 had been found out a long time ago. He persists with this formation in order to accommodate Tim Cahill who disappears in a traditional rigid 4-4-2, and fans have been saying why not show a bit of nous, play a 4-4-2 but with Cahill turning it into a 4-4-1-1 when necessary? Surely Cahill despite being an Aussie (wahey!) is intelligent enough to adapt? If you believe Moyes', then, no he ain't. He's now off to the Asia Cup down under for up to six weeks, so Moyes' hand is forced, and one hopes he will change the bloody formation for once.
We also have three strikers who have scored less between them than Widdecombe in her entire lifetime. I don't consider this all the fault of the players. Yakubu was finally showing signs of losing some weight and gaining some form a couple of months back - he actually scored fer chrissakes - so Moyes' drops him, and it now looks like he's on his way. At least that's quite a few pounds off the wage bill and off the bench. Beckford, again, showed some form and gets dropped. The "1" of the 4-5-1 is Moyes' favourite Saha who looks less likely to score than Graham Norton in a brothel, although he was denied a nailed on penalty in our woeful capitulation against Stoke City on Saturday.
Which brings me on to Moyes' favourites. The most glaring of these at the moment is Arteta, who since becoming the club's highest paid player by signing a lucrative contract in the close season has done fuck all, yet gets picked every week. Even Moyes' now realises it might be time for a change as Arteta is beginning to get regularly substituted. Ah, substitutions....always dead on the hour mark, usually Osman for Arteta, Beckford for Saha, no change in formation until the 85th minute when desperation usually means throwing on the other striker. If someone like 'Appy 'Arry had our meagre squad I'm certain he would change the formation and tactics, and not be so bloody predictable with his substitutes.
Which brings us on to Steven Pienaar, probably off to play for 'Appy 'Arry very soon. OK, he's been, along with Leighton Baines, our best player going forward this season, but in the last transfer window we bought a French (I think) winger called Magaye Gueye, described as Moyes' secret weapon. So secret he's practically invisible. With Pienaar going, either this month or at the end of the season, why oh why not give this guy (sic) a run out?
Moyes has run out of ideas, and it's time he went. I never thought I would ever say that, but there it is. Get in a young ambitious manager who plays attacking football, as I and a growing number of Toffees are fed up to the back teeth of the dull one dimensional slow paced bollocks we serve up every week. I thank Moyes' for giving us some respectability and for some great games, but after 9 years his time has come to an end, and I wish him all the best at whatever club he goes to.
..............................................................................................
Everybody loves "Blue" Bill Kenwright.......no. I'll do that another time.
Like I said, everybody loves David Moyes. Apart that is from what was a small but is now a growing and vociferous section of home support who see him as being tactically stubborn to the point of exasperation, unimaginative and indecisive where substitutions were concerned, showing favouritism towards certain players who would play no matter how out of form, and having far too cosy a relationship with Blue Bill, who is another story to be told.
I was never of that ilk, until this season that is. It has been obvious to the even most cluelessly loyal fan and neutral alike that Moyes' continued obsession with 4-5-1 had been found out a long time ago. He persists with this formation in order to accommodate Tim Cahill who disappears in a traditional rigid 4-4-2, and fans have been saying why not show a bit of nous, play a 4-4-2 but with Cahill turning it into a 4-4-1-1 when necessary? Surely Cahill despite being an Aussie (wahey!) is intelligent enough to adapt? If you believe Moyes', then, no he ain't. He's now off to the Asia Cup down under for up to six weeks, so Moyes' hand is forced, and one hopes he will change the bloody formation for once.
We also have three strikers who have scored less between them than Widdecombe in her entire lifetime. I don't consider this all the fault of the players. Yakubu was finally showing signs of losing some weight and gaining some form a couple of months back - he actually scored fer chrissakes - so Moyes' drops him, and it now looks like he's on his way. At least that's quite a few pounds off the wage bill and off the bench. Beckford, again, showed some form and gets dropped. The "1" of the 4-5-1 is Moyes' favourite Saha who looks less likely to score than Graham Norton in a brothel, although he was denied a nailed on penalty in our woeful capitulation against Stoke City on Saturday.
Which brings me on to Moyes' favourites. The most glaring of these at the moment is Arteta, who since becoming the club's highest paid player by signing a lucrative contract in the close season has done fuck all, yet gets picked every week. Even Moyes' now realises it might be time for a change as Arteta is beginning to get regularly substituted. Ah, substitutions....always dead on the hour mark, usually Osman for Arteta, Beckford for Saha, no change in formation until the 85th minute when desperation usually means throwing on the other striker. If someone like 'Appy 'Arry had our meagre squad I'm certain he would change the formation and tactics, and not be so bloody predictable with his substitutes.
Which brings us on to Steven Pienaar, probably off to play for 'Appy 'Arry very soon. OK, he's been, along with Leighton Baines, our best player going forward this season, but in the last transfer window we bought a French (I think) winger called Magaye Gueye, described as Moyes' secret weapon. So secret he's practically invisible. With Pienaar going, either this month or at the end of the season, why oh why not give this guy (sic) a run out?
Moyes has run out of ideas, and it's time he went. I never thought I would ever say that, but there it is. Get in a young ambitious manager who plays attacking football, as I and a growing number of Toffees are fed up to the back teeth of the dull one dimensional slow paced bollocks we serve up every week. I thank Moyes' for giving us some respectability and for some great games, but after 9 years his time has come to an end, and I wish him all the best at whatever club he goes to.
..............................................................................................
Everybody loves "Blue" Bill Kenwright.......no. I'll do that another time.
1 Jan 2011
Books
I had a typical (for my generation) middle class education at a Grammar School after sailing through the old 11 plus exam, by far the easiest exam I ever took, in fact I could never come to terms with my best mate of the time failing the same exam. As a result of this and his going "down the road" literally and metaphorically to the local Secondary Modern, our friendship died a slow but inescapable death as our social circles diverged completely. Stephen Ward wherefore art thou?
Anyway, I digress. The point of this wibble is not as you might imagine from the above a diatribe against the division caused by selective education, no, for once the title of the piece actually directly relates to the content. My Grammar School education combined with my natural affinity for English & English Lit led to my reading list from the ages of 14 to 17 being heavily influenced by our form master and Lit teacher Geoff Dean. You see he was seemingly very much a product of early 70s UK "red brick" university trendy left wing education, and could so easily have been Malcolm Bradbury's "History Man"*, suede jacket, floppy fringe, pipe'n'all.
His tutelage led my devouring Salinger, Kerouac, Bradbury, Sillitoe, Amis M, Kesey, Hunter Thompson, Burgess, all the usual suspects, even Burroughs. Most of those are still represented on my bookshelves. One author he tried to get us all to read was James Joyce, whose Ulysses I've attempted to read four times, and never got past the first chapter. To say it is impenetrable would make a 50s London peasouper look like the height of clarity. After my fourth and final attempt in 2009, my copy went in the charity bag. Last year an attempt was made on Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man, which started off fine but soon descends into a quagmire of repressed sexuality and turns into a stream of consciousness rant on Catholic guilt. I dunno, maybe I'm simply not of the mental capacity to appreciate such self referential bollocks, but that went the way of Oxfam too, 60% unread.
Anybody who says they managed Ulysses at first attempt is either lying or is now a Catholic priest with a predilection for self flagellation.
My next read will be Keith Richards' autobiography Life. You can bet there will be no repression there!
* If any of you out there know where I can find the marvellous BBC TV version of this on DVD, let me know!
Addendum
Since I wrote this yesterday, I found an old picture from 1974 of the whole school, and Mr Dean appears far straighter than I remember, but we were all posing for the school picture, so had to look our best. He's No.27...
Here's yours truly. I think this is bravery beyond the call of duty of me to post such a truly awful visage for your entertainment! I'm not going to tell you which one is me, you'll have to guess...the only thing I can offer in defence is that it was 1974 after all!!
Anyway, I digress. The point of this wibble is not as you might imagine from the above a diatribe against the division caused by selective education, no, for once the title of the piece actually directly relates to the content. My Grammar School education combined with my natural affinity for English & English Lit led to my reading list from the ages of 14 to 17 being heavily influenced by our form master and Lit teacher Geoff Dean. You see he was seemingly very much a product of early 70s UK "red brick" university trendy left wing education, and could so easily have been Malcolm Bradbury's "History Man"*, suede jacket, floppy fringe, pipe'n'all.
His tutelage led my devouring Salinger, Kerouac, Bradbury, Sillitoe, Amis M, Kesey, Hunter Thompson, Burgess, all the usual suspects, even Burroughs. Most of those are still represented on my bookshelves. One author he tried to get us all to read was James Joyce, whose Ulysses I've attempted to read four times, and never got past the first chapter. To say it is impenetrable would make a 50s London peasouper look like the height of clarity. After my fourth and final attempt in 2009, my copy went in the charity bag. Last year an attempt was made on Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man, which started off fine but soon descends into a quagmire of repressed sexuality and turns into a stream of consciousness rant on Catholic guilt. I dunno, maybe I'm simply not of the mental capacity to appreciate such self referential bollocks, but that went the way of Oxfam too, 60% unread.
Anybody who says they managed Ulysses at first attempt is either lying or is now a Catholic priest with a predilection for self flagellation.
My next read will be Keith Richards' autobiography Life. You can bet there will be no repression there!
* If any of you out there know where I can find the marvellous BBC TV version of this on DVD, let me know!
Addendum
Since I wrote this yesterday, I found an old picture from 1974 of the whole school, and Mr Dean appears far straighter than I remember, but we were all posing for the school picture, so had to look our best. He's No.27...
 |
| Thanks to Geoff Dean for opening my eyes to the world of books! |
Here's yours truly. I think this is bravery beyond the call of duty of me to post such a truly awful visage for your entertainment! I'm not going to tell you which one is me, you'll have to guess...the only thing I can offer in defence is that it was 1974 after all!!
 |
| Arrrghhh! |
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