onionbagblog
Future's Not Bright, Future's... Blurry
A selection of London's landmarks have a Ready Brek 'glow' to them over the festive period with the Brightening Up London art display decorating the capital. Celebrities were invited to submit a design for an illumination that would then be projected on to the face of a building.
Sadly the majority of the public figures chosen don't match up to the quality of the sixteen public buildings set aside for the project; Sir Bob Geldof does Wellington Arch, Shane Ritchie does Trinity Square and Naomi Campbell does the National Gallery.
That's a bit like asking Rolf Harris to come up with a few ideas for the roof of St Paul's.
A firm believer in experiencing events for myself rather than taking the word of some piss poor Telegraph / Times Arts Correspondent, I packed up my cynicism in my rucksack and cycled off on my very own Brightening Up London tour of the West End.
It didn't take long before the cynicism was weighing down heavy on my back and telling me to head back down to glorious SW8.
I felt let down by the art on offer and I'm compelled to find some scapegoat to point the finger at. How very convenient then that the whole colour by numbers anti-climax of Brightening Up London (this years oxymoron) is 'made possible' (translates as blatant cash throwing) by... Orange.
Aha, all becomes clear now when you understand that marketing has the inevitability of turning even the most well intentioned idea into a great big steaming pile of pooh.
Once the money men and the 'conceptual commercial creatives' (monkey boys) become involved, you may as well be watching Noel's House Party. Brightening Up London is no different with a number of submissions deemed 'too harsh' by the mobile monstrosity monster Orange for the festive season.
It appears that Saint Bob acted as a go-between for the Orange and the 'edgy' artists with his finger firmly placed on the button labelled Quality Control. Except as we have been reminded every fucking year since 1985, Geldof has yet to prove his ability as an arbiter of quality popular culture beyond the one good idea of 'give us the fucking money'
This has led to designs by Banksy, Damon Albarn and Peter Kennard all being rejected as they interpreted the theme of world peace with the use of CND logos, rather than snowflakes and cute kids.
It became clear to me on my Not So Magical Mystery Tour that what we're left with is a selection of bland sketches that resemble the artistic endeavour of a five-year-old being let loose with a giant piece of tracing paper on a public building. Given that Naomi Campbell is involved, this shouldn’t come as a surprise.
The paradox of all this is that the only attraction genuinely worth seeing is that most private of public buildings (mixing metaphors), Buckingham Palace. How I wanted to fucking hate the transformation of the pillar of the establishment into some tasteless mock Tudor Essex mansion adorned with thousands of festive lights and inflatable Santa's. It really was quite lovely though.
Buckingham Palace ROCKS and this time it has nothing to do with Brian May. The centrepiece of the attraction in SW1 involves a giant Union Jack adorning the front of the building. This must play havoc with the TV picture as Brenda settles down for Emmerdale.
The projection then rotates displaying the Thistle of Scotland and a Welsh dragon. One Nation Under a Groove and all that Your Motherfucker Majesty. I would have personally preferred some hardcore porn but no doubt Sir Bob vetoed that one too.
For this once a year privilege we of course have Her Majesty to thank. As the marketing shit accompanying Brightening Up London explains, the illumination of Buckingham Palace was carried out as a 'Festive gesture from the Royal Family to the nation.'
Oh fuck off you thieving parasites.
Well cheers 'Mam, but the kind of gesture that would make me happy would be for you and your leaching family to put an end to generations of taking the piss at our expense.
Elsewhere around the capital and there really isn't a great deal else to see. That well known artist and occasional rugger bugger brute Martin Johnson manages to fuck up Tate Britain; poor old Ken Livingstone proves that his bark is worse than his bite with some lame scribbles across the Imperial War Museum whilst Saintly Bob messes up Wellington Arch almost on the same scale that he messed up his own recording career.
Lessons to be learnt? Never give a celeb a pack of crayons, remember Sir Bob for being a shit singer in a fag end of a punk band and take up the call to arms and graffiti tag Buckingham Palace.
| Wednesday 31 December, 2003 |
A selection of London's landmarks have a Ready Brek 'glow' to them over the festive period with the Brightening Up London art display decorating the capital. Celebrities were invited to submit a design for an illumination that would then be projected on to the face of a building.
Sadly the majority of the public figures chosen don't match up to the quality of the sixteen public buildings set aside for the project; Sir Bob Geldof does Wellington Arch, Shane Ritchie does Trinity Square and Naomi Campbell does the National Gallery.
That's a bit like asking Rolf Harris to come up with a few ideas for the roof of St Paul's.
 I would have preferred some hardcore porn but Sir Bob vetoed that too |
It didn't take long before the cynicism was weighing down heavy on my back and telling me to head back down to glorious SW8.
I felt let down by the art on offer and I'm compelled to find some scapegoat to point the finger at. How very convenient then that the whole colour by numbers anti-climax of Brightening Up London (this years oxymoron) is 'made possible' (translates as blatant cash throwing) by... Orange.
Aha, all becomes clear now when you understand that marketing has the inevitability of turning even the most well intentioned idea into a great big steaming pile of pooh.
Once the money men and the 'conceptual commercial creatives' (monkey boys) become involved, you may as well be watching Noel's House Party. Brightening Up London is no different with a number of submissions deemed 'too harsh' by the mobile monstrosity monster Orange for the festive season.
It appears that Saint Bob acted as a go-between for the Orange and the 'edgy' artists with his finger firmly placed on the button labelled Quality Control. Except as we have been reminded every fucking year since 1985, Geldof has yet to prove his ability as an arbiter of quality popular culture beyond the one good idea of 'give us the fucking money'
This has led to designs by Banksy, Damon Albarn and Peter Kennard all being rejected as they interpreted the theme of world peace with the use of CND logos, rather than snowflakes and cute kids.
It became clear to me on my Not So Magical Mystery Tour that what we're left with is a selection of bland sketches that resemble the artistic endeavour of a five-year-old being let loose with a giant piece of tracing paper on a public building. Given that Naomi Campbell is involved, this shouldn’t come as a surprise.
The paradox of all this is that the only attraction genuinely worth seeing is that most private of public buildings (mixing metaphors), Buckingham Palace. How I wanted to fucking hate the transformation of the pillar of the establishment into some tasteless mock Tudor Essex mansion adorned with thousands of festive lights and inflatable Santa's. It really was quite lovely though.
Buckingham Palace ROCKS and this time it has nothing to do with Brian May. The centrepiece of the attraction in SW1 involves a giant Union Jack adorning the front of the building. This must play havoc with the TV picture as Brenda settles down for Emmerdale.
The projection then rotates displaying the Thistle of Scotland and a Welsh dragon. One Nation Under a Groove and all that Your Motherfucker Majesty. I would have personally preferred some hardcore porn but no doubt Sir Bob vetoed that one too.
For this once a year privilege we of course have Her Majesty to thank. As the marketing shit accompanying Brightening Up London explains, the illumination of Buckingham Palace was carried out as a 'Festive gesture from the Royal Family to the nation.'
Oh fuck off you thieving parasites.
Well cheers 'Mam, but the kind of gesture that would make me happy would be for you and your leaching family to put an end to generations of taking the piss at our expense.
Elsewhere around the capital and there really isn't a great deal else to see. That well known artist and occasional rugger bugger brute Martin Johnson manages to fuck up Tate Britain; poor old Ken Livingstone proves that his bark is worse than his bite with some lame scribbles across the Imperial War Museum whilst Saintly Bob messes up Wellington Arch almost on the same scale that he messed up his own recording career.
Lessons to be learnt? Never give a celeb a pack of crayons, remember Sir Bob for being a shit singer in a fag end of a punk band and take up the call to arms and graffiti tag Buckingham Palace.
| #permalink |
There is a House...
There is a house, down in Larkhall Park, SW8. They call it the Rising Sun pub. I very much doubt that it will be the ruin of Lambeth Council, but it has certainly got me all a drunk, not to mention a little pissed off with the local authority and its new system of 'open' government.
The background...
The European Commission has found 12m of loose change swashing around in Brussels and has decided that the good folk of Stockwell should benefit. The sales pitch talks of: 'providing opportunities and support for LOCAL people to make the changes THEMSELVES.'
Wonderful - the personal becomes the political, regional government operating at its most democratic grass roots. Sign me up governor.
The scheme has been wrapped up under the banner of the Stockwellurban2 project; I’ve no idea what urban1 is or was, plus I love the way that the use of 'urban' is now used by gentrification marketing tosspot types to glamorise the 'authentic' feel of the inner city. All dreamed up from their oh so urban W6 offices.
Lambeth has bussed in a 'social sector leadership company' to oversee the project, the laughably named Monkey Mosaic (wouldn't like to take a guess at the 'Management by David Brent' headcount within such a wacky organisation).
A key component of Stockwellurban2 is the regeneration of a disused pub, The Rising Sun, which sits on the Larkhall Lane side of Larkhall Park. Lambeth Council own the land and building and after many years of neglect, it has finally been agreed that the site is probably not helping the 'urban' feel of the area by being left to decay as crack house central for SW8.
Rather than simply invite bids in from big business to utilise the space and allow 'facilitators of learning' (i.e. rip off private companies who run shit education courses that Lambeth can't be arsed to organise itself) to make use of the space, a competition has been set up to allow local people to decide the future of the Rising Sun.
A Funky Website (well, funky by local government standards) has even been set up so that old Mrs Jones living in flat 34 can experience the power of democracy and e-government at work and tell the councillors how she wants to turn the site into a bondage club for OAPs. Except Mrs Jones is not online.
After three phone calls to get my grubby hands on the competition application pack, six weeks later and with the deadline only days away, the little bundle of joy dropped on my doorstep just after Christmas.
My idea wasn't great, but I didn't want to miss this opportunity of having my say in the running of the community that I live in. My plan was to apply for a local radio licence and establish a local station within the building. Mothers and elderly people could broadcast during the day, as well as specialist programming for the large Portuguese community around Stockwell. The kids could take control after school with their bling bling and Garage shit in the evening.
I then came across the competition rules in the application pack:
'Who Cannot Enter The Competition:
An Individual.’
WHAT?
WHAT THE FUCK???!!!!!
'Who Can Enter The Competition:
The competition is open to any established group, partnership or organisation. Your’re (sic) organisation does not have to be in Lambeth to apply.'
Expect entries from the likes of Jarvis, Connex and C(r)apita etc to come flooding in. Dear old Mrs Jones (and my Citizen Wells style attempt to seize control of the SW8 broadcasting empire) is nowhere to be seen.
The very Blairite ethos (alarm bells ring) of handing over democracy back to the people is up and running in Lambeth; that is of course assuming that 'the people' are already organised into their own elitist organisation that is about as democratic as the laughable dictatorship of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
I'm of course not suggesting that Lambeth Council is run under the brutal conditions experienced in central Africa, but the re-branding of Loony Lambeth under the coalition of convenience administered by the Tories and Lib Dems leaves you yearning for the good 'ol days of Socialism in SW9.
'Lambeth Council has developed a competition to find out how the site can be used by LOCAL people.'
And God, I know, I’m one.
| Tuesday 30 December, 2003 |
There is a house, down in Larkhall Park, SW8. They call it the Rising Sun pub. I very much doubt that it will be the ruin of Lambeth Council, but it has certainly got me all a drunk, not to mention a little pissed off with the local authority and its new system of 'open' government.
The background...
The European Commission has found 12m of loose change swashing around in Brussels and has decided that the good folk of Stockwell should benefit. The sales pitch talks of: 'providing opportunities and support for LOCAL people to make the changes THEMSELVES.'
Mrs Jones can tell the Council how she wants to turn the site into a bondage club for OAPs |
The scheme has been wrapped up under the banner of the Stockwellurban2 project; I’ve no idea what urban1 is or was, plus I love the way that the use of 'urban' is now used by gentrification marketing tosspot types to glamorise the 'authentic' feel of the inner city. All dreamed up from their oh so urban W6 offices.
Lambeth has bussed in a 'social sector leadership company' to oversee the project, the laughably named Monkey Mosaic (wouldn't like to take a guess at the 'Management by David Brent' headcount within such a wacky organisation).
A key component of Stockwellurban2 is the regeneration of a disused pub, The Rising Sun, which sits on the Larkhall Lane side of Larkhall Park. Lambeth Council own the land and building and after many years of neglect, it has finally been agreed that the site is probably not helping the 'urban' feel of the area by being left to decay as crack house central for SW8.
Rather than simply invite bids in from big business to utilise the space and allow 'facilitators of learning' (i.e. rip off private companies who run shit education courses that Lambeth can't be arsed to organise itself) to make use of the space, a competition has been set up to allow local people to decide the future of the Rising Sun.
A Funky Website (well, funky by local government standards) has even been set up so that old Mrs Jones living in flat 34 can experience the power of democracy and e-government at work and tell the councillors how she wants to turn the site into a bondage club for OAPs. Except Mrs Jones is not online.
After three phone calls to get my grubby hands on the competition application pack, six weeks later and with the deadline only days away, the little bundle of joy dropped on my doorstep just after Christmas.
My idea wasn't great, but I didn't want to miss this opportunity of having my say in the running of the community that I live in. My plan was to apply for a local radio licence and establish a local station within the building. Mothers and elderly people could broadcast during the day, as well as specialist programming for the large Portuguese community around Stockwell. The kids could take control after school with their bling bling and Garage shit in the evening.
I then came across the competition rules in the application pack:
'Who Cannot Enter The Competition:
An Individual.’
WHAT?
WHAT THE FUCK???!!!!!
'Who Can Enter The Competition:
The competition is open to any established group, partnership or organisation. Your’re (sic) organisation does not have to be in Lambeth to apply.'
Expect entries from the likes of Jarvis, Connex and C(r)apita etc to come flooding in. Dear old Mrs Jones (and my Citizen Wells style attempt to seize control of the SW8 broadcasting empire) is nowhere to be seen.
The very Blairite ethos (alarm bells ring) of handing over democracy back to the people is up and running in Lambeth; that is of course assuming that 'the people' are already organised into their own elitist organisation that is about as democratic as the laughable dictatorship of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
I'm of course not suggesting that Lambeth Council is run under the brutal conditions experienced in central Africa, but the re-branding of Loony Lambeth under the coalition of convenience administered by the Tories and Lib Dems leaves you yearning for the good 'ol days of Socialism in SW9.
'Lambeth Council has developed a competition to find out how the site can be used by LOCAL people.'
And God, I know, I’m one.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Towers 89 Brighton Bears 93, 27/12/03
Almost got flattened by seven footer Kendrick Warren as he was running out to the pisser two minutes ahead of the start of game buzzer. I resisted the opportunity to make my 'so this is where the big knobs hang out...' gag. I hope the mucky pup remembered to wash his hands as he was enthusiastically shaking the hand of ever Towers player just before tip-off. Towers #11 Omar Sneed has clearly been perfecting his Michael Jordan mid-air dunks over Christmas; so what if he is carrying three stone heavier than the old master - it just means that you have to gauge your take-off a lot later. Like when you are directly underneath the basket. Two points, all the same. A promising first and second quarter for The Towers who went in ahead 48-42 at the halfway stage. The Bears stepped it up in the third and fourth though with a basketball master class to seal a victory that takes them to second in the table. Piss poor Towers, unlike Warren, who was just taking a (the) piss. Boom boom.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 27 December, 2003 |
London Towers 89 Brighton Bears 93, 27/12/03
Almost got flattened by seven footer Kendrick Warren as he was running out to the pisser two minutes ahead of the start of game buzzer. I resisted the opportunity to make my 'so this is where the big knobs hang out...' gag. I hope the mucky pup remembered to wash his hands as he was enthusiastically shaking the hand of ever Towers player just before tip-off. Towers #11 Omar Sneed has clearly been perfecting his Michael Jordan mid-air dunks over Christmas; so what if he is carrying three stone heavier than the old master - it just means that you have to gauge your take-off a lot later. Like when you are directly underneath the basket. Two points, all the same. A promising first and second quarter for The Towers who went in ahead 48-42 at the halfway stage. The Bears stepped it up in the third and fourth though with a basketball master class to seal a victory that takes them to second in the table. Piss poor Towers, unlike Warren, who was just taking a (the) piss. Boom boom.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Nottingham Panthers 3 Sheffield Steelers 7 (SEVEN), 26/12/03
A 6,000 capacity crowd, a top of the table Boxing Day derby match and a home team that lived up to their 'Pussycat' reputation. Season of Goodwill etc etc , Panthers gifted the game to their deadly rivals with a shambolic second period collapse. The home team couldn't have collectively choked it more if they had all taken to the ice with the leftover brown turkey breast rammed down their throats. It was embarrassing to watch, even for a non-Panthers fan. Of course I didn't have the heart to tell the poor chap sitting next to me that I actually found the no-show Panthers quite amusing, but I didn't want to heap yet more misery on his late afternoon hangover - I don't think he went home with happy memories of Christmas '03. My lingering memory will be of having to hold my breath for 45 seconds a time to escape his badger booze breath as he ranted and raved about the crapness of the Panthers. Cheers pal for pointing out the obvious. No matter how many mid-morning sherries you might have sunk, it doesn't hide the fact that your team was shit. Highlight: Little kid hastily removing his oh so hilarious Craighead dreadlock style wig when it dawned upon him that his hero couldn't give a toss about the team and was only going through the Boxing Day motions and waiting for the end of month pay cheque. Second helping of the double-header tomorrow night up in Sheffield. Go steady on the stuffing during the day Panthers fans. There's only so much you can take.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Friday 26 December, 2003 |
Nottingham Panthers 3 Sheffield Steelers 7 (SEVEN), 26/12/03
A 6,000 capacity crowd, a top of the table Boxing Day derby match and a home team that lived up to their 'Pussycat' reputation. Season of Goodwill etc etc , Panthers gifted the game to their deadly rivals with a shambolic second period collapse. The home team couldn't have collectively choked it more if they had all taken to the ice with the leftover brown turkey breast rammed down their throats. It was embarrassing to watch, even for a non-Panthers fan. Of course I didn't have the heart to tell the poor chap sitting next to me that I actually found the no-show Panthers quite amusing, but I didn't want to heap yet more misery on his late afternoon hangover - I don't think he went home with happy memories of Christmas '03. My lingering memory will be of having to hold my breath for 45 seconds a time to escape his badger booze breath as he ranted and raved about the crapness of the Panthers. Cheers pal for pointing out the obvious. No matter how many mid-morning sherries you might have sunk, it doesn't hide the fact that your team was shit. Highlight: Little kid hastily removing his oh so hilarious Craighead dreadlock style wig when it dawned upon him that his hero couldn't give a toss about the team and was only going through the Boxing Day motions and waiting for the end of month pay cheque. Second helping of the double-header tomorrow night up in Sheffield. Go steady on the stuffing during the day Panthers fans. There's only so much you can take.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Sport For All
Having felt badly let down by the BBC's Sports 'Personality' of the Year (dull as ditchwater rugby, poor old Frank as a freak show and Dazzling Des trying to steal the show), onionbagblog feels the need to redress the balance.
Memorable sporting moments are not about the winning. Or even the taking part for that matter. Who gives a toss who won the Carling Cup last year? Certainly not Man Utd fans. The real quest for glory can be found in cock ups, red mist moments and anything involving a lack of fiscal accountability at Leeds United.
Of course any Hall of Fame '03 would be incomplete without the comical 29 matches (and still counting) NO WIN London Racers, the complete team overhaul of the London Towers after only one game on court together and of course the free flowing fantasy football of Dulwich Hamlet FC.
These events will mean little to so many and if you’re REALLY that interested, you can waste away your hours ELSEWHERE.
These are the true events from the past twelve months that will live long in the sporting memory:
Greg Rusedski Loses the Plot at Wimbledon, 26/06/03
'Well done, well done, you fucking asshole.'
The word you’re looking for Greg is ARSEHOLE. Jeez, this guy can’t even SWEAR using the Queen’s English.
Tasty wife though.
Nasser Hussain Resigns as England Captain, 28/07/03
Nasser, we have a problem, etc etc. That problem was that the 35-year-old England captain was looking ever distant from the bright young things sitting around him as he surveyed his lot from his lofty position on the Lords balcony.
Being from a forgotten era of Brylcreem and woodbines, Hussain simply couldn't get to grips with Jimmy Anderson's change of hairstyle each week.
The timing was first class in the grand old tradition of English cricket summer cock ups; a drawn first Test against a confident looking South African touring side and with the Lords Test, (the high point of the English summer) only three days away.
Hussain's very public 'Who are ya?' criticism of the incoming South African captain Graeme Smith didn't exactly help matters as the fresh faced 22-year-old stroked up an impressive 227 at Edgbaston.
The Rise and Fall of Leeds United - season long.
From European Cup semi finalists to paying off poor Peter Reid. How the hell did this once proud club find itself face down in the gutter, staring up at the crash and burn false economy of The Premiership?
Live the Dream of course, except Leeds fans have had a season long of sleepless nights; if paying off three high profile managers to walk away from the Elland Road hot seat wasn't bad enough, the loyal Leeds supporters must be kept awake at night pondering paying 75K a week to Seth Johnson.
And all this from a club that is haemorrhaging 100K a week.
Send Seth packing and stop feeding Viduka’s cream doughnut addiction. Do the math.
England team Threaten 'Strike' Action, 23/09/03
Blimey - secret meetings held into the early hours with beer and sandwiches bussed in, Comrade Neville, Father of the Millionaires Chapel, plotting with the proletariat and Becks let loose with a lovely new set of crayons so that he could draw some nice pictures on some placards telling everyone how hard it is being an international football superstar.
A lot of time (and hypocritical Fleet Street headlines) could have been saved if ACAS had recommended right from the start that Rio should play out the rest of the season wearing a big pointy hat with a D on the front, as well as being forced to run around with his diary in his hand at all times.
Piss in a bottle, you couldn’t piss in a bottle etc etc.
England Egg Chasers Fly off to some Far Flung Land and Return with a Piss Poor Tin Pot Trophy in a Game that an Otherwise Unenthusiastic Nation Suddenly Finds a New Found Love of, 22/11/03
I’m sorry, I was confusing you with someone who gives a shit.
| Tuesday 23 December, 2003 |
Having felt badly let down by the BBC's Sports 'Personality' of the Year (dull as ditchwater rugby, poor old Frank as a freak show and Dazzling Des trying to steal the show), onionbagblog feels the need to redress the balance.
Memorable sporting moments are not about the winning. Or even the taking part for that matter. Who gives a toss who won the Carling Cup last year? Certainly not Man Utd fans. The real quest for glory can be found in cock ups, red mist moments and anything involving a lack of fiscal accountability at Leeds United.
Piss in a bottle, you couldn’t piss in a bottle |
These events will mean little to so many and if you’re REALLY that interested, you can waste away your hours ELSEWHERE.
These are the true events from the past twelve months that will live long in the sporting memory:
Greg Rusedski Loses the Plot at Wimbledon, 26/06/03
'Well done, well done, you fucking asshole.'
The word you’re looking for Greg is ARSEHOLE. Jeez, this guy can’t even SWEAR using the Queen’s English.
Tasty wife though.
Nasser Hussain Resigns as England Captain, 28/07/03
Nasser, we have a problem, etc etc. That problem was that the 35-year-old England captain was looking ever distant from the bright young things sitting around him as he surveyed his lot from his lofty position on the Lords balcony.
Being from a forgotten era of Brylcreem and woodbines, Hussain simply couldn't get to grips with Jimmy Anderson's change of hairstyle each week.
The timing was first class in the grand old tradition of English cricket summer cock ups; a drawn first Test against a confident looking South African touring side and with the Lords Test, (the high point of the English summer) only three days away.
Hussain's very public 'Who are ya?' criticism of the incoming South African captain Graeme Smith didn't exactly help matters as the fresh faced 22-year-old stroked up an impressive 227 at Edgbaston.
The Rise and Fall of Leeds United - season long.
From European Cup semi finalists to paying off poor Peter Reid. How the hell did this once proud club find itself face down in the gutter, staring up at the crash and burn false economy of The Premiership?
Live the Dream of course, except Leeds fans have had a season long of sleepless nights; if paying off three high profile managers to walk away from the Elland Road hot seat wasn't bad enough, the loyal Leeds supporters must be kept awake at night pondering paying 75K a week to Seth Johnson.
And all this from a club that is haemorrhaging 100K a week.
Send Seth packing and stop feeding Viduka’s cream doughnut addiction. Do the math.
England team Threaten 'Strike' Action, 23/09/03
Blimey - secret meetings held into the early hours with beer and sandwiches bussed in, Comrade Neville, Father of the Millionaires Chapel, plotting with the proletariat and Becks let loose with a lovely new set of crayons so that he could draw some nice pictures on some placards telling everyone how hard it is being an international football superstar.
A lot of time (and hypocritical Fleet Street headlines) could have been saved if ACAS had recommended right from the start that Rio should play out the rest of the season wearing a big pointy hat with a D on the front, as well as being forced to run around with his diary in his hand at all times.
Piss in a bottle, you couldn’t piss in a bottle etc etc.
England Egg Chasers Fly off to some Far Flung Land and Return with a Piss Poor Tin Pot Trophy in a Game that an Otherwise Unenthusiastic Nation Suddenly Finds a New Found Love of, 22/11/03
I’m sorry, I was confusing you with someone who gives a shit.
| #permalink |
Winter of Content
As is the case with football grounds, Shakespeare's Globe is only used for around 40% of the year. Being an outdoor venue, staging A Midsummer Night's Dream is not best suited to a freezing December afternoon.
How wonderful it was then to discover during a late Bankside walk this afternoon that this magical venue was being put to a good festive use staging the Borough Market Frost Fair.
Local traders had taken over The Globe for the day selling their seasonal wares. The perfect last minute stocking filler could be found with everything from cider scented soap to perhaps the thickest cut marmalade known to man.
Being The Globe of course, the Frost Fair had a distinct Jacobean theme running throughout the day, the highlight of which was the staged sword fights. At least I hope they were staged.
The Globe gates welcomed visitors with a wonderfully sculptured ice maiden. With the late afternoon sun fighting through the crisp Thames air, the glint on the ice was balanced perfectly with the freezing temperatures, with the angelic figure just about holding form.
Shakespeare's Globe has been a real revelation to Bankside; the regeneration of the area coincided with the re-construction of Will's old stomping ground, with The Globe paving the way quite literally for Tate Modern, Vinopolis and the Millennium Bridge all bringing new economic and social life to a once derelict area.
With the imposing and corporate worlds of Norman Foster's Swiss Re Tower and the 42 Tower peering down from the other side of the river, the magic of Bankside only proves to remind me yet again why South side is still best.
The Globe's calendar continues early in the New Year with the now annual Bankside Twelfth Night celebrations starting outside the Globe gates on 4th January. The following month sees the launch of the new Globe season with details of the forthcoming productions on offer.
Following last year's Season of Regime Change (who said the Bard wasn't relevant?), it is expected that next summer will see The Globe's first production of Romeo and Juliet, no doubt leading to a Midsummer Night's Dream also being themed around the romantic discourse.
That all seems a long way away from the Frost Fair, but even on a Midwinter afternoon, The Globe still holds a magical charm.
| Monday 22 December, 2003 |
As is the case with football grounds, Shakespeare's Globe is only used for around 40% of the year. Being an outdoor venue, staging A Midsummer Night's Dream is not best suited to a freezing December afternoon.
How wonderful it was then to discover during a late Bankside walk this afternoon that this magical venue was being put to a good festive use staging the Borough Market Frost Fair.
Midwinter, and The Globe still holds a magical charm |
Being The Globe of course, the Frost Fair had a distinct Jacobean theme running throughout the day, the highlight of which was the staged sword fights. At least I hope they were staged.
The Globe gates welcomed visitors with a wonderfully sculptured ice maiden. With the late afternoon sun fighting through the crisp Thames air, the glint on the ice was balanced perfectly with the freezing temperatures, with the angelic figure just about holding form.
Shakespeare's Globe has been a real revelation to Bankside; the regeneration of the area coincided with the re-construction of Will's old stomping ground, with The Globe paving the way quite literally for Tate Modern, Vinopolis and the Millennium Bridge all bringing new economic and social life to a once derelict area.
With the imposing and corporate worlds of Norman Foster's Swiss Re Tower and the 42 Tower peering down from the other side of the river, the magic of Bankside only proves to remind me yet again why South side is still best.
The Globe's calendar continues early in the New Year with the now annual Bankside Twelfth Night celebrations starting outside the Globe gates on 4th January. The following month sees the launch of the new Globe season with details of the forthcoming productions on offer.
Following last year's Season of Regime Change (who said the Bard wasn't relevant?), it is expected that next summer will see The Globe's first production of Romeo and Juliet, no doubt leading to a Midsummer Night's Dream also being themed around the romantic discourse.
That all seems a long way away from the Frost Fair, but even on a Midwinter afternoon, The Globe still holds a magical charm.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Towers 93 Scottish Rocks 79, 20/12/03
I'm all for a little bit of festive cheer to liven up Crystal Palace but replacing the third rate rap shit over the PA with third rate 'wacky' Christmas tunes doesn't bring much to the party atmosphere. Where's Russ Abbot when you need him? I live in hope that one day the Towers will run out to Mogwai blasting around the Palace. The Rocks (to call them the Scottish Phoenix Honda Record Rocks would frankly get a little tedious) started in style with a series of showboating dunks. It's a game of four quarters, Brian, and sadly for the Rocks, they couldn't keep up the pace. Towers took an 18-15 lead at the end of the first, advancing to 38-34 at half time. Rocks were always playing catch up, without actually catching up, if you see what I mean. 59-51 at the end of the third with the home team leaving the court 93-79 winners at the hooter. I appreciate that the kids are off school at the moment and have a lot of pre-Christmas energy running through their little burger infested bodies. However the gang of ankle munchers sitting next to me had clearly downed one bottle of Sunny Delight too many. I'm all for active fan participation, but when this is reduced to scream like a fucking banshee for a whole bloody hour, well, it's just not basketball to be honest.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 20 December, 2003 |
London Towers 93 Scottish Rocks 79, 20/12/03
I'm all for a little bit of festive cheer to liven up Crystal Palace but replacing the third rate rap shit over the PA with third rate 'wacky' Christmas tunes doesn't bring much to the party atmosphere. Where's Russ Abbot when you need him? I live in hope that one day the Towers will run out to Mogwai blasting around the Palace. The Rocks (to call them the Scottish Phoenix Honda Record Rocks would frankly get a little tedious) started in style with a series of showboating dunks. It's a game of four quarters, Brian, and sadly for the Rocks, they couldn't keep up the pace. Towers took an 18-15 lead at the end of the first, advancing to 38-34 at half time. Rocks were always playing catch up, without actually catching up, if you see what I mean. 59-51 at the end of the third with the home team leaving the court 93-79 winners at the hooter. I appreciate that the kids are off school at the moment and have a lot of pre-Christmas energy running through their little burger infested bodies. However the gang of ankle munchers sitting next to me had clearly downed one bottle of Sunny Delight too many. I'm all for active fan participation, but when this is reduced to scream like a fucking banshee for a whole bloody hour, well, it's just not basketball to be honest.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Horsham 0, 20/12/03
Bring me Sunshine, Bring me Rain; one of those freakish South London afternoons where we were blessed with both the sun and the rain, though thankfully not a 'Santa is a Dulwich Fan' silly hat to be seen down at Champion Hill. The Horsham 'Stopper' (now there’s a term you don’t here often post 1950's football) was a proverbial barn door of a man machine. It was only quite right therefore that the Dulwich players spent most of the afternoon trying to hit him. And they missed of course. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, aka the Bastard reincarnation of the Bros twins Horsham stylee, fared no better in the visitor's defence. A glorious own goal settled the match. Alan Hansen would have been proud. A rainbow appeared before kick off - if you want the rainbow, you've got to put up with the rain, etc etc...
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 20 December, 2003 |
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Horsham 0, 20/12/03
Bring me Sunshine, Bring me Rain; one of those freakish South London afternoons where we were blessed with both the sun and the rain, though thankfully not a 'Santa is a Dulwich Fan' silly hat to be seen down at Champion Hill. The Horsham 'Stopper' (now there’s a term you don’t here often post 1950's football) was a proverbial barn door of a man machine. It was only quite right therefore that the Dulwich players spent most of the afternoon trying to hit him. And they missed of course. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, aka the Bastard reincarnation of the Bros twins Horsham stylee, fared no better in the visitor's defence. A glorious own goal settled the match. Alan Hansen would have been proud. A rainbow appeared before kick off - if you want the rainbow, you've got to put up with the rain, etc etc...
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 1 Sheffield Steelers 4, 19/12/03
A hellish Friday night before Christmas journey across London meant that I missed the opening seven minutes or so. Arrived just in time to see the Racers take the lead. Well, not quite true as I was eyeing up the new Racers hooded tops at the time. We were told 600 of the ever-annoying Squeelers fans would be showing up. Divide this figure by ten and you get a more accurate picture. You can't really blame the good folk of South Yorkshire; I’m sure they had better things to do just before Christmas than freeze their bollocks off in an over-sized bike shed stuck out in no-man's land in E10. Steelers drew level at the start of the second period and then followed this up with a blue liner scored by Joel Irving on the power play. The second goal was still being announced when Steve Ellis put the puck upstairs in the net to give the Steelers a 3:1 lead. Rocket Ron Shudra (I'm not making this up...) put the game out of reach for the Racers with a fourth goal in the third, and with eight minutes left on the clock, the visitors swapped their NHL netminder for a British kid, which is just taking the piss really. Racers couldn't put the puck past him either, despite a 'hand of God' assisted effort being washed out. Twenty nine games into the schedule and Racers are STILL searching for that first win. The London transport system will probably be problem free before the champagne corks can be popped in E10.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 20 December, 2003 |
London Racers 1 Sheffield Steelers 4, 19/12/03
A hellish Friday night before Christmas journey across London meant that I missed the opening seven minutes or so. Arrived just in time to see the Racers take the lead. Well, not quite true as I was eyeing up the new Racers hooded tops at the time. We were told 600 of the ever-annoying Squeelers fans would be showing up. Divide this figure by ten and you get a more accurate picture. You can't really blame the good folk of South Yorkshire; I’m sure they had better things to do just before Christmas than freeze their bollocks off in an over-sized bike shed stuck out in no-man's land in E10. Steelers drew level at the start of the second period and then followed this up with a blue liner scored by Joel Irving on the power play. The second goal was still being announced when Steve Ellis put the puck upstairs in the net to give the Steelers a 3:1 lead. Rocket Ron Shudra (I'm not making this up...) put the game out of reach for the Racers with a fourth goal in the third, and with eight minutes left on the clock, the visitors swapped their NHL netminder for a British kid, which is just taking the piss really. Racers couldn't put the puck past him either, despite a 'hand of God' assisted effort being washed out. Twenty nine games into the schedule and Racers are STILL searching for that first win. The London transport system will probably be problem free before the champagne corks can be popped in E10.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
One Year Sentence
One year, 100,000 albums*, 98% of which can be instantly dismissed as the audio equivalent of recording Bernard Manning's rear end action after a weekend spent at his local balti house.
As the great Harry Hill often states, YOU NEED A SYSTEM.
Onionbagblog's system for filtering out the musical sizzlers from the shit is hardly scientific - a quick ten minute sift through of the towering pile of CDRs that have been filed under '2003 or there or thereabouts.' It is a system of sorts, and each album has been reduced to a sentence.
One year (in a) sentence.
Of course this musical snapshot of 2003 justifies much more than a hasty twenty word wrap for each release, but I'm not being paid on a word count here and I have over two hours of Bo Selecta to catch up on.
Disclaimer: NONE OF THESE ALBUMS HAVE BEEN PURCHASED IN THE QUAINT OLD TRADITIONAL SESNE OF HANDING OVER MONEY AT THE COUNTER. >>DOWNLOADING<< IS THE SAME AS THEFT, WHICH WE ALL KNOW IS OK, AS LONG AS YOU DON'T GET CAUGHT.
Burn baby burn.
Athlete - 'Vehicles and Animals
Deptford dudes who captured the sun early spring, bottled it and then produced a wonderfully structured mix of strumming and sequencers that stayed on my Discman from April to August - Schorchio.
Blur - 'Think Tank'
Forget the Fatboy Vs Coxon hype - Blur finally feeling comfortable in writing thoughtful songs with a sprinkling of pop sensibility.
Eliza Carthy - 'Anglicana'
England's First Lady of Fiddle carries on the family tradition and updates the folk format to fit the 21st century.
Kate Rusby - 'Underneath the Stars'
An incredibly 'warm' sounding record, perfect for the early autumn nights.
DJ Format - 'Music for the Mature B-Boy'
The title said it all - forget bad boys and bling and make a b-line back to the lino.
Roddy Frame - 'Surf'
The boy done good - evergreen Roddy continues to make the personal the political.
Peter Gabriel - 'Up'
As ever with Mr Sledgehammer, 30 mins too long, but if you have time on your hands Gabriel proves that he still has a conscious underneath the 180 track mixing desk.
Gorky's Zygotic Mynci - 'Sleep Holiday'
Impossible to categorise, foolish to ignore - ten albums under their belt and still the Welsh kids are capable of throwing up surprises.
Terry Hall and Mushtaq - 'The Hour of Two Lights'
Former Fun-Da-Mental member Mushtaq manages to raise a smile out of Terry Hall.
Richard Hawley - 'Lowedges'
A Scott Walker for the modern age - love lost lyrics surrounded by a classic wide sounding mix of heavy guitar bass lines.
Paddy McAloon - 'I Trawl the Megahurtz'
From Prefab to prophet - Paddy tells the unlikely tale of being hospitalised with only a short wave radio for company as he reflects on his life to date; something we can all relate to...
Natalie Merchant - 'The House Carpenter's Daughter'
Americana without the kitsch crap.
Pat Metheny - 'One Quiet Night'
Finger plucking one man and his guitar work the frets including an unlikely cover of Ferry Across the Mersey.
Willie Nelson - 'Demos'
Unearthed from the original record company auditions back in the day, Wee Willie proves that he was for real right from the start - includes original version of Crazy before it was passed on to Patsy Cline.
Adrian Sherwood - 'Never Trust a Hippy'
Surprisingly the first solo release from the On-U geezer - cuts ups, dub heavy and impossible not to shake your booty to.
Bruce Springsteen - 'The Rising'
Not technically a '03 release, but for seven hours spread over two nights at Crystal Palace back in May, Springsteen camped it up to a crowd of old and young alike, proving that he is still The Boss of unashamed stadium rock. Robbie who?
Super Furry Animals - 'Phantom Power'
'Hello Sunshine - come into my life' - opening lyrics set the theme for the rest of this feel good album.
Linda Thompson - 'Fashionably Late'
Nineteen years in the making, Richard's nemesis proves that divorce, motherhood and a 40 fags a day habit are no barrier to being the Queen of Folk.
Gillian Welch - 'Soul Journey'
Some records posses so much beauty, heartache and inspiration that a crappy 20 word summary is just taking the piss: YOU NEED THIS RECORD.
Basement Jaxx - 'Kish Kash'
Brixton's finest (not technically true) play to the gallery bringing Garage, Salsa and even Goth to the Punky Reggae Party - difficult to dismiss: This is England.
Billy Bragg - 'The Essential Billy Bragg'
The one record that was obtained in this entire list by handing over a crumpled tenner, and worth every penny; from A13 right through to England, Half English, documenting the career of a man who has aged with grace and has always felt comfortable with each direction he takes.
Alabama 3 - 'Last Train to Mashville'
The Brixton brew crew take it down a level re-visiting some previous party mash ups and toning them down with some suitable Sunday afto strumming. Nice.
Pitman - 'It Takes a Nation of Tossers'
Not an anthem to everyone who has ever voted Tory, but a record taking the beats from the pit face to in yer face; shit supermarkets, crap buskers and keeping it real in a aye up me duck style: Fancy a brew?
Richard Thompson - '1,000 Years of Popular Music'
Peeved that some wanky mens mag refused to publish the list of his fave songs from the past millennium (Tudor romps over Robbie etc), El Dicko decided to document 1,000 Years of Popular Music, exactly as it said on the tin.
Joe Strummer - 'Streetcore'
Commendante Joe reminds us all too vividly why he still mattered more than most in an age of celeb shit with this, his take no prisoners final offering.
Robert Wyatt - 'Cuckooland'
A song a year is the motto for the great bearded one, hence the wait; strings a plenty find the perfect pitch with Wyatt's reluctant vocal style.
Lowgold - 'Welcome to Winners'
English boys very much in the XTC sense but not afraid to tip their hat to West Coast harmonies.
Simple Kid - 'Simple Kid #1'
One man and his amp, very much in a Boy Bragg style; early days but this promising debut hints at good things to come with his take on the world around him.
Chris TT - 'London is Sinking'
Another lo-fi London fave - combining a career with journalism and songwriting sounds like the perfect match and Mt TT manages to match the music with his observations: Tell it like it is.
Ballyboy - 'Sash my Father Wore'
Continuing in fine tradition of Scottish miserablists, Ballyboy take a good look around them and rightly conclude that Modern Life is indeed Rubbish.
*conservative estimate
| Wednesday 17 December, 2003 |
One year, 100,000 albums*, 98% of which can be instantly dismissed as the audio equivalent of recording Bernard Manning's rear end action after a weekend spent at his local balti house.
As the great Harry Hill often states, YOU NEED A SYSTEM.
Onionbagblog's system for filtering out the musical sizzlers from the shit is hardly scientific - a quick ten minute sift through of the towering pile of CDRs that have been filed under '2003 or there or thereabouts.' It is a system of sorts, and each album has been reduced to a sentence.
One year (in a) sentence.
Of course this musical snapshot of 2003 justifies much more than a hasty twenty word wrap for each release, but I'm not being paid on a word count here and I have over two hours of Bo Selecta to catch up on.
Disclaimer: NONE OF THESE ALBUMS HAVE BEEN PURCHASED IN THE QUAINT OLD TRADITIONAL SESNE OF HANDING OVER MONEY AT THE COUNTER. >>DOWNLOADING<< IS THE SAME AS THEFT, WHICH WE ALL KNOW IS OK, AS LONG AS YOU DON'T GET CAUGHT.
Burn baby burn.
Athlete - 'Vehicles and Animals
Deptford dudes who captured the sun early spring, bottled it and then produced a wonderfully structured mix of strumming and sequencers that stayed on my Discman from April to August - Schorchio.
Blur - 'Think Tank'
Forget the Fatboy Vs Coxon hype - Blur finally feeling comfortable in writing thoughtful songs with a sprinkling of pop sensibility.
Eliza Carthy - 'Anglicana'
England's First Lady of Fiddle carries on the family tradition and updates the folk format to fit the 21st century.
Kate Rusby - 'Underneath the Stars'
An incredibly 'warm' sounding record, perfect for the early autumn nights.
DJ Format - 'Music for the Mature B-Boy'
The title said it all - forget bad boys and bling and make a b-line back to the lino.
Roddy Frame - 'Surf'
The boy done good - evergreen Roddy continues to make the personal the political.
Peter Gabriel - 'Up'
As ever with Mr Sledgehammer, 30 mins too long, but if you have time on your hands Gabriel proves that he still has a conscious underneath the 180 track mixing desk.
Gorky's Zygotic Mynci - 'Sleep Holiday'
Impossible to categorise, foolish to ignore - ten albums under their belt and still the Welsh kids are capable of throwing up surprises.
Terry Hall and Mushtaq - 'The Hour of Two Lights'
Former Fun-Da-Mental member Mushtaq manages to raise a smile out of Terry Hall.
Richard Hawley - 'Lowedges'
A Scott Walker for the modern age - love lost lyrics surrounded by a classic wide sounding mix of heavy guitar bass lines.
Paddy McAloon - 'I Trawl the Megahurtz'
From Prefab to prophet - Paddy tells the unlikely tale of being hospitalised with only a short wave radio for company as he reflects on his life to date; something we can all relate to...
Natalie Merchant - 'The House Carpenter's Daughter'
Americana without the kitsch crap.
Pat Metheny - 'One Quiet Night'
Finger plucking one man and his guitar work the frets including an unlikely cover of Ferry Across the Mersey.
Willie Nelson - 'Demos'
Unearthed from the original record company auditions back in the day, Wee Willie proves that he was for real right from the start - includes original version of Crazy before it was passed on to Patsy Cline.
Adrian Sherwood - 'Never Trust a Hippy'
Surprisingly the first solo release from the On-U geezer - cuts ups, dub heavy and impossible not to shake your booty to.
Bruce Springsteen - 'The Rising'
Not technically a '03 release, but for seven hours spread over two nights at Crystal Palace back in May, Springsteen camped it up to a crowd of old and young alike, proving that he is still The Boss of unashamed stadium rock. Robbie who?
Super Furry Animals - 'Phantom Power'
'Hello Sunshine - come into my life' - opening lyrics set the theme for the rest of this feel good album.
Linda Thompson - 'Fashionably Late'
Nineteen years in the making, Richard's nemesis proves that divorce, motherhood and a 40 fags a day habit are no barrier to being the Queen of Folk.
Gillian Welch - 'Soul Journey'
Some records posses so much beauty, heartache and inspiration that a crappy 20 word summary is just taking the piss: YOU NEED THIS RECORD.
Basement Jaxx - 'Kish Kash'
Brixton's finest (not technically true) play to the gallery bringing Garage, Salsa and even Goth to the Punky Reggae Party - difficult to dismiss: This is England.
Billy Bragg - 'The Essential Billy Bragg'
The one record that was obtained in this entire list by handing over a crumpled tenner, and worth every penny; from A13 right through to England, Half English, documenting the career of a man who has aged with grace and has always felt comfortable with each direction he takes.
Alabama 3 - 'Last Train to Mashville'
The Brixton brew crew take it down a level re-visiting some previous party mash ups and toning them down with some suitable Sunday afto strumming. Nice.
Pitman - 'It Takes a Nation of Tossers'
Not an anthem to everyone who has ever voted Tory, but a record taking the beats from the pit face to in yer face; shit supermarkets, crap buskers and keeping it real in a aye up me duck style: Fancy a brew?
Richard Thompson - '1,000 Years of Popular Music'
Peeved that some wanky mens mag refused to publish the list of his fave songs from the past millennium (Tudor romps over Robbie etc), El Dicko decided to document 1,000 Years of Popular Music, exactly as it said on the tin.
Joe Strummer - 'Streetcore'
Commendante Joe reminds us all too vividly why he still mattered more than most in an age of celeb shit with this, his take no prisoners final offering.
Robert Wyatt - 'Cuckooland'
A song a year is the motto for the great bearded one, hence the wait; strings a plenty find the perfect pitch with Wyatt's reluctant vocal style.
Lowgold - 'Welcome to Winners'
English boys very much in the XTC sense but not afraid to tip their hat to West Coast harmonies.
Simple Kid - 'Simple Kid #1'
One man and his amp, very much in a Boy Bragg style; early days but this promising debut hints at good things to come with his take on the world around him.
Chris TT - 'London is Sinking'
Another lo-fi London fave - combining a career with journalism and songwriting sounds like the perfect match and Mt TT manages to match the music with his observations: Tell it like it is.
Ballyboy - 'Sash my Father Wore'
Continuing in fine tradition of Scottish miserablists, Ballyboy take a good look around them and rightly conclude that Modern Life is indeed Rubbish.
*conservative estimate
| #permalink |
A Shaggy Tale
I was going to write a short piece contemplating the dangerous game that Ken Livingstone is playing in getting back into bed with Mr Tony and New Labour. Having just heard Shagger Norris doing his best to suppress the usually excellent interview technique of Simon Mayo on 5Live, Cuddly Ken can wait another day.
It is easy to make the seamless transition from Ken's bed hopping habits to 'fingering' The Shagger and his own sleazy outlook on life - perhaps not the best metaphor for a man who boasted FIVE mistresses during the Major Back to Basics years; but given the usual profile of Tory women (cheap perfume, silly hats and faces resembling the photograph finish from the 2.40 at Haydock Park), Norris' bedside manner is nothing to boast about.
My problem with Norris is that he talks a good 'man of the people' fight (well, that is if you live in Kensington, Belgravia or Hampstead), but he simply doesn’t understand the capital's transport infrastructure. It's a London Thing Steve, but you probably find it hard to grasp seeing as though your concept of an affordable and reliable integrated transport network involves sticking your hand out for the nearest black cab.
Like all Tories, the old warhorse believes that the solution lies in the free market; understanding the cost of everything but the value of nothing. His support of Public Private Partnership - looking to the private sector to make profit out of public services – shouldn’t surprise us. This is the man who quit politics in '97 to make some 'serious money' in industry.
The Shagger re-surfaced as Director General of the Road Haulage Association before moving on to become the Chairman of Jarvis, a position he will retain throughout his Mayoral election campaign.
Jarvis was sub-contracted out by Network Rail to look after the safety of parts of the network in and around London. This included the section of track at Potters Bar which led to seven deaths after a train was de-railed in May 2002.
Two months ago Jarvis announced that it was withdrawing from the transport industry, citing 'reputation issues' causing a negative effect on other parts of the business.
And all of this took place with Norris as the fat controller at the helm. Allowing The Shagger to take control of the transport structure in London is like asking Sir Alex to oversee Rio's forthcoming drugs inquiry.
Jarvis has since moved on from making money out of transport misery with education worryingly becoming the company's current cash cow. Jarvis won the contracts (read: put in the lowest bids) to provide upgrades to school buildings, a service which Jarvis itself then out-sources to other companies in the private sector.
It's a large pie and there’s enough for everyone to fill their fat face in the trough. Except for the 'consumers' of the service who have to face the frontline of an under-resourced public service.
With Red Ken now looking for a route back to become a career politician and Shagger Norris continuing to carve up the capital with his fantasy PPI plans, that nice Simon Hughes fellow is a looking a good option right now.
| Tuesday 16 December, 2003 |
I was going to write a short piece contemplating the dangerous game that Ken Livingstone is playing in getting back into bed with Mr Tony and New Labour. Having just heard Shagger Norris doing his best to suppress the usually excellent interview technique of Simon Mayo on 5Live, Cuddly Ken can wait another day.
It is easy to make the seamless transition from Ken's bed hopping habits to 'fingering' The Shagger and his own sleazy outlook on life - perhaps not the best metaphor for a man who boasted FIVE mistresses during the Major Back to Basics years; but given the usual profile of Tory women (cheap perfume, silly hats and faces resembling the photograph finish from the 2.40 at Haydock Park), Norris' bedside manner is nothing to boast about.
It’s a large pie and there’s enough for everyone to fill their face in the trough |
Like all Tories, the old warhorse believes that the solution lies in the free market; understanding the cost of everything but the value of nothing. His support of Public Private Partnership - looking to the private sector to make profit out of public services – shouldn’t surprise us. This is the man who quit politics in '97 to make some 'serious money' in industry.
The Shagger re-surfaced as Director General of the Road Haulage Association before moving on to become the Chairman of Jarvis, a position he will retain throughout his Mayoral election campaign.
Jarvis was sub-contracted out by Network Rail to look after the safety of parts of the network in and around London. This included the section of track at Potters Bar which led to seven deaths after a train was de-railed in May 2002.
Two months ago Jarvis announced that it was withdrawing from the transport industry, citing 'reputation issues' causing a negative effect on other parts of the business.
And all of this took place with Norris as the fat controller at the helm. Allowing The Shagger to take control of the transport structure in London is like asking Sir Alex to oversee Rio's forthcoming drugs inquiry.
Jarvis has since moved on from making money out of transport misery with education worryingly becoming the company's current cash cow. Jarvis won the contracts (read: put in the lowest bids) to provide upgrades to school buildings, a service which Jarvis itself then out-sources to other companies in the private sector.
It's a large pie and there’s enough for everyone to fill their fat face in the trough. Except for the 'consumers' of the service who have to face the frontline of an under-resourced public service.
With Red Ken now looking for a route back to become a career politician and Shagger Norris continuing to carve up the capital with his fantasy PPI plans, that nice Simon Hughes fellow is a looking a good option right now.
| #permalink |
Mondays Musings
The Darkness - 'Christmas Time (Don't Let the Bells End)'
I'm still unsure about this bunch of wind-up merchants. Are they living the metal dream for real or is it just some year long Spinal Tap parody that is so authentic we've all been kept in the dark (boom boom) for longer than was necessary? A HUGE clue should be in the title - BELLS END. Perhaps it is a reflection of the dire state of the UK music industry that as we approach 2004, the lads most likely to clean up at The Brits in a few months time can flirt from being Iron Maiden to the Barron Knights at the change of an elongated guitar chord. Like punk never happened.
Four Poofs and a Piano ' Camp up Your Christmas'
It's difficult to criticise the blatant stereotyping at work here form the perspective of a heterosexual male. With black people claiming back 'nigger,' why shouldn't the gay community embrace the term 'poof?' Enough of the sociology crap and just accept that these highly likeable guys suck the figurative cock of arch tosser Jonathan Ross. That alone should be enough to line them up against the wall.
Pop Idol Finalists - 'Happy Xmas (War is Over)
Aptly timed, marketed to saturation point and still this bunch of pubescent knobbers can't get it right. I never can see the point of cover versions (unless they're done by Robert Wyatt) but to masquerade this crass Christmas tie-in as an artistic achievement is taking the genre to sub-karaoke levels. The original Lennon version was nothing but a nonsense nursery rhyme penned by a drug addled junkie well past his sell by date. When a bunch of kids from behind the counter at Woolies are let loose on a plodding chorus, not even their collective egos can avert the Christmas afternoon snooze that this uninspiring piece of filth will lead to. It really is taking the piss and admitting that the game is over when the 'finalists'of this obscene LOOK AT ME TV nonsense rush release their tosh BEFORE their fifteen minutes have even started. It is tradition for FINALISTS of the FA Cup to release a single before their moment of glory / failure. And they usually sound like some third rate arse wiping contest as well.
All singles are released today
WHY DON'T YOU... piss all over the instantly forgettable marketing masquerading as music as mentioned above and go and DOWNLOAD something much more memorable instead?
Mass Mondays Musings
| Monday 15 December, 2003 |
The Darkness - 'Christmas Time (Don't Let the Bells End)'
I'm still unsure about this bunch of wind-up merchants. Are they living the metal dream for real or is it just some year long Spinal Tap parody that is so authentic we've all been kept in the dark (boom boom) for longer than was necessary? A HUGE clue should be in the title - BELLS END. Perhaps it is a reflection of the dire state of the UK music industry that as we approach 2004, the lads most likely to clean up at The Brits in a few months time can flirt from being Iron Maiden to the Barron Knights at the change of an elongated guitar chord. Like punk never happened.
Four Poofs and a Piano ' Camp up Your Christmas'
It's difficult to criticise the blatant stereotyping at work here form the perspective of a heterosexual male. With black people claiming back 'nigger,' why shouldn't the gay community embrace the term 'poof?' Enough of the sociology crap and just accept that these highly likeable guys suck the figurative cock of arch tosser Jonathan Ross. That alone should be enough to line them up against the wall.
Pop Idol Finalists - 'Happy Xmas (War is Over)
Aptly timed, marketed to saturation point and still this bunch of pubescent knobbers can't get it right. I never can see the point of cover versions (unless they're done by Robert Wyatt) but to masquerade this crass Christmas tie-in as an artistic achievement is taking the genre to sub-karaoke levels. The original Lennon version was nothing but a nonsense nursery rhyme penned by a drug addled junkie well past his sell by date. When a bunch of kids from behind the counter at Woolies are let loose on a plodding chorus, not even their collective egos can avert the Christmas afternoon snooze that this uninspiring piece of filth will lead to. It really is taking the piss and admitting that the game is over when the 'finalists'of this obscene LOOK AT ME TV nonsense rush release their tosh BEFORE their fifteen minutes have even started. It is tradition for FINALISTS of the FA Cup to release a single before their moment of glory / failure. And they usually sound like some third rate arse wiping contest as well.
All singles are released today
WHY DON'T YOU... piss all over the instantly forgettable marketing masquerading as music as mentioned above and go and DOWNLOAD something much more memorable instead?
Mass Mondays Musings
| #permalink |
Christm-Ass
I really enjoy twisted meanings when good intentions are turned upside down and come to represent something entirely different. A festive Christmas donkey perched on top of a news kiosk outside Stockwell tube station (don't ask why...) reminded me of the excellent Wicker Man film. Those of you familiar with the Christopher Lee masterpiece will recognise the plot - an everyday tale of pagan rites of passage, virginal sacrifices and the rejection of mass organised religion. Not exactly your traditional nativity scene. But then what precisely has a fat old man with a white beard dressed in a ridiculous red costume got to do with the birth of a saviour? Strange business this religion malarkey.
| Monday 15 December, 2003 |
I really enjoy twisted meanings when good intentions are turned upside down and come to represent something entirely different. A festive Christmas donkey perched on top of a news kiosk outside Stockwell tube station (don't ask why...) reminded me of the excellent Wicker Man film. Those of you familiar with the Christopher Lee masterpiece will recognise the plot - an everyday tale of pagan rites of passage, virginal sacrifices and the rejection of mass organised religion. Not exactly your traditional nativity scene. But then what precisely has a fat old man with a white beard dressed in a ridiculous red costume got to do with the birth of a saviour? Strange business this religion malarkey.
| #permalink |
Swan Lake
Whilst running around Clapham Common this morning I had a double-take moment. Not the usual innocent flirty smile with a female jogger, more of a 'was that knobber by the boating lake REALLY whipping the swans with a dog lead?' A glance around at the other early morning runners confirmed this as they also trotted past displaying a look of disbelief.
Now I'm no great flag waver for Christianity but being the festive season, a 'Moment of Madness' on Clapham Common came all over me. I'm not the first person this has happened to in SW4.
I took on the dual role of Good Samaritan and Royal Protector of HM Swans by asking the twat wtf he was doing. Predictable response; barely understandable colourful cockney insults with a vague and garbled message along the lines of 'protecting my dog from these fuckers.'
He meant the swans of course, and not the not so Good Samaritans who carried on with their own little turkey trots around the Common.
Alsatian Vs Swan. FUCKING HUGE GRIZZLY ALSATIAN DRIBBLING SALIVA AROUND HIS FRESHLY SHARPENED TEETH VS ELEGANT SWAN. Survival of the fittest, dog eat dog etc, but this looked like a losing battle for our feathered friend to me.
I weighed up the options and realised that although I was likely to lose a sponsored swear-athon with the swan whipper, if it came to bare fisted blows on the nose, I stood a good chance of lamping the geezer.
A bizarre sight for a Sunday morning on Clapham Common was now developing; dog chasing swan. Lucozade fuelled jogger chasing cockney twat.
And still the other Samaritans walked on by.
It all ended when the repugnant little git ran out of swear words and I lost interest. The Alsatian had moved on to the pigeons (no argument from me) and the swans were back to poncing around on the water.
Back to aimlessly giving the nod and wink to female joggers then, which in its own little way, is not too dissimilar to the animal instincts of dog chasing swan. Without the whips of course.
| Sunday 14 December, 2003 |
Whilst running around Clapham Common this morning I had a double-take moment. Not the usual innocent flirty smile with a female jogger, more of a 'was that knobber by the boating lake REALLY whipping the swans with a dog lead?' A glance around at the other early morning runners confirmed this as they also trotted past displaying a look of disbelief.
Now I'm no great flag waver for Christianity but being the festive season, a 'Moment of Madness' on Clapham Common came all over me. I'm not the first person this has happened to in SW4.
If it came to bare fisted blows, I stood a good chance of lamping the geezer. |
He meant the swans of course, and not the not so Good Samaritans who carried on with their own little turkey trots around the Common.
Alsatian Vs Swan. FUCKING HUGE GRIZZLY ALSATIAN DRIBBLING SALIVA AROUND HIS FRESHLY SHARPENED TEETH VS ELEGANT SWAN. Survival of the fittest, dog eat dog etc, but this looked like a losing battle for our feathered friend to me.
I weighed up the options and realised that although I was likely to lose a sponsored swear-athon with the swan whipper, if it came to bare fisted blows on the nose, I stood a good chance of lamping the geezer.
A bizarre sight for a Sunday morning on Clapham Common was now developing; dog chasing swan. Lucozade fuelled jogger chasing cockney twat.
And still the other Samaritans walked on by.
It all ended when the repugnant little git ran out of swear words and I lost interest. The Alsatian had moved on to the pigeons (no argument from me) and the swans were back to poncing around on the water.
Back to aimlessly giving the nod and wink to female joggers then, which in its own little way, is not too dissimilar to the animal instincts of dog chasing swan. Without the whips of course.
| #permalink |
Crap match Report
London Towers 108 Leicester Riders 91, 13/12/03
Happy Happy Joy Joy; arrived at The Palace and was greeted with the wonderful news that the PA system was buggered. No offence to the enthusiastic DJ but my own pre-match preparation (drinking coke, stuffing my face with doughnuts, checking out which cheerleaders we have the pleasure of for the next two hours) is usually hindered by the blasting out of crap tunes from Will Smith, Craig David and Reel to Reel. A scrappy first quarter only livened up by the two refs; one a dead ringer for old man Steptoe, with the second being the campest thing seen at a basketball game since Crystal Palace Scouts decided to pitch their tent on centre court. Towers trailed 25 - 28 at the end of the first quarter and a tight second left the scores at 48 - 50. I decided to take my chance at the interval and part with two quid for the raffle. My rationale was clear - a low pre-Christmas crowd =less ticket buying punters. Missed out by two numbers. Knobber. Towers picked up the pace in the third pulling away 78-65, largely due to some cool shooting from Omar Sneed. If you're going to be called Omar then you have quite a reputation to live up to. The Towers' #11 just about manages to carry it off. Riders tried to rally in the fourth but some costly free shot misses from John Smith kept them out of the game. He wasn't bitter. Boom boom.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 13 December, 2003 |
London Towers 108 Leicester Riders 91, 13/12/03
Happy Happy Joy Joy; arrived at The Palace and was greeted with the wonderful news that the PA system was buggered. No offence to the enthusiastic DJ but my own pre-match preparation (drinking coke, stuffing my face with doughnuts, checking out which cheerleaders we have the pleasure of for the next two hours) is usually hindered by the blasting out of crap tunes from Will Smith, Craig David and Reel to Reel. A scrappy first quarter only livened up by the two refs; one a dead ringer for old man Steptoe, with the second being the campest thing seen at a basketball game since Crystal Palace Scouts decided to pitch their tent on centre court. Towers trailed 25 - 28 at the end of the first quarter and a tight second left the scores at 48 - 50. I decided to take my chance at the interval and part with two quid for the raffle. My rationale was clear - a low pre-Christmas crowd =less ticket buying punters. Missed out by two numbers. Knobber. Towers picked up the pace in the third pulling away 78-65, largely due to some cool shooting from Omar Sneed. If you're going to be called Omar then you have quite a reputation to live up to. The Towers' #11 just about manages to carry it off. Riders tried to rally in the fourth but some costly free shot misses from John Smith kept them out of the game. He wasn't bitter. Boom boom.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
31 (more) Songs, Part 2
An occasional and random feature.
'I decided that I wanted to write a little book of essays about songs I loved...'
So writes esteemed and incredibly well paid author Nick Hornby in the introduction to his recent publication, 31 Songs. A simple concept: Devoid of any original ideas having flogged the football thing to death, balding thirty something bloke hastily draws up a list of his favourite 31 songs and then writes self-indulgent crap about them.
See where this is going?
And here's the clever part: Hornby chooses SHIT songs, and so it is left to onionbagblog to redress this balance.
De La Soul - Magic Number
The Magic Number manages to match meaningful lyrics with a dumb ass tune - the two essential components for any killer pop record. In truth there are around a dozen songs from the 24 track Three Feet High and Rising album worthy of inclusion. The Magic Number gets the nod on account of executing such a brilliant and simple idea and not straying from the brief.
I can still remember seeing the three freaky afros on the Chart Show for the first time one Saturday lunchtime back in '89 and thinking great idea, wrong style. Hands up, guilty as charged, humble pie all the way for me. Mixing hip hop with a comedy peace loving approach at the time was like Will Young announcing his new Gabba direction.
NWA were proving that a gangster lifestyle could bring in the bling and rap was far removed from the original community ethos of its grass roots beginnings in the Bronx. De La Soul (along with The Jungle Brothers, Tribe Called Quest and Queen Latifah) took hip hop back to a more collective feel and managed to take the piss out of themselves at the same time, something which wasn't particularly high on Ice T's agenda.
I'm sure it wasn't intentional but De La Soul also effortlessly slipped into the UK loved up scene that was emerging at the start of the decade. No one's suggesting that Shaun Ryder and three US afro boys in dungarees were in league together, but the whole flared up Madchester explosion went hand in hand with the Daisy Age approach on the other side of the Atlantic.
The Magic Number has a wonderful DIY feel to it, putting the crackles on the sampled vinyl high up in the mix, with the bass line rocking back and forth with only two notes plodding up and down the scale.
The stop / start rhyme sets the scene for the endless running jokes throughout the rest of the album; peace over pistols, dope over dawgs and some weird references to potholes that I still don't get 14 years later.
As is the case with most killer debut albums, De La Soul have found it difficult to match their early high standards. Roller Skating Jam Called Saturday came close to hitting the mark, but the band have never been able to shake off the Daisy Age tag, even having to resort to Ziggy style public executions in De La Soul is Dead (cover features a plant pot knocked over with dead daisies; want us to draw you a diargram...?)
The Magic Number still remains though the best ever song that should have been used as the theme tune for good 'ol Dusty Bin and 3-2-1. Like we said - De La Soul, generations ahead.
31 (more) songs - the final countdown
| Wednesday 10 December, 2003 |
An occasional and random feature.
'I decided that I wanted to write a little book of essays about songs I loved...'
So writes esteemed and incredibly well paid author Nick Hornby in the introduction to his recent publication, 31 Songs. A simple concept: Devoid of any original ideas having flogged the football thing to death, balding thirty something bloke hastily draws up a list of his favourite 31 songs and then writes self-indulgent crap about them.
See where this is going?
And here's the clever part: Hornby chooses SHIT songs, and so it is left to onionbagblog to redress this balance.
De La Soul - Magic Number
The Magic Number manages to match meaningful lyrics with a dumb ass tune - the two essential components for any killer pop record. In truth there are around a dozen songs from the 24 track Three Feet High and Rising album worthy of inclusion. The Magic Number gets the nod on account of executing such a brilliant and simple idea and not straying from the brief.
I can still remember seeing the three freaky afros on the Chart Show for the first time one Saturday lunchtime back in '89 and thinking great idea, wrong style. Hands up, guilty as charged, humble pie all the way for me. Mixing hip hop with a comedy peace loving approach at the time was like Will Young announcing his new Gabba direction.
Peace over pistols, dope over dawgs and references to potholes |
I'm sure it wasn't intentional but De La Soul also effortlessly slipped into the UK loved up scene that was emerging at the start of the decade. No one's suggesting that Shaun Ryder and three US afro boys in dungarees were in league together, but the whole flared up Madchester explosion went hand in hand with the Daisy Age approach on the other side of the Atlantic.
The Magic Number has a wonderful DIY feel to it, putting the crackles on the sampled vinyl high up in the mix, with the bass line rocking back and forth with only two notes plodding up and down the scale.
The stop / start rhyme sets the scene for the endless running jokes throughout the rest of the album; peace over pistols, dope over dawgs and some weird references to potholes that I still don't get 14 years later.
As is the case with most killer debut albums, De La Soul have found it difficult to match their early high standards. Roller Skating Jam Called Saturday came close to hitting the mark, but the band have never been able to shake off the Daisy Age tag, even having to resort to Ziggy style public executions in De La Soul is Dead (cover features a plant pot knocked over with dead daisies; want us to draw you a diargram...?)
The Magic Number still remains though the best ever song that should have been used as the theme tune for good 'ol Dusty Bin and 3-2-1. Like we said - De La Soul, generations ahead.
31 (more) songs - the final countdown
| #permalink |
Personality Crisis
The second Advent Sunday before Christmas is a landmark in my diary with three essential pointers jotted down: Put up the Christmas tree, scribble your signature on some cheapo Tesco Xmas cards left over from last year (always buy half price in the January sale) and most important of all, the Sunday evening tradition of BBC Sports Personality of the Year.
Like our home-grown sporting personalities, the quality of this annual broadcast has been on the slide over the past few years and ever the pessimist, I can't see a great deal to look forward to this Sunday. The clue should be in the title: Sports PERSONALITY.
How the hell does a freako recluse who spends lonesome hours booting an egg shaped ball over an over-sized goalpost make a serious claim to be the biggest personality in the sporting calendar? Sure, you won the World Cup Johnny (well, 'world' as in about 10% of the global population have heard of the sport), but George Best you most certainly aren't.
I demand my sports personalities to be camp, to be able to generate genuinely shocking headlines and not to be some clone of a processed athlete who is tucked up in bed by 10pm on a Friday night and has never even set foot in a classy Ritzy nightclub.
The last true sports personality was Gazza; burping live on TV qualifies to be classified as a bona fide personality. Looking around the sporting Who’s Who crop of 2003 and there’s not a lot of scope for stars behaving badly.
Wayne Rooney is a manchild of few words (and looks). The Rooney legend could be sealed if he could come out with some wonderfully immature and juvenile comment:' Atomic Kitten are dozy slappers but they can get their laughing gear around my tackle anytime. Brian...'
Tim Henman is not even a serious athlete, let alone a personality in waiting. His mission since the age of seven has been to win Wimbledon on behalf of Robinson's Barley Water with a life time of endorsements in the can. Best look for a Plan B, eh Timmy?
And as for pissing Pippa Funnel; wtf is some inbred horsey horsey deb drop out doing masking as a 'personality?'
With the introduction of online voting the BBC has been left open to poll rigging, something which of course we should all condone and be proud of. Top sport is all about cheating and getting away with it.
The STOP JOHNNY campaign that is breathing new life into the Australian ISP market is a step in the right direction, and on a local level we can all do our little bit to help crown a genuine personality.
My nomination goes to Dwain Chambers; not only is Britain's finest, ahem, 'athlete' under suspicion of taking drugs, but these aren't any old steroid eye popping 50p from Dodgy Dave at the back of the gym variety; Dwain is such a star that he allegedly goes for the designer drug. Cool or what?
Forget laugh a minute Linker jostling some jocular banter with Frankie Dettori. Sod some silly Sunday night parlour game where footballers have to play golf on some crappy synthetic TV set. And PLEASE don’t damage your ratings even further with endless drivel looking back over the horse racing or golfing year.
The Sports PERSONALITY of the Year should be concerned with a turbo-charged Chambers going head to head with the Rock of Gibraltar (ridden by Sir Alex) over 100m with commentary provided by a pissed up Wayne Rooney after downing a dozen bottles of Hooch.
Then I might just be in the right frame of mind to write something festive in my Christmas cards.
 |
| Tuesday 9 December, 2003 |
The second Advent Sunday before Christmas is a landmark in my diary with three essential pointers jotted down: Put up the Christmas tree, scribble your signature on some cheapo Tesco Xmas cards left over from last year (always buy half price in the January sale) and most important of all, the Sunday evening tradition of BBC Sports Personality of the Year.
Like our home-grown sporting personalities, the quality of this annual broadcast has been on the slide over the past few years and ever the pessimist, I can't see a great deal to look forward to this Sunday. The clue should be in the title: Sports PERSONALITY.
Top sport is all about cheating and getting away with it |
I demand my sports personalities to be camp, to be able to generate genuinely shocking headlines and not to be some clone of a processed athlete who is tucked up in bed by 10pm on a Friday night and has never even set foot in a classy Ritzy nightclub.
The last true sports personality was Gazza; burping live on TV qualifies to be classified as a bona fide personality. Looking around the sporting Who’s Who crop of 2003 and there’s not a lot of scope for stars behaving badly.
Wayne Rooney is a manchild of few words (and looks). The Rooney legend could be sealed if he could come out with some wonderfully immature and juvenile comment:' Atomic Kitten are dozy slappers but they can get their laughing gear around my tackle anytime. Brian...'
Tim Henman is not even a serious athlete, let alone a personality in waiting. His mission since the age of seven has been to win Wimbledon on behalf of Robinson's Barley Water with a life time of endorsements in the can. Best look for a Plan B, eh Timmy?
And as for pissing Pippa Funnel; wtf is some inbred horsey horsey deb drop out doing masking as a 'personality?'
With the introduction of online voting the BBC has been left open to poll rigging, something which of course we should all condone and be proud of. Top sport is all about cheating and getting away with it.
The STOP JOHNNY campaign that is breathing new life into the Australian ISP market is a step in the right direction, and on a local level we can all do our little bit to help crown a genuine personality.
My nomination goes to Dwain Chambers; not only is Britain's finest, ahem, 'athlete' under suspicion of taking drugs, but these aren't any old steroid eye popping 50p from Dodgy Dave at the back of the gym variety; Dwain is such a star that he allegedly goes for the designer drug. Cool or what?
Forget laugh a minute Linker jostling some jocular banter with Frankie Dettori. Sod some silly Sunday night parlour game where footballers have to play golf on some crappy synthetic TV set. And PLEASE don’t damage your ratings even further with endless drivel looking back over the horse racing or golfing year.
The Sports PERSONALITY of the Year should be concerned with a turbo-charged Chambers going head to head with the Rock of Gibraltar (ridden by Sir Alex) over 100m with commentary provided by a pissed up Wayne Rooney after downing a dozen bottles of Hooch.
Then I might just be in the right frame of mind to write something festive in my Christmas cards.
| #permalink |
