onionbagblog
Crap Match Report
London Towers 92 Milton Keynes Lions 83, 31/01/04
Towers returned to the Palace after six away wins on the bounce, and with England captain Ronnie Baker back at SE19 for his third spell with the club having recently re-signed ahead of the transfer deadline. Also making a re-appearance in South London was John 'Old Skool' O'Connell – another returning hero from last season, this year playing for Milton Keynes and boasting a Club Tropicana '85 bleached look. I've heard he's a bit of a ladeee's man, but that's just a Careless Whisper... High expectations then from the bumper home crowd ahead of the tip off; all down to the Towers being in top form and nothing to do with the latest let it hang loose low cut costumes being jiggled about from the London Towers dancers. I managed to blag the best front of court seats (OK, I was rude and barged past some brats), but paid the price in suffering the smell of freshly applied liniment on the parading sweaty torsos directly in front of me. Sadly the aromas were from the seven foot basketball boys and not the scent of an oiled up Nubian Towers dancer (although the same amount of oil would probably be required to fill the body mass of some of the dancers, MASS being the word to focus on here). Back to the basketball: After an uncertain start to the season, Towers are hitting top form just ahead of the play-offs. They took a 24-19 lead into the second quarter making some superb plays, moving the ball around the court with ease and sinking their three pointers. 46-38 at the break with Towers having the Lions (boom boom) share of the game. Despite a 70-66 lead going into the final quarter, a slight stutter gave the Lions hope at the end, but Omar Sneed finished the game off with some well taken baskets, top scoring with 33 points. Highlight: The re-discovery of post-punk amongst London's semi-pro US sports teams continues apace; after yet another wonderful Clash-fest at Lee Valley last night, Towers' PA man dusted down his Jam Greatest Hits. Whatever next? A mini Crass / Conflict / Flux of Pink Indians scene developing at half time down at Dulwich?
Crap Match Report Compendium
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Sunday 1 February, 2004 |
London Towers 92 Milton Keynes Lions 83, 31/01/04
Towers returned to the Palace after six away wins on the bounce, and with England captain Ronnie Baker back at SE19 for his third spell with the club having recently re-signed ahead of the transfer deadline. Also making a re-appearance in South London was John 'Old Skool' O'Connell – another returning hero from last season, this year playing for Milton Keynes and boasting a Club Tropicana '85 bleached look. I've heard he's a bit of a ladeee's man, but that's just a Careless Whisper... High expectations then from the bumper home crowd ahead of the tip off; all down to the Towers being in top form and nothing to do with the latest let it hang loose low cut costumes being jiggled about from the London Towers dancers. I managed to blag the best front of court seats (OK, I was rude and barged past some brats), but paid the price in suffering the smell of freshly applied liniment on the parading sweaty torsos directly in front of me. Sadly the aromas were from the seven foot basketball boys and not the scent of an oiled up Nubian Towers dancer (although the same amount of oil would probably be required to fill the body mass of some of the dancers, MASS being the word to focus on here). Back to the basketball: After an uncertain start to the season, Towers are hitting top form just ahead of the play-offs. They took a 24-19 lead into the second quarter making some superb plays, moving the ball around the court with ease and sinking their three pointers. 46-38 at the break with Towers having the Lions (boom boom) share of the game. Despite a 70-66 lead going into the final quarter, a slight stutter gave the Lions hope at the end, but Omar Sneed finished the game off with some well taken baskets, top scoring with 33 points. Highlight: The re-discovery of post-punk amongst London's semi-pro US sports teams continues apace; after yet another wonderful Clash-fest at Lee Valley last night, Towers' PA man dusted down his Jam Greatest Hits. Whatever next? A mini Crass / Conflict / Flux of Pink Indians scene developing at half time down at Dulwich?
Crap Match Report Compendium
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 3 (three THREE THREE!!!!) Cardiff Devils 0 (NOTHING!), 30/01/04
Our Lord Saviour Jesus Christ spent forty days and forty nights in the wilderness searching for his inner self and testing his own personal discipline. Pah. Sod that. London Racers spent FORTY ONE games searching for a first win and testing the loyalty of their small but passionate fan base.
This is the Crap Match Report that I have waited six winless months to write; please excuse any oversight in describing line calls, neutral zone puck control or even updates on sightings of Oscar the dog. Racers bloody won, a feat that looked almost as remote as finding WMD in Iraq a few months ago, and so all that is required is to bash out a Ya Boo Sucks and wave my willy in the air at the Racers doubters, haters and puck allegiance jumping fickle ex-London Knights fans in self-denial who still harbour misplaced hopes of a return to hockey in the South East. Oh the irony of seeing a large gathering of ex-Knights fans down at the Bike Shed for the first time, all wearing their old tops and get this, cheering on the Cardiff Devils under the misguided premise that four ex-Knights are now icing for the South Wales team. Their pedestal posturing Knights not only took a hammering but also spent the majority of the game sitting it out in the penalty box. I too have bought the Knights replica jerseys, seasons tickets and crap lollipop merchandise over the past five special seasons but I'm afraid it’s time to move on boys and girls. You want to watch pro hockey in London? Friday night is hockey night now in East London and the Racers are a WINNING team. Well, they were at 11pm last night, but chances are that after a well deserved night on the sauce celebrating that elusive first win, focus may be slightly off-centre away in Basingstoke on Saturday.
The game itself was a thriller well worthy of Racers first franchise win. Mojmir 'Onion' Musil kept a cool head at 10.17 to find his spot and slot home on the break to give Racers a 1-0 lead. The home team then managed to kill a five on three Devils powerplay, giving confidence to the whole team and causing the first signs of self-doubt within the Devils camp. Yes, a forty one game winless streak is a poor state of affairs, but to be the first team to actually lose against the League's whipping boys is perhaps the tag that will hurt the hardest.
In the second period Racers kept up the pressure with new boy Noel Burkitt battling well to win the puck in the neutral zone, skating through centre ice and then selling the perfect dummy to the Devils netminder before firing home. With five minutes remaining in the second, Devils then tried to change the pace of the game with the closest we have had to a bench clearance down at the Lee Valley Bike Shed. Ex-Knight Mike Ware was not surprisingly involved picking up a cheap Third Man In Game penalty. A lengthy break in play then followed before both teams picked up a combined penalty count of 34 minutes plus the Game Misconduct for Mad Mike.
The Racers came out for the third period managing to maintain a tremendous team spirit and Burkitt slotted home an empty netter right at the final buzzer. The first franchise win also had the added bonus of being Racers' first shutout of the season. On any other occasion the Man of the Match would have been given to Evan Lindsay in the home team goal. The WHOLE TEAM were asked to skate forward at the end as the collective team spirit was the factor that finally managed to break the hoodoo.
Miracle on Ice. Hallelujah.
Highlight: The Racers first win may have been a long time coming but my personal highlight was spotting the referee's changing room for the first time down at the compact Bike Shed; perched up on the bar balcony for all to see and with a glass frontage, we were treated to the spectacle of a top change for assistant ref Tottman in-between period breaks. Things you need to know: Tottman is a female ref and like her first name of Joy suggests, this new period break entertainment certainly beats the usual Chuck a Puck.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 31 January, 2004 |
London Racers 3 (three THREE THREE!!!!) Cardiff Devils 0 (NOTHING!), 30/01/04
Our Lord Saviour Jesus Christ spent forty days and forty nights in the wilderness searching for his inner self and testing his own personal discipline. Pah. Sod that. London Racers spent FORTY ONE games searching for a first win and testing the loyalty of their small but passionate fan base.
 Ya Boo Sucks and wave my willy in the air at all the Racers doubters |
The game itself was a thriller well worthy of Racers first franchise win. Mojmir 'Onion' Musil kept a cool head at 10.17 to find his spot and slot home on the break to give Racers a 1-0 lead. The home team then managed to kill a five on three Devils powerplay, giving confidence to the whole team and causing the first signs of self-doubt within the Devils camp. Yes, a forty one game winless streak is a poor state of affairs, but to be the first team to actually lose against the League's whipping boys is perhaps the tag that will hurt the hardest.
In the second period Racers kept up the pressure with new boy Noel Burkitt battling well to win the puck in the neutral zone, skating through centre ice and then selling the perfect dummy to the Devils netminder before firing home. With five minutes remaining in the second, Devils then tried to change the pace of the game with the closest we have had to a bench clearance down at the Lee Valley Bike Shed. Ex-Knight Mike Ware was not surprisingly involved picking up a cheap Third Man In Game penalty. A lengthy break in play then followed before both teams picked up a combined penalty count of 34 minutes plus the Game Misconduct for Mad Mike.
The Racers came out for the third period managing to maintain a tremendous team spirit and Burkitt slotted home an empty netter right at the final buzzer. The first franchise win also had the added bonus of being Racers' first shutout of the season. On any other occasion the Man of the Match would have been given to Evan Lindsay in the home team goal. The WHOLE TEAM were asked to skate forward at the end as the collective team spirit was the factor that finally managed to break the hoodoo.
Miracle on Ice. Hallelujah.
Highlight: The Racers first win may have been a long time coming but my personal highlight was spotting the referee's changing room for the first time down at the compact Bike Shed; perched up on the bar balcony for all to see and with a glass frontage, we were treated to the spectacle of a top change for assistant ref Tottman in-between period breaks. Things you need to know: Tottman is a female ref and like her first name of Joy suggests, this new period break entertainment certainly beats the usual Chuck a Puck.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Fingering the Dyke
Anything The Scum can do, onionbagblogger can do better (check out our Page 3 Stockwell Slapper Bag Lady pics next week); the Hutton Report may have been leaked to the Wapping Wankers ahead of publication on Wednesday, but onionbagblog can exclusively reveal the full details of Greg Dyke's Resignation email sent out to all BBC staff earlier today:
'This is the hardest email I have ever had to write. Online communication wasn't around fifteen years ago when I had to let Roland Rat know that his services were no longer available and so that doesn’t count.
The past few days have been traumatic for both myself and the BBC; I forgot to set the video for Neighbours yesterday and our dear old friend Jenny Bond is coming across as a right old snooty cow in I'm a Celebrity... Not the best of days in the history of the Corporation then.
I arrived at my desk bright and brisk this morning only to find that not only has our beloved chairman thrown a sickie (I blame the bad weather), but also that I had an urgent meeting to attend with the other nice chaps from down the corridor who sit around all day and decide what pretty colours we can use next in our new trailer (a real feel good flick involving a boy with webbed feet twirling a big kite in the air while attempting yogic flying).
Seems like there has been a bit of a set to involving the early morning DJ on Radio 4. Can't say that I ever listen myself, I prefer dear old Terry Wogan over on R2. Couldn't quite grasp what all the fuss was about, but apparently one of Mr Tony's personal bullies took offence to something that was broadcast. Must have been a Will Young song that somehow found itself on the R4 playlist. Like I said, never listen myself.
The upshot is that I have been told to clear my desk and grin like a fucking gibbon at a Leah Betts Memorial Weekend as I exit the building, and then gibber aimlessly about Reithian values, the importance of an impartial pubic broadcaster and then make some passing comment about what exactly is so damn difficult about asking a jobbing journo to actually take notes and TELL IT LIKE IT IS. Wouldn't want to make any costly mistakes now would we?
I would have quit yesterday but decided not to brave the snow storm that engulfed Television Centre at around 5pm. Whenever a layer of snow settles on by balding head it has the unfortunate effect of making me look like a sacrificial lamb, and this really isn’t the image that the BBC wants to be putting across right now. Baaaaaaaa.
And so I love you and leave you (and by YOU I don't just mean Barbara the buxom Broadcast Assistant on Blue Peter) with the BBC all the more stronger and powerful after my four years sitting behind the big desk; a reputation for quality journalism, a 'Can Do, Can't Quit' culture (um...) and a massive cost saving exercise following my successful Bring Your Own Biccies to Meetings initiative.
Onwards and upwards, and straight into a part-time non-executive directorship for me.
Finally out of the public eye and no longer on the leach from Mr Tony, I'm now free to grow back my beard. Never did quite understand what Tony Tony Tony has against beards. That nice Mr Blunkett has offered to give me personal grooming tuition but I think I'll turn a blind eye on that one.
Anyway, must dash. I’ve got some doorsteps to whitewash. I might ask Mr Hutton if he is free to give a hand.
Smiling Greg'
Onionbagblog VERY important disclaimer: Libel is libel and I'm just an Andrew fuckwit Gilligan waiting to happen. There's more chance of Beagle 2 actually beaming back down to earth that long lost Blur track than Mr Dyke, Mr Tony or Roland Rat reading this, but just supposing... I think the phrase that I’m looking for goes along the lines of 'All references to characters alive or dead are purely coincidental.'
Closedown.
| Thursday 29 January, 2004 |
Anything The Scum can do, onionbagblogger can do better (check out our Page 3 Stockwell Slapper Bag Lady pics next week); the Hutton Report may have been leaked to the Wapping Wankers ahead of publication on Wednesday, but onionbagblog can exclusively reveal the full details of Greg Dyke's Resignation email sent out to all BBC staff earlier today:
'This is the hardest email I have ever had to write. Online communication wasn't around fifteen years ago when I had to let Roland Rat know that his services were no longer available and so that doesn’t count.
Must dash - I’ve got some doorsteps to whitewash |
I arrived at my desk bright and brisk this morning only to find that not only has our beloved chairman thrown a sickie (I blame the bad weather), but also that I had an urgent meeting to attend with the other nice chaps from down the corridor who sit around all day and decide what pretty colours we can use next in our new trailer (a real feel good flick involving a boy with webbed feet twirling a big kite in the air while attempting yogic flying).
Seems like there has been a bit of a set to involving the early morning DJ on Radio 4. Can't say that I ever listen myself, I prefer dear old Terry Wogan over on R2. Couldn't quite grasp what all the fuss was about, but apparently one of Mr Tony's personal bullies took offence to something that was broadcast. Must have been a Will Young song that somehow found itself on the R4 playlist. Like I said, never listen myself.
The upshot is that I have been told to clear my desk and grin like a fucking gibbon at a Leah Betts Memorial Weekend as I exit the building, and then gibber aimlessly about Reithian values, the importance of an impartial pubic broadcaster and then make some passing comment about what exactly is so damn difficult about asking a jobbing journo to actually take notes and TELL IT LIKE IT IS. Wouldn't want to make any costly mistakes now would we?
I would have quit yesterday but decided not to brave the snow storm that engulfed Television Centre at around 5pm. Whenever a layer of snow settles on by balding head it has the unfortunate effect of making me look like a sacrificial lamb, and this really isn’t the image that the BBC wants to be putting across right now. Baaaaaaaa.
And so I love you and leave you (and by YOU I don't just mean Barbara the buxom Broadcast Assistant on Blue Peter) with the BBC all the more stronger and powerful after my four years sitting behind the big desk; a reputation for quality journalism, a 'Can Do, Can't Quit' culture (um...) and a massive cost saving exercise following my successful Bring Your Own Biccies to Meetings initiative.
Onwards and upwards, and straight into a part-time non-executive directorship for me.
Finally out of the public eye and no longer on the leach from Mr Tony, I'm now free to grow back my beard. Never did quite understand what Tony Tony Tony has against beards. That nice Mr Blunkett has offered to give me personal grooming tuition but I think I'll turn a blind eye on that one.
Anyway, must dash. I’ve got some doorsteps to whitewash. I might ask Mr Hutton if he is free to give a hand.
Smiling Greg'
Onionbagblog VERY important disclaimer: Libel is libel and I'm just an Andrew fuckwit Gilligan waiting to happen. There's more chance of Beagle 2 actually beaming back down to earth that long lost Blur track than Mr Dyke, Mr Tony or Roland Rat reading this, but just supposing... I think the phrase that I’m looking for goes along the lines of 'All references to characters alive or dead are purely coincidental.'
Closedown.
| #permalink |
Snow Patrol
Stumble across any half-arsed poorly written blog this evening (congratulations! You've made it to... onionbagblog) and chances are that you will see some grainy crap pics taken by a cheapo digi cam of what appears to be negatives from an over exposed film. Squint again at the screen (yes, this VERY screen) and you may just see the highly unusual image of a gritty, slushy, piss poor attempt at an urban London Christmas card scene.
Why do we do it (take shit pics of snow that is, not waste away the hours reading uninspiring blogs)? Did the Victorians spend their entire adult life writing and posting letters simply because of the arrival of a national postage system?
Dull blogs are currently clogged up by crap snow pics this evening simply because WE CAN do it. Technology may empower us but it doesn't make us better photographers.
As is the case with most technology, there is a honeymoon period where the new gizmo is paraded around ad nausea, much in the same way that a new partner is given the dinner party circuit treatment until we get bored of them and realise that everyone else also has one, or as is the case with partners, may actually have HAD your partner.
Sod it – I've spent all of five seconds making a complete arse of myself by leaning out of the window and pointing my cam at the road outside; it would seem a shame to waste this unique snapshot moment in my life.
Just because WE CAN though, doesn't mean that WE SHOULD. Taking the argument a stage further, I could quite easily take a picture of my hairy arse right now, warts and all, quite literally, but chance are that it wouldn't be met with an 'awww, cute isn't it?' response. And no, that's not snow but bumfluff.
As for the snow? Well, it's not the first time that a modern urban sprawl has found that its crumbling transport network has been paralysed, but fingers crossed that it means a day off work for all of us tomorrow. Think of all the lovely pics that could then be taken to waster further blog column inches.
Haven't we all got more pressing points to ponder tonight? Hutton?? How an alleged disco biscuit munching 18 stone beefcake can be appointed captain of the England Egg Chasers? And how the hell am I going to make it across the road (as featured EXCLUSIVELY in the picture above) to buy a pint of milk in order to satisfy my milky tea addiction?
It could be a long night. Stay tuned for more crap pics.
| Wednesday 28 January, 2004 |
Stumble across any half-arsed poorly written blog this evening (congratulations! You've made it to... onionbagblog) and chances are that you will see some grainy crap pics taken by a cheapo digi cam of what appears to be negatives from an over exposed film. Squint again at the screen (yes, this VERY screen) and you may just see the highly unusual image of a gritty, slushy, piss poor attempt at an urban London Christmas card scene.
Why do we do it (take shit pics of snow that is, not waste away the hours reading uninspiring blogs)? Did the Victorians spend their entire adult life writing and posting letters simply because of the arrival of a national postage system?
I could quite easily take a picture of my hairy arse right now |
As is the case with most technology, there is a honeymoon period where the new gizmo is paraded around ad nausea, much in the same way that a new partner is given the dinner party circuit treatment until we get bored of them and realise that everyone else also has one, or as is the case with partners, may actually have HAD your partner.
Sod it – I've spent all of five seconds making a complete arse of myself by leaning out of the window and pointing my cam at the road outside; it would seem a shame to waste this unique snapshot moment in my life.
Just because WE CAN though, doesn't mean that WE SHOULD. Taking the argument a stage further, I could quite easily take a picture of my hairy arse right now, warts and all, quite literally, but chance are that it wouldn't be met with an 'awww, cute isn't it?' response. And no, that's not snow but bumfluff.
As for the snow? Well, it's not the first time that a modern urban sprawl has found that its crumbling transport network has been paralysed, but fingers crossed that it means a day off work for all of us tomorrow. Think of all the lovely pics that could then be taken to waster further blog column inches.
Haven't we all got more pressing points to ponder tonight? Hutton?? How an alleged disco biscuit munching 18 stone beefcake can be appointed captain of the England Egg Chasers? And how the hell am I going to make it across the road (as featured EXCLUSIVELY in the picture above) to buy a pint of milk in order to satisfy my milky tea addiction?
It could be a long night. Stay tuned for more crap pics.
| #permalink |
I am Anorak Man
Anorak Man is back. And yes, that includes me. Oh what a tangled web we weave, etc; my own little personal universe of obscure semi-professional sporting events has been invaded by a crossover of like-minded souls, and I feel all the more vindicated for following non-league fandom with the arrival of my fellow Anorak Men (and women).
My spare time tends to involve making the most of a weekend travel card, dashing around from Lee Valley (London Racers ice hockey) to Champion Hill (Dulwich Hamlet), then up to Crystal Palace (London Towers basketball) and occasionally back down to Streatham High Road (Streatham Redskins ice hockey).
If I'm feeling particularly energetic then a pilgrimage is made to deepest Slough to watch the mighty Slough Jets play at yes, you guessed it, ice hockey. Summer brings Surrey CCC into my social scene lacking diary.
I won’t even confuse you with the seedy South London world of Korfball right now.
After almost a decade or so of watching crap football / hockey / basketball teams, it is of course inevitable that you exchange a deep sigh and 'oh well, always next week' moment with a fellow fan.
My structured world of wearing a Friday night hockey head, Saturday afto football brain and Saturday night basketball persona has recently been thrown into wild confusion; Dulwich fans are starting to appear at the hockey, as are Towers basketball faces. Some geezers sitting in front of me at the football have started exchanging obscure hockey programmes. And wtf was the poor old Oval coffin dodger doing at the basketball the other week?
I accept that if you are into binge drinking then the chances are that you will stumble over the same drunken souls week in week out. But we're talking a sporting 'arena' radius here of almost twenty miles. And just how many professional football clubs are located within this patch providing a 'credible' alternative?
I have come to the conclusion that Anorak Man is alive and well in the South East and is fighting against the increasingly ugly world of professional sport. Fifty quid to watch Chelsea? Fuck off. Thirty to drop down a division and watch the shit at Selhurst Park? And just why is it that so many London football 'fans' seem to adopt dear old Leyton Orient as their 'second' team, despite the fact that they have never seen them play, mainly due to the fact that it will still cost you twenty quid to watch sub-standard Third Division shite?
Where's the attachment? Where's the local pride? Where's the change from a ten pound note?
Sport has to be about involvement for me, even if that involvement only stretches as far as swearing like a trooper down at Champion Hill for the cause of your local team. I just can't excited about the likes of Veron, Mutu or Makelele, especially since they are likely to bugger off before their contract comes to an end leaving no lasting impact on the local community. It seems that I’m not alone.
Be warned however - Anorak fandom is damn hard work and is not for the faint hearted. The pro-sport brigade may toss the familiar 'get a life' insult at you, but with so much semi-pro sporting events to take in, you really haven't the time.
You try planning a weekend of four fixtures covering in all four corners of London and still find time to pop into Sportspages to pick up that elusive non-league fanzine. And play for your hit and miss supporters team. And watch the NHL highlights at 2am on C5.
Thousands of years into the future, once Bush has managed to obliterate civilisation as we know it, archaeologists will dig up the relics of Anorak Man in an obscure corner of SE London. And he'll be wearing a replica non-league football top, holding an ice hockey programme and have a basketball ticket tucked away inside a fossilised pocket. And there will be a dozen similar Anorak Men, all found with contrasting semi-pro sporting memorabilia attached to them. That will confuse the buggers.
| Wednesday 28 January, 2004 |
Anorak Man is back. And yes, that includes me. Oh what a tangled web we weave, etc; my own little personal universe of obscure semi-professional sporting events has been invaded by a crossover of like-minded souls, and I feel all the more vindicated for following non-league fandom with the arrival of my fellow Anorak Men (and women).
My spare time tends to involve making the most of a weekend travel card, dashing around from Lee Valley (London Racers ice hockey) to Champion Hill (Dulwich Hamlet), then up to Crystal Palace (London Towers basketball) and occasionally back down to Streatham High Road (Streatham Redskins ice hockey).
Fifty quid to watch Chelsea? Fuck off! |
I won’t even confuse you with the seedy South London world of Korfball right now.
After almost a decade or so of watching crap football / hockey / basketball teams, it is of course inevitable that you exchange a deep sigh and 'oh well, always next week' moment with a fellow fan.
My structured world of wearing a Friday night hockey head, Saturday afto football brain and Saturday night basketball persona has recently been thrown into wild confusion; Dulwich fans are starting to appear at the hockey, as are Towers basketball faces. Some geezers sitting in front of me at the football have started exchanging obscure hockey programmes. And wtf was the poor old Oval coffin dodger doing at the basketball the other week?
I accept that if you are into binge drinking then the chances are that you will stumble over the same drunken souls week in week out. But we're talking a sporting 'arena' radius here of almost twenty miles. And just how many professional football clubs are located within this patch providing a 'credible' alternative?
I have come to the conclusion that Anorak Man is alive and well in the South East and is fighting against the increasingly ugly world of professional sport. Fifty quid to watch Chelsea? Fuck off. Thirty to drop down a division and watch the shit at Selhurst Park? And just why is it that so many London football 'fans' seem to adopt dear old Leyton Orient as their 'second' team, despite the fact that they have never seen them play, mainly due to the fact that it will still cost you twenty quid to watch sub-standard Third Division shite?
Where's the attachment? Where's the local pride? Where's the change from a ten pound note?
Sport has to be about involvement for me, even if that involvement only stretches as far as swearing like a trooper down at Champion Hill for the cause of your local team. I just can't excited about the likes of Veron, Mutu or Makelele, especially since they are likely to bugger off before their contract comes to an end leaving no lasting impact on the local community. It seems that I’m not alone.
Be warned however - Anorak fandom is damn hard work and is not for the faint hearted. The pro-sport brigade may toss the familiar 'get a life' insult at you, but with so much semi-pro sporting events to take in, you really haven't the time.
You try planning a weekend of four fixtures covering in all four corners of London and still find time to pop into Sportspages to pick up that elusive non-league fanzine. And play for your hit and miss supporters team. And watch the NHL highlights at 2am on C5.
Thousands of years into the future, once Bush has managed to obliterate civilisation as we know it, archaeologists will dig up the relics of Anorak Man in an obscure corner of SE London. And he'll be wearing a replica non-league football top, holding an ice hockey programme and have a basketball ticket tucked away inside a fossilised pocket. And there will be a dozen similar Anorak Men, all found with contrasting semi-pro sporting memorabilia attached to them. That will confuse the buggers.
| #permalink |
King of the Road
Nothing brings a smile to the face of onionbagblog more than some ‘blue sky thinking’ EU directive that seems to have been put forward purely with the aim of seriously pissing off Mr & Mrs Daily Mail reader. Extra Top Trumps points are awarded if the proposed legislation touches somehow on my own little insignificant daily life.
Which is exactly what the faceless EU bureaucrats have managed to achieve with the suggestion that car owners fork out for any damage inflicted to cyclists in the event of an accident. And here comes the 'clever' part... even if the accident is the fault of the CYCLIST.
Bingo! Love it! So what if this directive lives up to all the loony banana curve EU stereotyping so beloved of Her Majesty’s Popular Prints. I admit that in a rational world of straight edge suited Euro MPs, this legislation makes about as much sense as a Sainsbury's bag stuffed full of dead wet mice, but still, gotta love the cheek.
Of course some tossers such as the Talking Bluntly editorial in the SLP have already started to fume at the prospect of some 'lycra lout' (stop please, you're choking me – who the fuck actually wears lycra?) purposely taking a sharp right turn at Vauxhall Cross to deliberately be met with an oncoming articulated, just so that they can buy a new bike seat out of the insurance.
GET FUCKING REAL, PETROL HEADS.
Cycling in London remains one of the most guaranteed pant pooping experiences, along with buying a round of drinks at the Punch & Judy in Covent Garden or engaging in conversation with a cabbie. Any redress in the hierarchy of King of the London Streets (Cabbie, Petrol Head BMW twat, Royal Mail van driver, No 159 driver... lowly cyclist) has to be a peddle in the right direction.
Of course there are some real fuckspud cyclists (Clapham Road rush hour crew who re-enact the Tour De Oval every morning with each other), but in the main, the dog eat dog world of the mean streets of London leads cyclists to become assertive.
Cycling around the capital remains the cheapest, quickest and most enjoyable way of experiencing this fine city; plus if you get to hike up the insurance premium of some Daily Mail reading dork at the same time, then that should be enough to make you turn towards pedal power.
Plus - first Critical Mass of the NY this Friday
| Tuesday 27 January, 2003 |
Nothing brings a smile to the face of onionbagblog more than some ‘blue sky thinking’ EU directive that seems to have been put forward purely with the aim of seriously pissing off Mr & Mrs Daily Mail reader. Extra Top Trumps points are awarded if the proposed legislation touches somehow on my own little insignificant daily life.
Which is exactly what the faceless EU bureaucrats have managed to achieve with the suggestion that car owners fork out for any damage inflicted to cyclists in the event of an accident. And here comes the 'clever' part... even if the accident is the fault of the CYCLIST.
This makes as much sense as a Sainsbury’s bag stuffed full of dead wet mice |
Of course some tossers such as the Talking Bluntly editorial in the SLP have already started to fume at the prospect of some 'lycra lout' (stop please, you're choking me – who the fuck actually wears lycra?) purposely taking a sharp right turn at Vauxhall Cross to deliberately be met with an oncoming articulated, just so that they can buy a new bike seat out of the insurance.
GET FUCKING REAL, PETROL HEADS.
Cycling in London remains one of the most guaranteed pant pooping experiences, along with buying a round of drinks at the Punch & Judy in Covent Garden or engaging in conversation with a cabbie. Any redress in the hierarchy of King of the London Streets (Cabbie, Petrol Head BMW twat, Royal Mail van driver, No 159 driver... lowly cyclist) has to be a peddle in the right direction.
Of course there are some real fuckspud cyclists (Clapham Road rush hour crew who re-enact the Tour De Oval every morning with each other), but in the main, the dog eat dog world of the mean streets of London leads cyclists to become assertive.
Cycling around the capital remains the cheapest, quickest and most enjoyable way of experiencing this fine city; plus if you get to hike up the insurance premium of some Daily Mail reading dork at the same time, then that should be enough to make you turn towards pedal power.
Plus - first Critical Mass of the NY this Friday
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Insane in the Membrane
Looks like Lambeth Council is determined to lead a moral crusade against soft drug use in the area, despite the millions of pounds boost to the local economy that the cannabis economy generates.
London Assembly Green Party member Shane Collins was cleared last week of violating the licence granted to him to stage the Cannabis Festival held last May at Brockwell Park. The music curfew was breached by one minute and 25 seconds, a time span so significant the local council took court action funded by one thousand pounds of taxpayers money.
Would such draconian action be taken against the hundreds of pubs throughout the borough that host good 'ol fashioned London lock-ins each weekend, blatantly breaching licensing regulations and leading to drink related crimes such as assault or traffic offences?
The case was rightfully thrown out of Tower Bridge Magistrates Court with Mr Collins not only receiving thirty pounds costs (which will buy a months supply of Rizlas if nothing else), but also high praise from the most unlikely of tokers, District Judge Ann Sawetz:
'The man in the South London Tent (where the music was played) said he permitted the record to be played because he thought the situation might turn nasty. I think on the evidence I heard that Mr Collins ran a very tight ship. Mr Collins took care and attention and took a very responsible attitude and that was echoed in the way his staff dealt with the situation. One does wonder why this case was brought.'
Which I think translates as: 'Right on, groovy brother, just tell us what you want to do and roll us fat one while you’re at it.'
Lambeth Council is of course right in not wanting to encourage the image that the area is the drugs capital of London, but it also needs to develop a realistic drugs policy that shifts away from the simplistic 'all drugs are bad drugs' rhetoric.
With over 15,000 people attending the Cannabis Festival, the annual event is a real opportunity to educate the community about the health issues involved in taking drugs. Better for kids to find out about the risks involved from a legally sanctioned festival than from some dodgy geezer on Coldharbour Lane trying to pedal his Class A shit to unsuspecting and inquisitive young minds.
Brixton is currently under-going a re-branding exercise by Lambeth Council; this of course means a brash new tube station for tubes that probably won’t work and the continued gentrification of the area with useless chainstore tossers moving in. The genuine policing advances achieved under Commander Paddick (focussing on hard drugs and the dealers) is being pushed aside as the Council attempts to make SW9 a drugs free zone.
That's like asking George Best not to step inside an off licence again. Never gonna happen.
Meanwhile a date of 8 May 2004 has been set for the pro-cannabis march this year with a venue still being sought to hold the festival in the evening. Burgess Park is emerging as a favourite which of course would be perfect for those... Camberwell Carrots.
| Monday 26 January, 2004 |
Looks like Lambeth Council is determined to lead a moral crusade against soft drug use in the area, despite the millions of pounds boost to the local economy that the cannabis economy generates.
London Assembly Green Party member Shane Collins was cleared last week of violating the licence granted to him to stage the Cannabis Festival held last May at Brockwell Park. The music curfew was breached by one minute and 25 seconds, a time span so significant the local council took court action funded by one thousand pounds of taxpayers money.
That's like asking George Best not to step inside an off licence again |
The case was rightfully thrown out of Tower Bridge Magistrates Court with Mr Collins not only receiving thirty pounds costs (which will buy a months supply of Rizlas if nothing else), but also high praise from the most unlikely of tokers, District Judge Ann Sawetz:
'The man in the South London Tent (where the music was played) said he permitted the record to be played because he thought the situation might turn nasty. I think on the evidence I heard that Mr Collins ran a very tight ship. Mr Collins took care and attention and took a very responsible attitude and that was echoed in the way his staff dealt with the situation. One does wonder why this case was brought.'
Which I think translates as: 'Right on, groovy brother, just tell us what you want to do and roll us fat one while you’re at it.'
Lambeth Council is of course right in not wanting to encourage the image that the area is the drugs capital of London, but it also needs to develop a realistic drugs policy that shifts away from the simplistic 'all drugs are bad drugs' rhetoric.
With over 15,000 people attending the Cannabis Festival, the annual event is a real opportunity to educate the community about the health issues involved in taking drugs. Better for kids to find out about the risks involved from a legally sanctioned festival than from some dodgy geezer on Coldharbour Lane trying to pedal his Class A shit to unsuspecting and inquisitive young minds.
Brixton is currently under-going a re-branding exercise by Lambeth Council; this of course means a brash new tube station for tubes that probably won’t work and the continued gentrification of the area with useless chainstore tossers moving in. The genuine policing advances achieved under Commander Paddick (focussing on hard drugs and the dealers) is being pushed aside as the Council attempts to make SW9 a drugs free zone.
That's like asking George Best not to step inside an off licence again. Never gonna happen.
Meanwhile a date of 8 May 2004 has been set for the pro-cannabis march this year with a venue still being sought to hold the festival in the evening. Burgess Park is emerging as a favourite which of course would be perfect for those... Camberwell Carrots.
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Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Windsor & Eton 2, 24/01/04
Onionbagblog can exclusively reveal that in the wake of Chelsea's embourgeoisement (look it up in a sociology dictionary), Champion Hill is now officially the home of South London's finest Shed. OK, so it may be an actual garden shed as opposed to a 20,000 capacity Shed End, but it's OUR shed. Well, it's not actually as it belongs to the DHFC Supporters Trust (which I suppose makes it 'ours?') and it looks exactly how you would expect a shed erected at a non-league football ground to look. The official opening of the shed couldn't have been graced by a finer occasion with the arrival of the table-topping Windsor and Eton to Champion Hill. The benefits of biking it late and yet again missing the kick off meant that I was in the perfect position to see exactly why Windsor's first goal shouldn’t have been allowed. Unlike the lino. Just as I was locking my bike up behind the goal (bet you can't do that down at Stamford Bridge), it was '66, a moustached Rusky lino and a dodgy ball on the line moment all over again. Except this time the ball bounced about a yard in FRONT of the goal line yet still the knobber running the line indicated a goal. Cometh the hour, cometh the balding Hamlet Coach as Lee Akers fired in a bullet free kick, hard and low, from just outside the area. The second half was touch and go, quite literally as the suits sitting near to me went into a collective pink and blue tie panic (quite a sight) after floodlight failure. Just as the sun set over Champion Hill, the bright lights flickered into action. Just as well as who would want to miss some of the best passing football played by Dulwich so far this season? Omari Coleman showed his strength to run through the heart of the Windsor defence and fire home into the corner to give Hamlet a 2-1 lead. I took this as my signal to unlock my bike and be all set for a quick getaway following what looked like a satisfactory win against the top of the table side. Big mistake. Just as the lock was coming off my Marin, the hapless ref turned down a blatant Hamlet penalty and waved play on, only for Windsor to run up the pitch and scramble an equaliser with six minutes left. The Windsor 'keeper proved to be a bit of a knobber, 'celebrating' the goal with the Hamlet fans behind the goal with a one finger salute. Tears were SHED. Boom boom.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Sunday 25 January, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Windsor & Eton 2, 24/01/04
Onionbagblog can exclusively reveal that in the wake of Chelsea's embourgeoisement (look it up in a sociology dictionary), Champion Hill is now officially the home of South London's finest Shed. OK, so it may be an actual garden shed as opposed to a 20,000 capacity Shed End, but it's OUR shed. Well, it's not actually as it belongs to the DHFC Supporters Trust (which I suppose makes it 'ours?') and it looks exactly how you would expect a shed erected at a non-league football ground to look. The official opening of the shed couldn't have been graced by a finer occasion with the arrival of the table-topping Windsor and Eton to Champion Hill. The benefits of biking it late and yet again missing the kick off meant that I was in the perfect position to see exactly why Windsor's first goal shouldn’t have been allowed. Unlike the lino. Just as I was locking my bike up behind the goal (bet you can't do that down at Stamford Bridge), it was '66, a moustached Rusky lino and a dodgy ball on the line moment all over again. Except this time the ball bounced about a yard in FRONT of the goal line yet still the knobber running the line indicated a goal. Cometh the hour, cometh the balding Hamlet Coach as Lee Akers fired in a bullet free kick, hard and low, from just outside the area. The second half was touch and go, quite literally as the suits sitting near to me went into a collective pink and blue tie panic (quite a sight) after floodlight failure. Just as the sun set over Champion Hill, the bright lights flickered into action. Just as well as who would want to miss some of the best passing football played by Dulwich so far this season? Omari Coleman showed his strength to run through the heart of the Windsor defence and fire home into the corner to give Hamlet a 2-1 lead. I took this as my signal to unlock my bike and be all set for a quick getaway following what looked like a satisfactory win against the top of the table side. Big mistake. Just as the lock was coming off my Marin, the hapless ref turned down a blatant Hamlet penalty and waved play on, only for Windsor to run up the pitch and scramble an equaliser with six minutes left. The Windsor 'keeper proved to be a bit of a knobber, 'celebrating' the goal with the Hamlet fans behind the goal with a one finger salute. Tears were SHED. Boom boom.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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Crap match Report
London Racers 3 Basingstoke Bison 4, 23/01/04
Many a Man Utd fan eulogise about an FA Cup third round tie away against Forest back in 1990 where supposedly the job was on the line for the Great Red Nosed one. Make or break, not only for Sir Stopwatch but also the 90's Man Utd dynasty that he was about to build. Up popped a fresh faced Mark Robbins to carve open a new path in terms of English football dominance, and led me and my fellow Trent End yoofs on that January day to a pathological hatred of United. OK, so Lee Valley Bike Shed on yet another freezing East End Friday wasn't quite as significant in terms of changing the sporting landscape in the UK. At stake for the Racers however was a Do or Die last chance to salvage their season; win tonight (plus the small matter of the other fifteen or so remaining fixtures) and a place in the Play-Offs was ours. Lose and those early flights back to North America could be booked for the team. Given a record of P39, L39, Racers HQ was no doubt logged onto easyjet.com well ahead of the final buzzer. Bison represented the best chance for the first franchise win with a record of W14, L20. Mojmir 'Onion' Musil (apparently he has onion breath, but not quite getting to grips with the English language, has taken to calling himself 'Onionman', unaware that this isn’t the most flattering of locker room names) gave Racers the lead after ten minutes with a well worked shot fired upstairs. Bison scrambled an equaliser with three minutes remaining in the period. Sensing that elusive first win, Racers stepped it up in the second taking the lead seven minutes in with a three on two breakaway goal. The Lee Valley clock was then able to boast for the first time this season a two goal cushion for the home team when Jani Tuominem piled the pressure on Bison as they tried to avoid the stigma of becoming the first team in the Elite league to lose to the lowly Racers. True to form, the not so Mighty Big Red Machine allowed Bison back in the game when Steve Moria pulled a goal back at the end of the second period after a wonderful behind the goal assist from Joe Ciccarello. Racers 'reject' Stormin Norman Pinnington returned to the Bike Shed to bite Racers on the bum (it's a hockey thing) in the third claiming an assist for Bison's game equalising goal. Home heads were back down to their usual defeatist stance as Moria slotted home the winner with 1.44 left on the clock. ARSE. So that's it – Racers' season is effectively over with only the honour of not taking home the wooden spoon left to fight for. The Bike Shed wasn't quite as gloomy as the Trent End some fourteen years ago and I very much doubt that Basingstoke Bison will go on to achieve the same sporting recognition as that lot from Old Trafford. This was perhaps the best performance from Racers all season though, a fact born out by a passing smile directed towards me at the end from King Mong, the rudest man in British hockey who for ten years or so has continually failed to recognise my polite smile and nod in his direction around the UK rinks. He's got a red nose as well, come to think of it.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Sunday 25 January, 2004 |
London Racers 3 Basingstoke Bison 4, 23/01/04
Many a Man Utd fan eulogise about an FA Cup third round tie away against Forest back in 1990 where supposedly the job was on the line for the Great Red Nosed one. Make or break, not only for Sir Stopwatch but also the 90's Man Utd dynasty that he was about to build. Up popped a fresh faced Mark Robbins to carve open a new path in terms of English football dominance, and led me and my fellow Trent End yoofs on that January day to a pathological hatred of United. OK, so Lee Valley Bike Shed on yet another freezing East End Friday wasn't quite as significant in terms of changing the sporting landscape in the UK. At stake for the Racers however was a Do or Die last chance to salvage their season; win tonight (plus the small matter of the other fifteen or so remaining fixtures) and a place in the Play-Offs was ours. Lose and those early flights back to North America could be booked for the team. Given a record of P39, L39, Racers HQ was no doubt logged onto easyjet.com well ahead of the final buzzer. Bison represented the best chance for the first franchise win with a record of W14, L20. Mojmir 'Onion' Musil (apparently he has onion breath, but not quite getting to grips with the English language, has taken to calling himself 'Onionman', unaware that this isn’t the most flattering of locker room names) gave Racers the lead after ten minutes with a well worked shot fired upstairs. Bison scrambled an equaliser with three minutes remaining in the period. Sensing that elusive first win, Racers stepped it up in the second taking the lead seven minutes in with a three on two breakaway goal. The Lee Valley clock was then able to boast for the first time this season a two goal cushion for the home team when Jani Tuominem piled the pressure on Bison as they tried to avoid the stigma of becoming the first team in the Elite league to lose to the lowly Racers. True to form, the not so Mighty Big Red Machine allowed Bison back in the game when Steve Moria pulled a goal back at the end of the second period after a wonderful behind the goal assist from Joe Ciccarello. Racers 'reject' Stormin Norman Pinnington returned to the Bike Shed to bite Racers on the bum (it's a hockey thing) in the third claiming an assist for Bison's game equalising goal. Home heads were back down to their usual defeatist stance as Moria slotted home the winner with 1.44 left on the clock. ARSE. So that's it – Racers' season is effectively over with only the honour of not taking home the wooden spoon left to fight for. The Bike Shed wasn't quite as gloomy as the Trent End some fourteen years ago and I very much doubt that Basingstoke Bison will go on to achieve the same sporting recognition as that lot from Old Trafford. This was perhaps the best performance from Racers all season though, a fact born out by a passing smile directed towards me at the end from King Mong, the rudest man in British hockey who for ten years or so has continually failed to recognise my polite smile and nod in his direction around the UK rinks. He's got a red nose as well, come to think of it.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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Welcome to the New Boss...
Boss Swap – the bastard brother of the already repugnantly ugly Wife Swap. This is not so much car crash TV but more a case of ten mile tailback on the M25 with huge video screens erected along the hard shoulder for us all to gape at the unfolding horror.
Whereas domestic bed hopping appeared quite innocent with no real damage done to the fuckwit participants, Boss Swap intrudes into the world of work and treads on the toes on what most people consider to be their main source of identity and status.
It's OK for some 18 stone chain smoking northern monkey to turn her pig faced nose up at your daily routine of gym and morning wash as opposed to her weekly appointment with a bar and soap; introduce a complete stranger into the sacred domain of your workspace however and allow them to shout out 'YOU’RE SHIT ARGHHHHH!!!!!!!!' louder than the North Bank during a North London derby match and you're approaching a nationwide meltdown of the transport network as the car crash element format reaches breaking point.
Of course the mix 'n match structure of these programmes is anything but random. Despite what the great Paula Abdul may have banged on about, opposites DON'T attract. Place a power suited 80's filofax clutching estate agent throwback in front of a fairground Hall of Mirrors and the opposite reflection that leaps out in the distorted image is a Sid the Sexist Geordie workshy excuse for a boss.
Which is the exact scenario that was set up for tonight's Boss Swap. Predictably the end result was more of a cultural mis-match than a Richard X bootleg.
South London geezer Bruce allowed his Streatham estate agent business to be managed by Mike, a second hand car dealer with a face that you couldn't trust but would happily punch, if only to see if his little piggie eyes contained any other expression apart from 'I like meat pies me. Woman – bake me half a dozen now.'
Wide eyed cockney boy Bruce is accustomed to starting his day off with a 6.30 am gym ritual. The shamee cleaners on the car forecourt up North were reluctant to join in, presumably because at 6.30 am they were still making their way back home pissed out of the skulls after a quiet midweek session.
Back in the Streatham South London slagheap and Mike was finding it difficult to understand why a woman would want to work. With him as a boss, maybe he had a point.
The chain of events that sparked off the premature End Game started when Mike came to the conclusion that the boss' wife, Debbie, was more suited to sitting at home all day and not allowing her pretty little face (which indeed it was) to be worried with the woes of the modern workplace. Sexist fuckspud.
Thankfully Mike only fired the boss' wife; if this had been Wife Swap then he may have tried to shag her (he did make some Brent-esque head in hands joke about knowing her bedroom habits to the other senior managers).
Watching Boss Swap I found myself caught between the devil and a very deep blue sea with nowhere left to hide. Initially I despised Bruce's manic work ethic; you're either with me or against me, a 6.30 compulsory gym start to the day, lunch is for wimps and if you're not still standing by 7pm then clearly you have no ambition.
No mention of a work / domestic balance, let alone my own personal philosophy of Pay to Play, means to an end and oh, never trust an estate agent. Especially in shitty Streatham.
But then Mike was a complete arse too. His attempt to chill out the staff led to a civil war as the money boys (remember there were no girls as they had by now been fired) did actually enjoy spending all working hours Closing That Sale.
What Boss Swap has highlighted to me is that there is an alternative but this is of course overlooked by the two contestants (what else are they?) and the C4 producers who are too lazy to look outside of their pre-arranged scientific lab of an experiment and offer genuine workplace change.
Not at all wanting to sound like Mr Tony, but where's the Third Way? It’s simple, stooopid. Work sucks. We all know that. Boss Swap takes the notion to its logical conclusion. All management is bollox and I'm surprised that some people still haven't realised this after two series of the Brent-meister General doing his best to destabilise the UK economy.
The solution? Become your own boss of course, but then you're just serving the servants. Duvet Days, sickies and sabotage. All of which I couldn't possibly condome.
If you must go to work tomorrow, well if I was you I wouldn't really bother...
| Tuesday 20 January, 2004 |
Boss Swap – the bastard brother of the already repugnantly ugly Wife Swap. This is not so much car crash TV but more a case of ten mile tailback on the M25 with huge video screens erected along the hard shoulder for us all to gape at the unfolding horror.
Whereas domestic bed hopping appeared quite innocent with no real damage done to the fuckwit participants, Boss Swap intrudes into the world of work and treads on the toes on what most people consider to be their main source of identity and status.
If this has been Wife Swap he may have tried to shag her |
Of course the mix 'n match structure of these programmes is anything but random. Despite what the great Paula Abdul may have banged on about, opposites DON'T attract. Place a power suited 80's filofax clutching estate agent throwback in front of a fairground Hall of Mirrors and the opposite reflection that leaps out in the distorted image is a Sid the Sexist Geordie workshy excuse for a boss.
Which is the exact scenario that was set up for tonight's Boss Swap. Predictably the end result was more of a cultural mis-match than a Richard X bootleg.
South London geezer Bruce allowed his Streatham estate agent business to be managed by Mike, a second hand car dealer with a face that you couldn't trust but would happily punch, if only to see if his little piggie eyes contained any other expression apart from 'I like meat pies me. Woman – bake me half a dozen now.'
Wide eyed cockney boy Bruce is accustomed to starting his day off with a 6.30 am gym ritual. The shamee cleaners on the car forecourt up North were reluctant to join in, presumably because at 6.30 am they were still making their way back home pissed out of the skulls after a quiet midweek session.
Back in the Streatham South London slagheap and Mike was finding it difficult to understand why a woman would want to work. With him as a boss, maybe he had a point.
The chain of events that sparked off the premature End Game started when Mike came to the conclusion that the boss' wife, Debbie, was more suited to sitting at home all day and not allowing her pretty little face (which indeed it was) to be worried with the woes of the modern workplace. Sexist fuckspud.
Thankfully Mike only fired the boss' wife; if this had been Wife Swap then he may have tried to shag her (he did make some Brent-esque head in hands joke about knowing her bedroom habits to the other senior managers).
Watching Boss Swap I found myself caught between the devil and a very deep blue sea with nowhere left to hide. Initially I despised Bruce's manic work ethic; you're either with me or against me, a 6.30 compulsory gym start to the day, lunch is for wimps and if you're not still standing by 7pm then clearly you have no ambition.
No mention of a work / domestic balance, let alone my own personal philosophy of Pay to Play, means to an end and oh, never trust an estate agent. Especially in shitty Streatham.
But then Mike was a complete arse too. His attempt to chill out the staff led to a civil war as the money boys (remember there were no girls as they had by now been fired) did actually enjoy spending all working hours Closing That Sale.
What Boss Swap has highlighted to me is that there is an alternative but this is of course overlooked by the two contestants (what else are they?) and the C4 producers who are too lazy to look outside of their pre-arranged scientific lab of an experiment and offer genuine workplace change.
Not at all wanting to sound like Mr Tony, but where's the Third Way? It’s simple, stooopid. Work sucks. We all know that. Boss Swap takes the notion to its logical conclusion. All management is bollox and I'm surprised that some people still haven't realised this after two series of the Brent-meister General doing his best to destabilise the UK economy.
The solution? Become your own boss of course, but then you're just serving the servants. Duvet Days, sickies and sabotage. All of which I couldn't possibly condome.
If you must go to work tomorrow, well if I was you I wouldn't really bother...
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31 Stations
A long and protruded twisting train journey across what seemed like half of the South East network this morning led to me to give Nick Hornby's 31 Songs yet another try. I had been stuck on the Nelly Furtado chapter for a couple of weeks, assuming the classic role of music snob, unable to see how a book supposedly referencing quality music can give such high praise to a piece of throwaway pop pap.
Hornby actually makes reference to bigots like me within the book, arguing that to dismiss pop is to live in a secular Groundhog Day musical bubble. I see where he's coming from, but I still think that Mss Furtado should stick with being masturbation material rather than adding to the quality of my CD collection.
My Sunday morning journey became victim to yet more delays, diversions and general planning fucks up on my behalf as I crawled through places such as Cheam, Sutton Common and West Croydon - all suburban shitholes that seemed to be soundtracked by Mozza's Everyday is Like Sunday.
I got my head down and experienced a brisk tour of Hornby’s CD collection, via 31 Songs. It took a dozen or so chapters until I reached the relative safety of Tulse Hill; the world seems a much safer place once you leave behind the leafy world of never ending carpet warehouse showrooms and enter the South London slagheap of wall to wall kebab shops.
I'm pleased that I had the chance to reappraise 31 Songs; I may not agree with Hornby’s personal tastes (J Giles Band, Jackson Brown and the bloody awful Ben Folds Five), but he certainly has some great musical theories.
Whilst discussing The Beatles' Rain, Hornby describes how it has become impossible to separate the music of the Fab Four from the epoch changing decade of the 60's; listen to Twist and Shout and you don't hear a fantastic pop single. Instead you associate the two and a half minute pop package with Britain finally coming out of the post-war slump and entering a new decade of liberation.
Hornby instead focuses on some of The Beatle's B-sides such as Rain, in order to give songs that are not part of the national consciousness the chance for the music to stand on its own for comparison with other eras. Fair point.
I also liked Hornby's notion that music contains so much more personal emotion and attachment if you actually LIVED through the period when it was released. I truly love the Pistols and The Clash, but I have never really inspired by them as I was still at Primary school hiding from all those nasty punks during '76 – '77.
The Specials and 2 Tone however will always have a place in my own personal musical development as a time when I was actually part of something. Well, I wore the uniform of a Harrington and found it funny as an eleven year old when Terry Hall swore on Nite Klub. Ditto British hip hop and electro, agitpop, Madchester and probably the last period when I actually felt that I BELONGED to something, the now absurd Britpop period.
Looking out of the train window and seeing the stunning new Swiss Tower and finding that London Bridge was within touching distance, I managed a couple more pages. It seems that Hornby is well into a period of musical understanding that I think I probably entered around the exact same time that Radio 1 decided to ditch the Boy Lamacq and the good 'ol Evening Session.
Hornby describes how he always felt safe with guitar bands. There is no quality control to make with the likes of Led Zep – what you see is what you get. You're never going to approach a meat and two veg guitar track and have to decide if it actually has any SOUL to it. No need to make a decision about the merit of such a racket.
You feel a bit silly however passing the 30something mark and finding that you are still stuck in a time warp with a never-ending re-cycled conveyor belt of standard lead, rhythm, bass and drum outfit going through the motions.
Hornby writes how he now feel nervous and excited when listening to an album form Mali or finally getting to grips with an artist that he always felt wasn't quite right or cool enough to be shared amongst his peers whilst growing up. Spot on, once again.
All of this still doesn't explain that when asked to write a list (this is Hornby remember) of his 31 favourite songs, he still manages to find room for Santana, Aimee Mann and The Bible. I'm not sure which I find more depressing – how someone with such good ideas and advice about discovering music can end up listening to such shit, or the fact that I wasted an entire Sunday morning learning about this I trundled through Tollworth.
| Sunday 18 January, 2004 |
A long and protruded twisting train journey across what seemed like half of the South East network this morning led to me to give Nick Hornby's 31 Songs yet another try. I had been stuck on the Nelly Furtado chapter for a couple of weeks, assuming the classic role of music snob, unable to see how a book supposedly referencing quality music can give such high praise to a piece of throwaway pop pap.
Hornby actually makes reference to bigots like me within the book, arguing that to dismiss pop is to live in a secular Groundhog Day musical bubble. I see where he's coming from, but I still think that Mss Furtado should stick with being masturbation material rather than adding to the quality of my CD collection.
Mss Furtado should stick with being masturbation material |
I got my head down and experienced a brisk tour of Hornby’s CD collection, via 31 Songs. It took a dozen or so chapters until I reached the relative safety of Tulse Hill; the world seems a much safer place once you leave behind the leafy world of never ending carpet warehouse showrooms and enter the South London slagheap of wall to wall kebab shops.
I'm pleased that I had the chance to reappraise 31 Songs; I may not agree with Hornby’s personal tastes (J Giles Band, Jackson Brown and the bloody awful Ben Folds Five), but he certainly has some great musical theories.
Whilst discussing The Beatles' Rain, Hornby describes how it has become impossible to separate the music of the Fab Four from the epoch changing decade of the 60's; listen to Twist and Shout and you don't hear a fantastic pop single. Instead you associate the two and a half minute pop package with Britain finally coming out of the post-war slump and entering a new decade of liberation.
Hornby instead focuses on some of The Beatle's B-sides such as Rain, in order to give songs that are not part of the national consciousness the chance for the music to stand on its own for comparison with other eras. Fair point.
I also liked Hornby's notion that music contains so much more personal emotion and attachment if you actually LIVED through the period when it was released. I truly love the Pistols and The Clash, but I have never really inspired by them as I was still at Primary school hiding from all those nasty punks during '76 – '77.
The Specials and 2 Tone however will always have a place in my own personal musical development as a time when I was actually part of something. Well, I wore the uniform of a Harrington and found it funny as an eleven year old when Terry Hall swore on Nite Klub. Ditto British hip hop and electro, agitpop, Madchester and probably the last period when I actually felt that I BELONGED to something, the now absurd Britpop period.
Looking out of the train window and seeing the stunning new Swiss Tower and finding that London Bridge was within touching distance, I managed a couple more pages. It seems that Hornby is well into a period of musical understanding that I think I probably entered around the exact same time that Radio 1 decided to ditch the Boy Lamacq and the good 'ol Evening Session.
Hornby describes how he always felt safe with guitar bands. There is no quality control to make with the likes of Led Zep – what you see is what you get. You're never going to approach a meat and two veg guitar track and have to decide if it actually has any SOUL to it. No need to make a decision about the merit of such a racket.
You feel a bit silly however passing the 30something mark and finding that you are still stuck in a time warp with a never-ending re-cycled conveyor belt of standard lead, rhythm, bass and drum outfit going through the motions.
Hornby writes how he now feel nervous and excited when listening to an album form Mali or finally getting to grips with an artist that he always felt wasn't quite right or cool enough to be shared amongst his peers whilst growing up. Spot on, once again.
All of this still doesn't explain that when asked to write a list (this is Hornby remember) of his 31 favourite songs, he still manages to find room for Santana, Aimee Mann and The Bible. I'm not sure which I find more depressing – how someone with such good ideas and advice about discovering music can end up listening to such shit, or the fact that I wasted an entire Sunday morning learning about this I trundled through Tollworth.
| #permalink |
Sympathy for the Devil
Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name...
| Saturday 17 January, 2004 |
Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name...
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 0 Sheffield Steelers 7, 16/01/04
Game 38 and optimism wasn’t high for the Racers to achieve their first win of the season; even the hooded mass of teenage tourette wanabes sitting in front of me have toned down their usual fuck, shit and bollocks to mere sighs and a feeling of pre-game pessimism. A smile was briefly raised when the table topping Steelers took to the ice wearing a mess of a pyjama puke styled jersey. Racers once proud red strip has followed the fortunes of the team by fading out as the season progresses. The Big Red Machine now play wearing a Compton Street themed shade of pink. True to form, the Racers faded fast in the first period having held off the continual offensive pressure from the Steelers. The home team defence were left looking for a non-existent High Sticks call as Anderson found himself unmarked to fire home through the five hole. Ellis slotted home three minutes later to give the Steelers a 2-0 lead at the end of the first period. Mr Lee Valley DJ attempted to rally the troops with some inspired offerings during the first period break. THREE Clash tracks in a row, then a bit of B.A.D. and all ending with the bizarre choice of Elvis' Suspicious Minds. Still some way to go to better the entire side 1 airing of 'Give 'Em Enough Rope' as heard recently down at Streatham Redskins, but you won't hear a better set of tunage blasting out of a PA in the East End on a Friday night. Ellis added a third for the Steelers at the start of the second, a goal I missed as I was plotting away a freebie trip to watch some real hockey in Canada courtesy of the Racers raffle. A pair of return flight tickets to any Canadian city are up for grabs each week. Given an average crowd of 500, of which probably only 20% fork out for a £1 ticket, I'm seriously thinking of splashing out fifty quid next week. 'Winning' is not a concept that I have yet to experience in that damn East End bike shed and I sincerely hope to change this in seven days time. The other goals... a bit like a porn mag really – you've seen one, you’ve seen them all, and the end result always leaves you feeling the same. No need to prolong the agony and give you a blow by blow account, so to speak, except to highlight Anderson's completion of his hat trick, scored on the break just as he was leaving the penalty box. We were asked to cheer the 'never say die' Racers off the ice at the final buzzer. Never say win more like. My NHL escape plans start next week.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 17 January, 2004 |
London Racers 0 Sheffield Steelers 7, 16/01/04
Game 38 and optimism wasn’t high for the Racers to achieve their first win of the season; even the hooded mass of teenage tourette wanabes sitting in front of me have toned down their usual fuck, shit and bollocks to mere sighs and a feeling of pre-game pessimism. A smile was briefly raised when the table topping Steelers took to the ice wearing a mess of a pyjama puke styled jersey. Racers once proud red strip has followed the fortunes of the team by fading out as the season progresses. The Big Red Machine now play wearing a Compton Street themed shade of pink. True to form, the Racers faded fast in the first period having held off the continual offensive pressure from the Steelers. The home team defence were left looking for a non-existent High Sticks call as Anderson found himself unmarked to fire home through the five hole. Ellis slotted home three minutes later to give the Steelers a 2-0 lead at the end of the first period. Mr Lee Valley DJ attempted to rally the troops with some inspired offerings during the first period break. THREE Clash tracks in a row, then a bit of B.A.D. and all ending with the bizarre choice of Elvis' Suspicious Minds. Still some way to go to better the entire side 1 airing of 'Give 'Em Enough Rope' as heard recently down at Streatham Redskins, but you won't hear a better set of tunage blasting out of a PA in the East End on a Friday night. Ellis added a third for the Steelers at the start of the second, a goal I missed as I was plotting away a freebie trip to watch some real hockey in Canada courtesy of the Racers raffle. A pair of return flight tickets to any Canadian city are up for grabs each week. Given an average crowd of 500, of which probably only 20% fork out for a £1 ticket, I'm seriously thinking of splashing out fifty quid next week. 'Winning' is not a concept that I have yet to experience in that damn East End bike shed and I sincerely hope to change this in seven days time. The other goals... a bit like a porn mag really – you've seen one, you’ve seen them all, and the end result always leaves you feeling the same. No need to prolong the agony and give you a blow by blow account, so to speak, except to highlight Anderson's completion of his hat trick, scored on the break just as he was leaving the penalty box. We were asked to cheer the 'never say die' Racers off the ice at the final buzzer. Never say win more like. My NHL escape plans start next week.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Brits Shit
Anthony H Wilson has a brilliant musical cyclical theory; thirteen years of water treading is a small price to pay for one epoch changing Year Zero that wipes the slate clean. Sadly for those of us that detest the smug post-modern prat, Wilson's wildcat theory actually stacks up quite well.
1950 - A-wop-bop-a-loo-wop-a-wop-bam-boom
1963 – Twist and Shout
1976 – Pretty VaCUNT
1989 – Got any Veras? Laaarvley!
2002 – 2002 anyone? ANYONE?
The Darkness? Oh piss off.
The nominations for The Brits this year only confirm the current corporate malaise that British music is once again stuck in. In terms of creativity, mainstream British bands are the musical equivalent of Terry and June. Movements such as the breakthrough of a style that pisses all over its predecessor look about as far off as Liverpool next winning the Premiership (the last time that happened incidentally was thirteen years ago. Like we said, that man Wilson knows his stuff).
It has become a standing joke during the Brits nominations feeding frenzy that dear old Annie Lennox will somehow inevitably find her name up for a gong. The Scottish bint's last decent single was way back in 1985 (There Must be an Angel) and yet it is still taken as gospel that the great warbling one needs some sycophantic doffing from the money men who prop up the UK record industry.
Come the glorious day, I would have the mad cow tried for crimes against creativity; after all, she is directly responsible for allowing Dave Stewart to have far too much money to play with, leading to piss poor projects such as the re-launched Marquee (which promptly went bust), the Brit / Shit Flick Honest and... Alisha's Attic).
Running through the rest of the nominations for The Brits and you're left experiencing exactly how Lydon et al must have felt back in 1975; you remember the dread every Thursday night just as TOTP was starting back in 1986 with Owen Paul making a dick of himself on national TV; for the first time ever you long for the wise words spoken by Anthony Wilson to actually ring true.
Year Zero - we need you now.
Reading the Brits nominations for 2004 should act as a wake up call for the next Big Thing, whatever he, she or it may be, to run riot through the UK music industry and destroy the full mechanisms of the mainstream and start again from the underground.
Best Male Solo Artist:
Badly Drawn Boy – piss poor Mozza imitator. Get a fucking shave as well.
Daniel Bedingfield – shame your God didn't see the crash through to its logical conclusion.
David Bowie – ground control to the Brits. Ground Control to the Brits. Yes we all love laughing boy Dave, but this is 2004 FFS!
Will Young – we're here to evaluate artists, not knobbers.
Best Female Solo Artist:
Annie Lennox – die DIE DIE!!!!
Amy Winehouse – I'm sorry my dear but I just don’t know who the fuck you are. That alone should eliminate you from my list.
Sophie Ellis-Bextor – was kinda alright in theaudience, until she realized that fame and fortune was all about selling out rather than relying on the talent that you may or may not have.
Dido – predictably, Dildo. Back to being a receptionist.
Best British Group:
Busted – inane fuckspuds.
Sugababes – all very British 2004 in attitude, kicking it from the street etc etc, but I'm afraid that you sound like the b-side of a Howard Jones 12" from 1983.
The Darkness – I hate comedy records. Music is not about laughter. Music is about soul and I can see right through The Darkness. Ha ha.
Radiohead – although I respect your attitude, if you want to be opinion formers then become professional politicians and leave the prog ’73 music behind.
Outstanding Contribution Award:
Fucking fucking Duran Duran.
No walk it like you talk it Uncle Joe?
There's no Year Zero moment to be found in the nominations for The Big Three. Dizzee Rascal and The Coral have been excluded as although I can't really find a bad word against them, I don’t think that they are genuine Brits WINNERS – yet.
I do recognize that Mr Rascal is but a small representation of a scene that has the potential to kick the shit out of the corporate players, but I don't think that The Brits recognise Ratboys as a valid category right now. It has the potential to fuck a few people up though such as The Daily Mail, and for this alone, we should support the Boy Dizzee and his hooded clan.
The intention here was to come up with the onionbagblog alternative Brits, but I simply couldn't find the enthusiasm or musical talent to come up with a list. It may well be that the next movement is already being plotted away in bedrooms across the country. As long as we keep accepting the Brits Shit for what it is though, the mainstream will continue to be stuck in an end of pier parody of itself with fucking Annie Lennox doing her 'I use to be a punk you know' thing year in, year out.
Get Pissed, DESTROY.
Brit 2004 nominations in full. Read 'em and weep.
| Tuesday 14 January, 2004 |
Anthony H Wilson has a brilliant musical cyclical theory; thirteen years of water treading is a small price to pay for one epoch changing Year Zero that wipes the slate clean. Sadly for those of us that detest the smug post-modern prat, Wilson's wildcat theory actually stacks up quite well.
1950 - A-wop-bop-a-loo-wop-a-wop-bam-boom
1963 – Twist and Shout
1976 – Pretty VaCUNT
1989 – Got any Veras? Laaarvley!
2002 – 2002 anyone? ANYONE?
The Darkness? Oh piss off.
We're here to evaluate artists, not knobbers |
It has become a standing joke during the Brits nominations feeding frenzy that dear old Annie Lennox will somehow inevitably find her name up for a gong. The Scottish bint's last decent single was way back in 1985 (There Must be an Angel) and yet it is still taken as gospel that the great warbling one needs some sycophantic doffing from the money men who prop up the UK record industry.
Come the glorious day, I would have the mad cow tried for crimes against creativity; after all, she is directly responsible for allowing Dave Stewart to have far too much money to play with, leading to piss poor projects such as the re-launched Marquee (which promptly went bust), the Brit / Shit Flick Honest and... Alisha's Attic).
Running through the rest of the nominations for The Brits and you're left experiencing exactly how Lydon et al must have felt back in 1975; you remember the dread every Thursday night just as TOTP was starting back in 1986 with Owen Paul making a dick of himself on national TV; for the first time ever you long for the wise words spoken by Anthony Wilson to actually ring true.
Year Zero - we need you now.
Reading the Brits nominations for 2004 should act as a wake up call for the next Big Thing, whatever he, she or it may be, to run riot through the UK music industry and destroy the full mechanisms of the mainstream and start again from the underground.
Best Male Solo Artist:
Badly Drawn Boy – piss poor Mozza imitator. Get a fucking shave as well.
Daniel Bedingfield – shame your God didn't see the crash through to its logical conclusion.
David Bowie – ground control to the Brits. Ground Control to the Brits. Yes we all love laughing boy Dave, but this is 2004 FFS!
Will Young – we're here to evaluate artists, not knobbers.
Best Female Solo Artist:
Annie Lennox – die DIE DIE!!!!
Amy Winehouse – I'm sorry my dear but I just don’t know who the fuck you are. That alone should eliminate you from my list.
Sophie Ellis-Bextor – was kinda alright in theaudience, until she realized that fame and fortune was all about selling out rather than relying on the talent that you may or may not have.
Dido – predictably, Dildo. Back to being a receptionist.
Best British Group:
Busted – inane fuckspuds.
Sugababes – all very British 2004 in attitude, kicking it from the street etc etc, but I'm afraid that you sound like the b-side of a Howard Jones 12" from 1983.
The Darkness – I hate comedy records. Music is not about laughter. Music is about soul and I can see right through The Darkness. Ha ha.
Radiohead – although I respect your attitude, if you want to be opinion formers then become professional politicians and leave the prog ’73 music behind.
Outstanding Contribution Award:
Fucking fucking Duran Duran.
No walk it like you talk it Uncle Joe?
There's no Year Zero moment to be found in the nominations for The Big Three. Dizzee Rascal and The Coral have been excluded as although I can't really find a bad word against them, I don’t think that they are genuine Brits WINNERS – yet.
I do recognize that Mr Rascal is but a small representation of a scene that has the potential to kick the shit out of the corporate players, but I don't think that The Brits recognise Ratboys as a valid category right now. It has the potential to fuck a few people up though such as The Daily Mail, and for this alone, we should support the Boy Dizzee and his hooded clan.
The intention here was to come up with the onionbagblog alternative Brits, but I simply couldn't find the enthusiasm or musical talent to come up with a list. It may well be that the next movement is already being plotted away in bedrooms across the country. As long as we keep accepting the Brits Shit for what it is though, the mainstream will continue to be stuck in an end of pier parody of itself with fucking Annie Lennox doing her 'I use to be a punk you know' thing year in, year out.
Get Pissed, DESTROY.
Brit 2004 nominations in full. Read 'em and weep.
| #permalink |
Mondays Musings
Well known fact: Record companies hold back singles by big name artists until the first week of January, afraid that they might get buried away amongst the Christmas market rush of releases. It only takes 83 single sales to reach the Top 40 during the quietest month of the year.
Concerned that your 100% genuine poodle rock may cause confusion with the likes of The Darkness taking the piss in the Christmas Top 10? Move over Metallica.
Scared that your difficult second album may be exposed as a collection of B-sides that would have struggled to accompany your first set of singles? Step forward The Strokes.
Too busy over Christmas being, er, Christians to preach your Christian Rock evangelicism to the kids via MTV? All prey to P.O.D.
Metallica - 'The Unnamed Feeling EP'
EPs are for rich rock stars with too much studio time on their hands. Why spread the shit thinly over four tracks when a door step helping would have confirmed to us that this is nothing but a stale shit sandwich? Actually that's a bit cruel. Like all good reviewers I haven’t actually heard this single but seeing as though Metallica have taken thirteen years (and still counting) to record anything to match the 1991 self-titled Metallica, I'm not holding out much hope. Maybe I should just download it, eh boys?
The Strokes - 'Reptilica'
Once you've re-packaged the CBGB spirit twenty years down the line for the latest Generation X, there’s not really anywhere else for you to go. 'Is This It' now seems like The Strokes had good foresight when titling their debut release. Being cool as fuck in a NY '76 stylee may have been a necessary history lesson to repeat in order to kill off the nasty Nu Metal, but the joke is stretching a bit thin second time round.
P.O.D. - 'Will You'
Certain concepts should never even attempt a marriage of convenience; Ladies Day at a golf club, kebab flavour Pot Noodles and Emile Heskey wearing an England top – all are oxymoron’s of the highest order. Trying to preach Christianity using the music of the devil however deserves death by stoning. P.O.D. boast a couple of lardy burger boys lurking in the background. You can't miss.
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 12 January, 2004 |
Well known fact: Record companies hold back singles by big name artists until the first week of January, afraid that they might get buried away amongst the Christmas market rush of releases. It only takes 83 single sales to reach the Top 40 during the quietest month of the year.
Concerned that your 100% genuine poodle rock may cause confusion with the likes of The Darkness taking the piss in the Christmas Top 10? Move over Metallica.
Scared that your difficult second album may be exposed as a collection of B-sides that would have struggled to accompany your first set of singles? Step forward The Strokes.
Too busy over Christmas being, er, Christians to preach your Christian Rock evangelicism to the kids via MTV? All prey to P.O.D.
Metallica - 'The Unnamed Feeling EP'
EPs are for rich rock stars with too much studio time on their hands. Why spread the shit thinly over four tracks when a door step helping would have confirmed to us that this is nothing but a stale shit sandwich? Actually that's a bit cruel. Like all good reviewers I haven’t actually heard this single but seeing as though Metallica have taken thirteen years (and still counting) to record anything to match the 1991 self-titled Metallica, I'm not holding out much hope. Maybe I should just download it, eh boys?
The Strokes - 'Reptilica'
Once you've re-packaged the CBGB spirit twenty years down the line for the latest Generation X, there’s not really anywhere else for you to go. 'Is This It' now seems like The Strokes had good foresight when titling their debut release. Being cool as fuck in a NY '76 stylee may have been a necessary history lesson to repeat in order to kill off the nasty Nu Metal, but the joke is stretching a bit thin second time round.
P.O.D. - 'Will You'
Certain concepts should never even attempt a marriage of convenience; Ladies Day at a golf club, kebab flavour Pot Noodles and Emile Heskey wearing an England top – all are oxymoron’s of the highest order. Trying to preach Christianity using the music of the devil however deserves death by stoning. P.O.D. boast a couple of lardy burger boys lurking in the background. You can't miss.
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 |
Fanny Magnet
Just listening to the radio commentary of Leicester City Vs Chelsea on BBC Radio 5Live, and Mark Bright has accused the home team of 'FANNYING about with the ball.' Fannying? FANNYING? Is that allowed on national public service radio? Isn't it the same as saying 'pussying' about with the ball?
Not being the greatest fan of the City of Death (it's an East Midlands birth rights thing), I am in no way disagreeing with Bright that the good folk of Leicester are indeed a bunch of cunts. If that was in fact what he was trying to say.
A perennial favourite of football fuck ups of mine is when commentators gush over the size of a player’s 'GASH' following an injury.
Once again, it's an East Midlands thing m'duck; gash is not to dissimilar to my interpretation of fannying about with the ball. In fact the perfect combination could be:
'Matt Elliott was fannying about with the ball which led to the opening up of his gash for all to see. The big pussy.'
Immature I know, but such is the hatred for all things Filbert.
All of this though is but a minor mishap in the great schema of football fuck up commentary. Purely for personal reasons, my most treasured moment was broadcast the one and only time that Dulwich Hamlet appeared on Match of the Day.
The occasion was a second round FA Cup clash at home to Morecambe, which was deemed significant enough to be included in a midnight – 1.30 am highlights package broadcast a Saturday night on BBC1. Achieving any Cup run is a rarity for Dulwich and so it was with great excitement that a solitary camera was spotted behind the goal down at Champion Hill on matchday.
Predictably the Hamlet limped out with a lame 1-0 home defeat to the Conference side, but still, making it this far in this competition granted us our literal fifteen seconds of fame with a blink and you'll miss it moment of recognition on national TV.
I can't recall which game was given similar highlight treatment during the round up package; this is because I spent the next five minutes or so in a state of uncontrolled pant wetting, thanking the BBC for allowing such a fuck up to be broadcast.
Clearly when you are faced with fifty or so ties to wrap up in a package, even with a midnight deadline, time is tight. No chance for second takes in the sound booth as some piss poor commentary is dubbed over the crap camera pictures.
The female voice over for the match ahead of the Hamlet piece was finding it difficult to hit her stride. The commentary went along the lines of:
'Team X (I really can't remember) came close to equalising when...' STUTTER STUTTER STUTTER, still on mic and clearly broadcast on Saturday night TV: 'Oh SHIT.'
End of commentary.
Package cuts to Dulwich.
To this day I still ponder if the 'Oh Shit' was a genuine commentary cock up that somehow slipped through, or if the hapless Partridge in waiting was making some reference to the shit from Champion Hill that was about to follow.
Bet she has a nice gash though.
| Sunday 11 January, 2004 |
Just listening to the radio commentary of Leicester City Vs Chelsea on BBC Radio 5Live, and Mark Bright has accused the home team of 'FANNYING about with the ball.' Fannying? FANNYING? Is that allowed on national public service radio? Isn't it the same as saying 'pussying' about with the ball?
Not being the greatest fan of the City of Death (it's an East Midlands birth rights thing), I am in no way disagreeing with Bright that the good folk of Leicester are indeed a bunch of cunts. If that was in fact what he was trying to say.
Bet she has a nice gash |
Once again, it's an East Midlands thing m'duck; gash is not to dissimilar to my interpretation of fannying about with the ball. In fact the perfect combination could be:
'Matt Elliott was fannying about with the ball which led to the opening up of his gash for all to see. The big pussy.'
Immature I know, but such is the hatred for all things Filbert.
All of this though is but a minor mishap in the great schema of football fuck up commentary. Purely for personal reasons, my most treasured moment was broadcast the one and only time that Dulwich Hamlet appeared on Match of the Day.
The occasion was a second round FA Cup clash at home to Morecambe, which was deemed significant enough to be included in a midnight – 1.30 am highlights package broadcast a Saturday night on BBC1. Achieving any Cup run is a rarity for Dulwich and so it was with great excitement that a solitary camera was spotted behind the goal down at Champion Hill on matchday.
Predictably the Hamlet limped out with a lame 1-0 home defeat to the Conference side, but still, making it this far in this competition granted us our literal fifteen seconds of fame with a blink and you'll miss it moment of recognition on national TV.
I can't recall which game was given similar highlight treatment during the round up package; this is because I spent the next five minutes or so in a state of uncontrolled pant wetting, thanking the BBC for allowing such a fuck up to be broadcast.
Clearly when you are faced with fifty or so ties to wrap up in a package, even with a midnight deadline, time is tight. No chance for second takes in the sound booth as some piss poor commentary is dubbed over the crap camera pictures.
The female voice over for the match ahead of the Hamlet piece was finding it difficult to hit her stride. The commentary went along the lines of:
'Team X (I really can't remember) came close to equalising when...' STUTTER STUTTER STUTTER, still on mic and clearly broadcast on Saturday night TV: 'Oh SHIT.'
End of commentary.
Package cuts to Dulwich.
To this day I still ponder if the 'Oh Shit' was a genuine commentary cock up that somehow slipped through, or if the hapless Partridge in waiting was making some reference to the shit from Champion Hill that was about to follow.
Bet she has a nice gash though.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Towers 114 Birmingham Bullets 91, 10/01/04
Good to see Danny Craven back at the Palace playing for the Bullets, although rather alarmingly it looked like he has lost two stone in weight and grown ten inches. Unlike the 'new look' London Towers cheerleaders. Now I'm not usually one for being cruel to pubescent young girls, but my advice to the new pop pom wavers would be to continue with the same level of enthusiasm and watch those waistlines shrink. The first quarter was a scrappy affair with both teams taking time to find their rhythm. The refs didn't help, calling unnecessary travelling and time violations. Towers took a 27-25 lead into the second quarter, pulling away with a 52-42 lead at the halfway stage against the team which props up the BBL with zero points. The game fizzled out in the third, although it didn't stop Roddy Brown making a truly spectacular backwards dunk to take the scores to 84-67 ahead of the final quarter in this one-sided contest. Not much else to say about the fourth. My momentary enjoyment of KC and the Sunshine Band blasting out at the Palace was rudely cut short by someone sitting in front of me blasting out a king size fart. The Usual Suspects included two males and two females. One of the latter had spent the entire game necking a dozen crispy cream doughnuts. Dirty dog. Highlight: Sitting next to England captain Ronnie Baker who shared my exact same thoughts about the game. Apart from the chubby cheerleaders and Farting Queen of course, although I bet deep down, he thought the same.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 10 January, 2004 |
London Towers 114 Birmingham Bullets 91, 10/01/04
Good to see Danny Craven back at the Palace playing for the Bullets, although rather alarmingly it looked like he has lost two stone in weight and grown ten inches. Unlike the 'new look' London Towers cheerleaders. Now I'm not usually one for being cruel to pubescent young girls, but my advice to the new pop pom wavers would be to continue with the same level of enthusiasm and watch those waistlines shrink. The first quarter was a scrappy affair with both teams taking time to find their rhythm. The refs didn't help, calling unnecessary travelling and time violations. Towers took a 27-25 lead into the second quarter, pulling away with a 52-42 lead at the halfway stage against the team which props up the BBL with zero points. The game fizzled out in the third, although it didn't stop Roddy Brown making a truly spectacular backwards dunk to take the scores to 84-67 ahead of the final quarter in this one-sided contest. Not much else to say about the fourth. My momentary enjoyment of KC and the Sunshine Band blasting out at the Palace was rudely cut short by someone sitting in front of me blasting out a king size fart. The Usual Suspects included two males and two females. One of the latter had spent the entire game necking a dozen crispy cream doughnuts. Dirty dog. Highlight: Sitting next to England captain Ronnie Baker who shared my exact same thoughts about the game. Apart from the chubby cheerleaders and Farting Queen of course, although I bet deep down, he thought the same.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 1 Manchester Phoenix 3, 09/01/04
The omens didn't look good for Racers to break their 34 (THIRTY FOUR) game losing streak; arriving at Lee Valley I was greeted with the site of Oscar, the Racers mascot quite literally shitting himself and having a dump on the piece of green land outside the rink. Disturbed readers perhaps need to know that Oscar is a dog. All sporting teams react to any period of scrutiny with a siege mentality; Man Utd, Millwall and Cardiff are past masters within football. A strange bond has been forged within the tight knit Racers hockey community over the past few weeks - that may be 34 winless games, but they're OUR 34 winless games. The big news tonight was that Mark Bultje was back in town having signed for Phoenix earlier in the week. A former London Knights play-off winner, Bultje hasn't lost any of his pace and deserved his MOM award with one goal and one assist. The #9 gave Phoenix the lead with three minutes remaining in the first period, and then set up Mika Skyatta right on the buzzer. Racers came out fighting in the second despite Brian 'Glocks' McLaughlin having a few wayward shot. It's a miracle that he actually starts a game with his stick, given his pre-match ritual of asking the physio to hide his stick, before Glocks then goes off to find it somewhere in the rink before face off. Strange guys these hockey players, but Glocks is turning out to be a true MVP contender. Marc Long pulled a goal back for the home team in the second period which came to an early conclusion after a section of plexi became loose. Racers fought hard in the third, Marc Scott in particular who managed to pick up a 2+2+10 penalty for roughing. Phoenix rapped it up right on the buzzer with an empty netter after Racers pulled their netminder. Will Racers ever win? Do mascots shit outside ice rinks?
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Friday 9 January, 2004 |
London Racers 1 Manchester Phoenix 3, 09/01/04
The omens didn't look good for Racers to break their 34 (THIRTY FOUR) game losing streak; arriving at Lee Valley I was greeted with the site of Oscar, the Racers mascot quite literally shitting himself and having a dump on the piece of green land outside the rink. Disturbed readers perhaps need to know that Oscar is a dog. All sporting teams react to any period of scrutiny with a siege mentality; Man Utd, Millwall and Cardiff are past masters within football. A strange bond has been forged within the tight knit Racers hockey community over the past few weeks - that may be 34 winless games, but they're OUR 34 winless games. The big news tonight was that Mark Bultje was back in town having signed for Phoenix earlier in the week. A former London Knights play-off winner, Bultje hasn't lost any of his pace and deserved his MOM award with one goal and one assist. The #9 gave Phoenix the lead with three minutes remaining in the first period, and then set up Mika Skyatta right on the buzzer. Racers came out fighting in the second despite Brian 'Glocks' McLaughlin having a few wayward shot. It's a miracle that he actually starts a game with his stick, given his pre-match ritual of asking the physio to hide his stick, before Glocks then goes off to find it somewhere in the rink before face off. Strange guys these hockey players, but Glocks is turning out to be a true MVP contender. Marc Long pulled a goal back for the home team in the second period which came to an early conclusion after a section of plexi became loose. Racers fought hard in the third, Marc Scott in particular who managed to pick up a 2+2+10 penalty for roughing. Phoenix rapped it up right on the buzzer with an empty netter after Racers pulled their netminder. Will Racers ever win? Do mascots shit outside ice rinks?
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Rusedski Drugs Shock
That explains his incoherent ramblings then...
| Thursday 8 January, 2004 |
That explains his incoherent ramblings then...
| #permalink |
Let It Be, Boys
I'm a bit slow on the uptake here having only just bought / downloaded (draw your own conclusions) Let It Be Naked, but now is the time for the cash cow of The Beatles myth to be put out to pasture.
Following the release last year of Let It Be with Phil Spector’s Let It Be post-production erased, the NME foolishly asked the question 'Is this the best Garage album of all time?' I don’t think they meant Garage as in the So Solid style either. The bastion of guitar music has clearly never heard anything by MC5 in its blinkered pottered history of music, let alone the likes of The Stooges or even The Only Ones.
Trust the NME to take some inconsequential release out of context and attempt to clumsily link it to their current favoured 'scene.' What next? Long Lost Lonnie Donegan Album Influenced by Will Young Shock? Grow up boys.
The Beatles just abut managed to emerge from the Anthology releases with their credibility untarnished. There was some truly wonderful moments on the Anthology CDs (Three Cool Cats on Anth 1, the Strawberry Fields sweep on Anth 2 and George’s epochal solo While My Guitar on Anth 3), but this was balanced with an awful lot of rambling crap. Great songwriters they may have been, but when pumped up sky high and surrounded with all the trappings of a studio, the tomfoolery of Lennon and McCartney is nothing but a third rate Goons impersonation.
Anthologly 3 should have been end of story. Or the end of the Long and Winding Road, if you will, paraphrasing Marti DeBergi. Sadly it was just the opening of the floodgates as the greatest musical legacy of the twentieth century was pimped out. Want to see a Rembrandt? Why bother with the National Gallery when you can pick up a faded print from a dodgy South London car boot sale.
We clearly haven't seen the last of re-discovered Beatles recordings, rare film footage and unseen pictures being uncovered in Pauly's loft; as the frequency extends, the quality will dip into an ever-downwards spiral.
This week's incarnation of the Holy Grail is a black and white film of Beatlemanina landing in New York in 1964. Apart from the most ardent Beatles-obsessive (my Christmas present list this year must single me out as a Mark Chapman waiting to happen), who gives a toss about a piece of film footage that was considered so average back in the day that it hasn’t warranted a screening in over forty years?
Why do they do it? They clearly don't need the money. Maybe Macca is finally facing up to the fact that his own post-Beatles output has been patchy and he needs to continually re-affirm to a new audience what he (along with others) achieved during a glorious run of seven years.
The only worthy must-have on Let It be Naked for any self-respecting Fab Four fan is The Long and Winding Road in its original non-Disney style form. And that's only because Billy Preston’s Hammond skills hold back the choir boy balladry from McCartney.
I actually quite like the Mickey Mouse strings version of Let It be and listening to the Naked release after living with the Phil Spector production for over thirty years turns the notion that you can't polish a turd upside down. Spector clearly had his best shit shining duster at hand all those years ago.
| Wednesday 7 January, 2004 |
I'm a bit slow on the uptake here having only just bought / downloaded (draw your own conclusions) Let It Be Naked, but now is the time for the cash cow of The Beatles myth to be put out to pasture.
Following the release last year of Let It Be with Phil Spector’s Let It Be post-production erased, the NME foolishly asked the question 'Is this the best Garage album of all time?' I don’t think they meant Garage as in the So Solid style either. The bastion of guitar music has clearly never heard anything by MC5 in its blinkered pottered history of music, let alone the likes of The Stooges or even The Only Ones.
Naked turns the notion that you can’t polish a turd upside down |
The Beatles just abut managed to emerge from the Anthology releases with their credibility untarnished. There was some truly wonderful moments on the Anthology CDs (Three Cool Cats on Anth 1, the Strawberry Fields sweep on Anth 2 and George’s epochal solo While My Guitar on Anth 3), but this was balanced with an awful lot of rambling crap. Great songwriters they may have been, but when pumped up sky high and surrounded with all the trappings of a studio, the tomfoolery of Lennon and McCartney is nothing but a third rate Goons impersonation.
Anthologly 3 should have been end of story. Or the end of the Long and Winding Road, if you will, paraphrasing Marti DeBergi. Sadly it was just the opening of the floodgates as the greatest musical legacy of the twentieth century was pimped out. Want to see a Rembrandt? Why bother with the National Gallery when you can pick up a faded print from a dodgy South London car boot sale.
We clearly haven't seen the last of re-discovered Beatles recordings, rare film footage and unseen pictures being uncovered in Pauly's loft; as the frequency extends, the quality will dip into an ever-downwards spiral.
This week's incarnation of the Holy Grail is a black and white film of Beatlemanina landing in New York in 1964. Apart from the most ardent Beatles-obsessive (my Christmas present list this year must single me out as a Mark Chapman waiting to happen), who gives a toss about a piece of film footage that was considered so average back in the day that it hasn’t warranted a screening in over forty years?
Why do they do it? They clearly don't need the money. Maybe Macca is finally facing up to the fact that his own post-Beatles output has been patchy and he needs to continually re-affirm to a new audience what he (along with others) achieved during a glorious run of seven years.
The only worthy must-have on Let It be Naked for any self-respecting Fab Four fan is The Long and Winding Road in its original non-Disney style form. And that's only because Billy Preston’s Hammond skills hold back the choir boy balladry from McCartney.
I actually quite like the Mickey Mouse strings version of Let It be and listening to the Naked release after living with the Phil Spector production for over thirty years turns the notion that you can't polish a turd upside down. Spector clearly had his best shit shining duster at hand all those years ago.
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Simply the Best
It's the ultimate music marketing man's wanktastic synergy – a genuine new musical talent and a website to die for. Simple Kid's self-titled debut album is best described as Badly Drawn Spingsteen-lite. Nothing wrong in that.
The website however is a gem – an interactive 'come talk to me' little tool where Simple Kid's not so simple brain has been archived in a Play God style that allows Mr Kid to explain the mysteries of life and the universe.
Or it might just be that the record company had the foresight to hire a web designer whose idea of 'on time and on budget' doesn’t mean 'out of date within six months and that will be an extra ten grand for my wanky Flash-turbation fantasy please.'
Bypassing all the usual music website crap of news, tour dates and merchandise, simplekid.co.uk takes you straight through to the heart of the site, quite literally. You are presented with an interface which after the formalities of asking you for your name, the twisted mind of Simple Kid is opened up for you to play with.
Ask any question, but remember that a stupid question deserves a stupid answer.
Q. Who is the Prime Minister?
A. A 20th Century celebrity of some sort.
Q. What was the best Beatles album?
A. Is there only one?
Q. Who is the best player to ever have played for Dulwich Hamlet?
A. Tina Turner is simply the best.
Bingo.
Such logic can't be programmed by a techy. At least that's what I like to think as I talk away with my new online friend, believing that Simple Kid is actually tucked away somewhere in-between my CPU and hard drive.
Maybe there is some deeper message at work here; 'Please don’t put your life in the hands, of a rock n roll band...' etc, and in that particular case of cocaine fuck up inducing proportions, thankfully I didn't.
My resolution for 2004 however is to live the life of Simple Kid. Any dilemmas that the new year throws at me, no matter how life changing or trivial, I know that I can sleep safe at night as Mr Kid is going to get me by.
Q. Shall I buy some milk?
A. I’d prefer it if you didn’t.
Q. Will I ever trust Tony Blair again?
A. Ever is a long time.
Q. Shall I jack it all in and do a Reggie Perrin?
A. Who there buddie!
A Simple Kid for a simple life.
| Tuesday 6 January, 2004 |
It's the ultimate music marketing man's wanktastic synergy – a genuine new musical talent and a website to die for. Simple Kid's self-titled debut album is best described as Badly Drawn Spingsteen-lite. Nothing wrong in that.
The website however is a gem – an interactive 'come talk to me' little tool where Simple Kid's not so simple brain has been archived in a Play God style that allows Mr Kid to explain the mysteries of life and the universe.
Such logic can’t be programmed by a techy |
Bypassing all the usual music website crap of news, tour dates and merchandise, simplekid.co.uk takes you straight through to the heart of the site, quite literally. You are presented with an interface which after the formalities of asking you for your name, the twisted mind of Simple Kid is opened up for you to play with.
Ask any question, but remember that a stupid question deserves a stupid answer.
Q. Who is the Prime Minister?
A. A 20th Century celebrity of some sort.
Q. What was the best Beatles album?
A. Is there only one?
Q. Who is the best player to ever have played for Dulwich Hamlet?
A. Tina Turner is simply the best.
Bingo.
Such logic can't be programmed by a techy. At least that's what I like to think as I talk away with my new online friend, believing that Simple Kid is actually tucked away somewhere in-between my CPU and hard drive.
Maybe there is some deeper message at work here; 'Please don’t put your life in the hands, of a rock n roll band...' etc, and in that particular case of cocaine fuck up inducing proportions, thankfully I didn't.
My resolution for 2004 however is to live the life of Simple Kid. Any dilemmas that the new year throws at me, no matter how life changing or trivial, I know that I can sleep safe at night as Mr Kid is going to get me by.
Q. Shall I buy some milk?
A. I’d prefer it if you didn’t.
Q. Will I ever trust Tony Blair again?
A. Ever is a long time.
Q. Shall I jack it all in and do a Reggie Perrin?
A. Who there buddie!
A Simple Kid for a simple life.
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Crap Match Report
Streatham Redskins 12 (TWELVE) Solent Sharks 0 (NIL), 04/01/04
Solent Sharks sailed into Streatham with only eight players – one and three fifths of a line. Still, five pounds for two and a half hours gazing through a murky plexi at a game that was always going to be more one-sided than a straight line still represents VFM. Having been on the wrong side of an 8-0 football drubbing myself 36 hours earlier, I almost took to cheering the underdog. A couple of blue liner shots on target from the Sharks in the first meant that the expected turkey shoot was put on hold. A couple of quick succession goals for the Redskins followed up by a well worked third just before the buzzer should have been the signal for the floodgates to open. The Sharks played a strong defensive game in the second though with the Redskins only stretching to a 4-0 lead as the period came to a premature end; play was stopped with just under five minutes left on the clock as the Sharks netminder tried to trap the puck in-between his legs. Ouch. The poor chap needed a good rub down from the camp Solent physio. Double ouch. After the re-start the visitors took a bench minor penalty for Too Many Men on the Ice, which given the lack of available bodies, is quite a feat in itself. Solent tried to hold off with their dump and chase tactics, although as the legs became tired, this became dump without the chase. Redskins fired in eight more goals in a shock and awe final period, including a short-handed effort after a five minute penalty had been called for boarding.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Monday 5 January, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 12 (TWELVE) Solent Sharks 0 (NIL), 04/01/04
Solent Sharks sailed into Streatham with only eight players – one and three fifths of a line. Still, five pounds for two and a half hours gazing through a murky plexi at a game that was always going to be more one-sided than a straight line still represents VFM. Having been on the wrong side of an 8-0 football drubbing myself 36 hours earlier, I almost took to cheering the underdog. A couple of blue liner shots on target from the Sharks in the first meant that the expected turkey shoot was put on hold. A couple of quick succession goals for the Redskins followed up by a well worked third just before the buzzer should have been the signal for the floodgates to open. The Sharks played a strong defensive game in the second though with the Redskins only stretching to a 4-0 lead as the period came to a premature end; play was stopped with just under five minutes left on the clock as the Sharks netminder tried to trap the puck in-between his legs. Ouch. The poor chap needed a good rub down from the camp Solent physio. Double ouch. After the re-start the visitors took a bench minor penalty for Too Many Men on the Ice, which given the lack of available bodies, is quite a feat in itself. Solent tried to hold off with their dump and chase tactics, although as the legs became tired, this became dump without the chase. Redskins fired in eight more goals in a shock and awe final period, including a short-handed effort after a five minute penalty had been called for boarding.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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Green-Eyed Monster
Hollywood gave us The Incredible Hulk, Jolly Green Giant was a kid-friendly advertising scam to try and make tinned peas more appealing, but the origins of The Green Man can be found in the Elizabethan Twelfth Night celebrations.
A crowd of 500 or so hedonists, prolonging the last drops out of the festive season before the impending return to work on Monday, gathered outside Shakespeare's Globe on Bankside on Sunday to eagerly await the arrival of The Green Man down the Thames slipstream.
The Jacobean Twelfth Night celebrations are now an established tradition in the Globe's calendar with The Mummer’s Play acted out each year by The Lions Part theatre company.
After some early Elizabethan dancing classes, attention was turned towards the high tide of The Thames as The Green Man paddled his way upstream to be greeted by the Mayor of Southwark. Pomp and Circumstance is alive and well in South London, although the chains of public office which dictate that Mayor Columba Blango join in with the Jacobean dancing led to a very sheepish grin from the man with the big chain.
The Globe was then 'Wassailed!' (a kind of Tudor version of Wassupping) which involved throwing pints of cider all over the place. Seems like a waste to me, but the kids loved it.
The highlight of the afternoon then followed with the 'Bankside Mummers' performing the Mummers Play. OK, so it wasn't exactly Hamlet, but any production that manages to incorporate a Saint George with toothache, a camp doctor and a Blair baiting Beelzebub is bound to a winner.
The final act remaining to be celebrated was the coronation of King Bean and Queen Pea; no dubious blood lines of ascent involved here – if the fairy cake that you were handed out by the players contained a bean, then Long Live the King; if you found a pea then all rise for Queen Pea of Bankside.
All of this is no more absurd than the ridiculous dynastical system that lends us to having some German fuckspud sitting on the UK throne. A blind eye was therefore turned when an excited young King Bean and Queen Pea were the 'random' pairing to emerge as the triumphant rulers of Bankside for the day.
The Coronation possession weaved through the Bankside backstreets leading its way to the Thameside George Inn where 'storytelling, dancing and kissing the Wishing Tree' were all promised; these all may have happened, but naturally, given the prologue of 'last chance to make merry', everyone just got very pissed.
| Sunday 4 January, 2004 |
Hollywood gave us The Incredible Hulk, Jolly Green Giant was a kid-friendly advertising scam to try and make tinned peas more appealing, but the origins of The Green Man can be found in the Elizabethan Twelfth Night celebrations.
Given the prologue of ‘last chance to make merry’, everyone got very pissed |
The Jacobean Twelfth Night celebrations are now an established tradition in the Globe's calendar with The Mummer’s Play acted out each year by The Lions Part theatre company.
After some early Elizabethan dancing classes, attention was turned towards the high tide of The Thames as The Green Man paddled his way upstream to be greeted by the Mayor of Southwark. Pomp and Circumstance is alive and well in South London, although the chains of public office which dictate that Mayor Columba Blango join in with the Jacobean dancing led to a very sheepish grin from the man with the big chain.
The Globe was then 'Wassailed!' (a kind of Tudor version of Wassupping) which involved throwing pints of cider all over the place. Seems like a waste to me, but the kids loved it.
The highlight of the afternoon then followed with the 'Bankside Mummers' performing the Mummers Play. OK, so it wasn't exactly Hamlet, but any production that manages to incorporate a Saint George with toothache, a camp doctor and a Blair baiting Beelzebub is bound to a winner.
The final act remaining to be celebrated was the coronation of King Bean and Queen Pea; no dubious blood lines of ascent involved here – if the fairy cake that you were handed out by the players contained a bean, then Long Live the King; if you found a pea then all rise for Queen Pea of Bankside.
All of this is no more absurd than the ridiculous dynastical system that lends us to having some German fuckspud sitting on the UK throne. A blind eye was therefore turned when an excited young King Bean and Queen Pea were the 'random' pairing to emerge as the triumphant rulers of Bankside for the day.
The Coronation possession weaved through the Bankside backstreets leading its way to the Thameside George Inn where 'storytelling, dancing and kissing the Wishing Tree' were all promised; these all may have happened, but naturally, given the prologue of 'last chance to make merry', everyone just got very pissed.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Staines 2, 03/01/04
The first Saturday of the New Year, the glamour of the FA Cup, non-league David's clash with Premiership Goliaths. Except down at Champion Hill of course where the Hamlet are routinely embarrassed more in the Cup department than a flat chested dyke walking into an audition for Page 3 of The Sun by mistake. We still manage to make tits of ourselves though. And so whilst some of our non-league friends and foes over the years welcomed the big boys to their patch, Hamlet had to do with the Staines Massive. The ten travelling fans from West London were more Boo Boys than Booyakasha, although they did actually travel with an excellent Staines Massive banner. A couple of poor tackles from behind from each team and a Staines 'keeper who was a bit handy with his fists, yet still the hapless ref 'let the game flow.' Hit patience was finally stretched when he showed the red card to the Staines #44 for what looked like nothing more severe than playing a semi-pro game after too much Christmas indulgence. I spent most of the second half trying to dodge the pigeon shit that regularly deposits itself in my seat, whilst the Dulwich back four spent the half dodging the threat of a one man up front Staines attack. A bullet header from the lone marksman gave ten man Staines the lead in the 58th minute, with a dodgy penalty stretching their lead minutes later. Time for a threesome to give Staines a roasting. Not of the Newcastle kind you understand, but a trio of Hamlet substitutions. The new boys roasted well, setting up Omari Coleman (who else?) to finish in style, and then Lee Akers to crop up with only minutes remaining as the most unlikely Johnny on the Spot. Who needs the FA Cup when you’ve got the magic of the Surrey Senior Cup? Er... we're already out of that as well.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Saturday 3 January, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Staines 2, 03/01/04
The first Saturday of the New Year, the glamour of the FA Cup, non-league David's clash with Premiership Goliaths. Except down at Champion Hill of course where the Hamlet are routinely embarrassed more in the Cup department than a flat chested dyke walking into an audition for Page 3 of The Sun by mistake. We still manage to make tits of ourselves though. And so whilst some of our non-league friends and foes over the years welcomed the big boys to their patch, Hamlet had to do with the Staines Massive. The ten travelling fans from West London were more Boo Boys than Booyakasha, although they did actually travel with an excellent Staines Massive banner. A couple of poor tackles from behind from each team and a Staines 'keeper who was a bit handy with his fists, yet still the hapless ref 'let the game flow.' Hit patience was finally stretched when he showed the red card to the Staines #44 for what looked like nothing more severe than playing a semi-pro game after too much Christmas indulgence. I spent most of the second half trying to dodge the pigeon shit that regularly deposits itself in my seat, whilst the Dulwich back four spent the half dodging the threat of a one man up front Staines attack. A bullet header from the lone marksman gave ten man Staines the lead in the 58th minute, with a dodgy penalty stretching their lead minutes later. Time for a threesome to give Staines a roasting. Not of the Newcastle kind you understand, but a trio of Hamlet substitutions. The new boys roasted well, setting up Omari Coleman (who else?) to finish in style, and then Lee Akers to crop up with only minutes remaining as the most unlikely Johnny on the Spot. Who needs the FA Cup when you’ve got the magic of the Surrey Senior Cup? Er... we're already out of that as well.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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Crap Match Report
London Racers 0 Coventry Blaze 4, 02/01/04
Blaze netminder Jody Lehman looked rattled even before the first puck was dropped; having spent the entire match last time Coventry were in town illegally moving his own net to delay play, this time round he seemed convinced that the Racer's home ice had more of a slope than the outfield at Lords. Best to get your excuses in early, eh Jody, although we shouldn't expect anything less from a hockey player with a silly girly name. Seems that the great Lee Valley horizontal debate was irrelevant anyway as the NO WIN Racers continued where they left off in their previous 32 games this season. A new set of shorts for the players does not make a new team, although they did look pretty cool in the thigh department whilst going through the motions for yet another 4:0 drubbing. Can't see the point in talking you through the individual goals, although they all came from Racer player errors, rather than inspired plays from the Blaze. 2004 and Racers remain like a pencil without a pencil sharpener. Pointless.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| Friday 2 January, 2004 |
London Racers 0 Coventry Blaze 4, 02/01/04
Blaze netminder Jody Lehman looked rattled even before the first puck was dropped; having spent the entire match last time Coventry were in town illegally moving his own net to delay play, this time round he seemed convinced that the Racer's home ice had more of a slope than the outfield at Lords. Best to get your excuses in early, eh Jody, although we shouldn't expect anything less from a hockey player with a silly girly name. Seems that the great Lee Valley horizontal debate was irrelevant anyway as the NO WIN Racers continued where they left off in their previous 32 games this season. A new set of shorts for the players does not make a new team, although they did look pretty cool in the thigh department whilst going through the motions for yet another 4:0 drubbing. Can't see the point in talking you through the individual goals, although they all came from Racer player errors, rather than inspired plays from the Blaze. 2004 and Racers remain like a pencil without a pencil sharpener. Pointless.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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Happy New Year - We'll Be Right Back...
Thankfully that's Christmas and New Year over with for another year and it couldn't come a moment too soon; four days and counting before I can rip down all the decorations and cheapo cards without being told to stop being such a moaning old git. Which I am of course, and so the insult doesn't really have any effect.
The best part of the festive season for me this year was that I managed to avoid all contact with the uninspiring ITV schedules, laced with some sub-Partridge Voice Over Man talking nonsense down my TV set every fifteen minutes.
Naturally I was out on an all night bender (as opposed to HAVING an all night bender...) on NY Eve, knecking back a succession of serious Class A's right through until 11am the following day. Sadly then I missed the only moment of quality broadcasting on ITV, but thanks to a 'friend of a friend', the memory is a sweet one.
Picture the scene; OB unit down at Bankside, carefully rehearsed camera angles focussed on The Wheel, eye candy cum annoying bint Katie Derham, all fur coat and no knickers, dolled up back in the studio to welcome in the New Year with a reassuring wink and all's well in this cosy One Nation world of Daily Mail, leather suites WI coffee mornings that we all live in.
Here come the Bongs.
Bong. BONG. BONG!!!!
OB to studio, OB to studio: 'Um guys, we have a slight problem. Small delay on the fireworks.'
Camera pans to the Wheel, looking resplendent and glistening, fireworks attached to each pod, waiting for that champagne moment to explode into the London midnight landscape.
Studio to OB: 'What the fucks going on?! Tell the fuckers to hit the button NOW!'
OB to studio: 'OK, OK, five seconds and counting...'
Five
Pan back to Derham, now looking slightly worried, but still just about holding it all together with an irritating and smug Carole Smilie grin beaming from ear to ear.
Four
Yet another view of The Wheel.
Three
Zoom into pod on The Wheel to avoid the angle that shows the London landscape in all its NY Eve beauty with a thousand other firework displays lightening up the London skyline.
Two
Ever get the feeling that you've not been invited to the party, ITV?
One
Two seconds of firework magic as the Bankside display kicks off in style after a few teething problems.
Back to the studio.
Derham: 'Happy New Year everyone, we'll be right back after this break.'
New Years Eve is officially running three minutes late on ITV as a nation needs to know about a not-to-be missed half price NY sale kicking off at MFI tomorrow.
Useless tossers. I really do fear for Euro 2004 this summer if the knobbers at ITV are let loose on key England matches. And my NY resolution? Never to give worthless ITV and their mass market shite a minute of my valuable time in 2004.
Happy New Year.
| Thursday 1 January, 2004 |
Thankfully that's Christmas and New Year over with for another year and it couldn't come a moment too soon; four days and counting before I can rip down all the decorations and cheapo cards without being told to stop being such a moaning old git. Which I am of course, and so the insult doesn't really have any effect.
The best part of the festive season for me this year was that I managed to avoid all contact with the uninspiring ITV schedules, laced with some sub-Partridge Voice Over Man talking nonsense down my TV set every fifteen minutes.
Ever get the feeling you’ve not been invited to the party, ITV? |
Picture the scene; OB unit down at Bankside, carefully rehearsed camera angles focussed on The Wheel, eye candy cum annoying bint Katie Derham, all fur coat and no knickers, dolled up back in the studio to welcome in the New Year with a reassuring wink and all's well in this cosy One Nation world of Daily Mail, leather suites WI coffee mornings that we all live in.
Here come the Bongs.
Bong. BONG. BONG!!!!
OB to studio, OB to studio: 'Um guys, we have a slight problem. Small delay on the fireworks.'
Camera pans to the Wheel, looking resplendent and glistening, fireworks attached to each pod, waiting for that champagne moment to explode into the London midnight landscape.
Studio to OB: 'What the fucks going on?! Tell the fuckers to hit the button NOW!'
OB to studio: 'OK, OK, five seconds and counting...'
Five
Pan back to Derham, now looking slightly worried, but still just about holding it all together with an irritating and smug Carole Smilie grin beaming from ear to ear.
Four
Yet another view of The Wheel.
Three
Zoom into pod on The Wheel to avoid the angle that shows the London landscape in all its NY Eve beauty with a thousand other firework displays lightening up the London skyline.
Two
Ever get the feeling that you've not been invited to the party, ITV?
One
Two seconds of firework magic as the Bankside display kicks off in style after a few teething problems.
Back to the studio.
Derham: 'Happy New Year everyone, we'll be right back after this break.'
New Years Eve is officially running three minutes late on ITV as a nation needs to know about a not-to-be missed half price NY sale kicking off at MFI tomorrow.
Useless tossers. I really do fear for Euro 2004 this summer if the knobbers at ITV are let loose on key England matches. And my NY resolution? Never to give worthless ITV and their mass market shite a minute of my valuable time in 2004.
Happy New Year.
| #permalink |
