onionbagblog
Shark Eyes - The Sequel
Regular onionbagblog onlookers (or perhaps you are just lost?) may recall my recent toe jam tasting, knob cheese choking, fanny batter banquet that I was treated to a few weeks back during a swim at Brixton Rec. Amazed that I haven't yet developed a rash (well I have actually, but THAT particular little problem can be accounted for), I ventured yet again into the unknown water down in deepest SW9 for an early morning dip on Sunday.
Feeling totally stress busted after a Racers win on Friday and a Towers victory on Saturday (we'll erase from memory the Hamlet 4-2 home pasting), the purpose of posing in public in my ringhole rubbing Speedos was to try and ease out a groin strain (not that type) that was preventing me form making a complete twat of myself in the Supporters Team that afternoon.
Twenty minutes of breaststroke passed peacefully without incident; no amphibious web footed fucker trying to drown me, no little brats smiling away innocently as the water around them warms up and turns a shade of yellow and no floaters to be dined on. Result.
I was all set to fill in a congratulatory Customer Feedback form (Any Other Comments? 'Since when did the sauna become a pseudonym for a free for all KFC?') and then head home for a leisurely listen of the Velvet's Sunday Morning when I was confronted with the only squirmful social situation that ranks higher than hearing your parents having a shag: Exchanging small talk with a total stranger in the showers, both fully buffed up and clutching latherering bars of soap.
I must stress that I didn't instigate it, and much like the forty something's drooping tackle (well come on guys, you have to measure up, don't you?), it wasn't exactly the most earth moving of moments.
No surprises that a variant of the English preoccupation with the weather was responsible ('showers are cold again') but how we (HIM to be honest) then got involved in a full on Open University style lecture explaining the gas pressure points in Lambeth, all delivered with his blue veined custard chucker dangling only inches away from my arse, has to feature as a surreal Sunday morning Brixton moment.
I feigned some sort of reaction to my cheapo Sainsburys shampoo (69p own brand – bargain of the month for all you fellow head shavers), and managed to close my eyes, just as the climax to the lecture peaked with tales of high pressure storing up, looking for any form of instant release.
Not quite sure if there was some form of euphemism passing straight over my innocent head (steady), I braved some eyeball to eyeball contact, fearing that his beef bassoon was about to strike up the band all over my freshly showered knob cheese clean face.
The cage was open but thankfully the beast was asleep.
I made my excuses ('sorry, got to see a man about a gas boiler') and then hung around only long enough to see him tuck his shirt into his Y-fronts, John Major styleee.
I'm going to head off to Church next Sunday morning. Defo no freaks on show there.
| Monday 1 March, 2004 |
Regular onionbagblog onlookers (or perhaps you are just lost?) may recall my recent toe jam tasting, knob cheese choking, fanny batter banquet that I was treated to a few weeks back during a swim at Brixton Rec. Amazed that I haven't yet developed a rash (well I have actually, but THAT particular little problem can be accounted for), I ventured yet again into the unknown water down in deepest SW9 for an early morning dip on Sunday.
Feeling totally stress busted after a Racers win on Friday and a Towers victory on Saturday (we'll erase from memory the Hamlet 4-2 home pasting), the purpose of posing in public in my ringhole rubbing Speedos was to try and ease out a groin strain (not that type) that was preventing me form making a complete twat of myself in the Supporters Team that afternoon.
 The cage was open but the beast was asleep |
I was all set to fill in a congratulatory Customer Feedback form (Any Other Comments? 'Since when did the sauna become a pseudonym for a free for all KFC?') and then head home for a leisurely listen of the Velvet's Sunday Morning when I was confronted with the only squirmful social situation that ranks higher than hearing your parents having a shag: Exchanging small talk with a total stranger in the showers, both fully buffed up and clutching latherering bars of soap.
I must stress that I didn't instigate it, and much like the forty something's drooping tackle (well come on guys, you have to measure up, don't you?), it wasn't exactly the most earth moving of moments.
No surprises that a variant of the English preoccupation with the weather was responsible ('showers are cold again') but how we (HIM to be honest) then got involved in a full on Open University style lecture explaining the gas pressure points in Lambeth, all delivered with his blue veined custard chucker dangling only inches away from my arse, has to feature as a surreal Sunday morning Brixton moment.
I feigned some sort of reaction to my cheapo Sainsburys shampoo (69p own brand – bargain of the month for all you fellow head shavers), and managed to close my eyes, just as the climax to the lecture peaked with tales of high pressure storing up, looking for any form of instant release.
Not quite sure if there was some form of euphemism passing straight over my innocent head (steady), I braved some eyeball to eyeball contact, fearing that his beef bassoon was about to strike up the band all over my freshly showered knob cheese clean face.
The cage was open but thankfully the beast was asleep.
I made my excuses ('sorry, got to see a man about a gas boiler') and then hung around only long enough to see him tuck his shirt into his Y-fronts, John Major styleee.
I'm going to head off to Church next Sunday morning. Defo no freaks on show there.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Towers 91 Sheffield Sharks 88, 28/02/04
A top of the table big summit meeting as the Towers took on league leaders Sheffield in a game that was always going to be a significant test for Coach Peers and his squad ahead of the play-offs. Yet another bumper crowd down at the Palace, boosted with a load of local school kids bussed in for the occasion.
I managed to make it in time for the warm-up and was rewarded with the spectacle of Rod Brown stretching his, well, I'm not quite sure to be honest but the tantric like position involved the star guard lying on his back with his head firmly locked between his legs. Having no first hand knowledge of the inner sanctum of the Towers locker room, onionbagblogger can't comment on the possibilities of Rod being a VERY lucky man (c'mon guys, you’ve all tired it) not to mention being highly sought after as an extra for some specialist porn movies.
The ever lovely London Towers Dancers took to the court for the team introductions and the court shuddered; a collective scales smashing one hundred stones must have been added to the body mass of the pert pom pom wavers, but fear not fans of the hoop dunking honeyz: The Towers Dancers had multiplied in numbers since last Saturday, although sadly the onionbagblog fave babe was once again missing in action. Wouldn't mind being the lucky fella doing the multiplying.
My back seat vantage point was somewhat ruined by a South London yoof whose trackies protruded way past his point of entry, so to speak. onionbagblogger is all for shooting from the hip and walking it like you talk it in a Towers street sense styleee. Given the potential pant-staining high profile nature of the game though, onionbagblogger could never get away with such a revealing style of clothing. I may be slow off the buzzer but I haven't hit skid row just yet.
A lively opening quarter with both teams matching each other basket for basket led to a 27-27 scoreboard come the short break. Sheffield seemed to be strolling though and you got the impression that they had yet to hit top gear.
A strong Sheffield defence in the second gave Towers few opportunities to sink their shots. Towers were doing their best to mess up their own free throws and I don't think that a solitary tambourine shaker from Sheffield made much difference. A late rally towards the end of the quarter from the Towers though gave a 51-45 advantage for the home team come the break.
Neil the DJ then suggested that we should hold off feeding our face until after the half time Towers Dancers routine. My juices were already flowing though and I saw plenty on offer to feast on during the pom pom waving party. Neil was obviously in agreement as his exact next words were:
'I think we’re gonna SNATCH this.'
The basketball game, obviously.
Rod Brown set the pace for the third by starting the quarter with an ice cool fake of a shot, turning the Sheffield defence inside out before finally dunking. The table toppers showed signs of struggling with the Towers giving them a lesson in clinical ball sinking on their home court.
77-68 at the start of the final quarter and Towers were on the verge of a major upset. A shoulder injury forced Brown temporarily off the court and the confidence and speed of play for the home team dipped. The star guard re-appeared with six minutes left in the game and the pace noticeably changed once again.
Despite a spirited Sheffield fightback, some cool finishing from King Ralph Blalock and yer man Brown proved to be just enough come the final buzzer to give the Towers a morale boosting win.
The home game against Leicester next Saturday has been officially dubbed 'Retro' night – prizes will be dished out for any fans that turn up at the Palace with ancient Towers artefacts. Will I win anything if I bring along Ronnie Baker? Will the doddering demon dunker even get a game? And will the Towers supply deodorant to all the thirty something males who turn up in odour stained vests that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since 1992?
Lowlight: Neil the DJ promising come the final buzzer that we should:
'Stick around as the Towers Dancers have one final thing to send you home with a smile on your face.'
Although it was a truly wonderful routine, it wasn't quite what me (and my old man) were anticipating.
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
london towers official
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Sunday 29 February, 2004 |
London Towers 91 Sheffield Sharks 88, 28/02/04
A top of the table big summit meeting as the Towers took on league leaders Sheffield in a game that was always going to be a significant test for Coach Peers and his squad ahead of the play-offs. Yet another bumper crowd down at the Palace, boosted with a load of local school kids bussed in for the occasion.
I managed to make it in time for the warm-up and was rewarded with the spectacle of Rod Brown stretching his, well, I'm not quite sure to be honest but the tantric like position involved the star guard lying on his back with his head firmly locked between his legs. Having no first hand knowledge of the inner sanctum of the Towers locker room, onionbagblogger can't comment on the possibilities of Rod being a VERY lucky man (c'mon guys, you’ve all tired it) not to mention being highly sought after as an extra for some specialist porn movies.
I think we’re gonna SNATCH this |
My back seat vantage point was somewhat ruined by a South London yoof whose trackies protruded way past his point of entry, so to speak. onionbagblogger is all for shooting from the hip and walking it like you talk it in a Towers street sense styleee. Given the potential pant-staining high profile nature of the game though, onionbagblogger could never get away with such a revealing style of clothing. I may be slow off the buzzer but I haven't hit skid row just yet.
A lively opening quarter with both teams matching each other basket for basket led to a 27-27 scoreboard come the short break. Sheffield seemed to be strolling though and you got the impression that they had yet to hit top gear.
A strong Sheffield defence in the second gave Towers few opportunities to sink their shots. Towers were doing their best to mess up their own free throws and I don't think that a solitary tambourine shaker from Sheffield made much difference. A late rally towards the end of the quarter from the Towers though gave a 51-45 advantage for the home team come the break.
Neil the DJ then suggested that we should hold off feeding our face until after the half time Towers Dancers routine. My juices were already flowing though and I saw plenty on offer to feast on during the pom pom waving party. Neil was obviously in agreement as his exact next words were:
'I think we’re gonna SNATCH this.'
The basketball game, obviously.
Rod Brown set the pace for the third by starting the quarter with an ice cool fake of a shot, turning the Sheffield defence inside out before finally dunking. The table toppers showed signs of struggling with the Towers giving them a lesson in clinical ball sinking on their home court.
77-68 at the start of the final quarter and Towers were on the verge of a major upset. A shoulder injury forced Brown temporarily off the court and the confidence and speed of play for the home team dipped. The star guard re-appeared with six minutes left in the game and the pace noticeably changed once again.
Despite a spirited Sheffield fightback, some cool finishing from King Ralph Blalock and yer man Brown proved to be just enough come the final buzzer to give the Towers a morale boosting win.
The home game against Leicester next Saturday has been officially dubbed 'Retro' night – prizes will be dished out for any fans that turn up at the Palace with ancient Towers artefacts. Will I win anything if I bring along Ronnie Baker? Will the doddering demon dunker even get a game? And will the Towers supply deodorant to all the thirty something males who turn up in odour stained vests that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since 1992?
Lowlight: Neil the DJ promising come the final buzzer that we should:
'Stick around as the Towers Dancers have one final thing to send you home with a smile on your face.'
Although it was a truly wonderful routine, it wasn't quite what me (and my old man) were anticipating.
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
london towers official
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Slough Town 4, 28/02/04
'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough, it isn't fit for humans now...'
..bemoaned that well known non-league football fan Sir John Betjeman. Either the bard's poetry premonitions had come into fruition or the Mighty Slough Jets didn't have a game as Champion Hill became easy prey for the 'You’re supposed to be at home' chants.
With the entire population of Slough decamped to SE22 and with confirmation earlier in the week that the top six of the Ryman Division One will be promoted en masse come the end of the season, third placed Hamlet should have been trying not to give up any ground to fifth place Slough.
I said SHOULD.
A goalless draw was always unlikely given the free scoring, crap defending recent run of form from both teams. Keeping it tight at the back for Hamlet was the ever-dependable Lee Akers. Thirty seven years of age and the old master reads the game with all the ease of Sir Trev reading the news.
Making his return to Champion Hill and looking like he has had his fair share of porridge since his Hamlet departure was Veli Haki. A mid-season break spent 'recuperating' at Her Majesty's pleasure (Belmont rather than Buckingham) has added a few pounds to the fighting midfielder as he ran 'riot' in the centre of the pitch.
With my mean machine Marin safely locked up behind the goal, the usual shout of 'AWAYYY!!!!' went up in the home penalty area (what else are they gonna shout? 'Please clear the ball upfield my fellow team mate?'). Unfortunately 'AWAYY!!!!' has become an acronym in the Hamlet defence this season for Always Walk Away You Yuseless Yak (Lee Akers an exception), which was the signal for a gift of a goal as Slough's Steve Daly powered home a bullet header after only four minutes. Bugger.
onionbagblog polite word in yer shell, like, for all the visiting fans (who we are more than happy to see down in South London every other week): Yes, we are an inner city club; yes, we do have a compact little ground built up around urban housing; NO, it really isn’t very funny when every time a donkey in defence hoofs the ball out of the ground on a trajectory towards Tooting. Please don't give out a spazzo 'hoorayyy!' cheer each time this happens. It may have been amusing for the first time back in 1949, but the joke (and ball buying budget) soon wears a bit thin.
The first half was characterised with Hamlet offering little threat up front, and local residents no doubt sighing: 'Ah, I bet Hamlet are at home again, hope my hyacinths aren't too damaged’ as yet another bloody ball was booted out.
'Hoorayyy!'
Oh, shut it.
I took my life into my hands with a half time trip to the toilet (slums circa '61 meets Trainspotting) and became tangled up in some unravelled bog roll all over the floor. I don't think that it was a misguided throw, celebrating the action-packed first half on the pitch.
The half-time entertainment has also gone down the shitter as we were subjected to some repulsive R&B piss poor tape loop. The campaign to bring back Britpop '95 begins here.
Repeating their straight from the kick off goal scoring feat from the first half, Slough took a 2-0 lead on 46 minutes with Glen Harris the scorer. With the away team still celebrating, straight from the re-start Craig Dundas put Hamlet back in the game.
Make or break and this is where Hamlet should have piled on the pressure to keep their promotion push on track. A 'keeper error after 64 minutes led to another Slough goal from a header and the Betjeman Barmy Army went ballistic.
With fifteen minutes remaining, a strong run from the Slough number nine through the heart of the Hamlet defence left him with only the 'keeper to beat. Scott Ward got a hand to the ball, but Slough's Tony Boot popped up at the far post to tap home.
I had distant hopes of Match Abandoned when the sleet began to fall in the final minute. You can't begrudge any of the Hamlet coffin dodgers from making an early exit given the pissing weather and piss poor performance on the pitch. If they had hung around until the 90th minute though they would have seen Omari Coleman pull back some respectability with a tap in from the six yard box after a well worked passing move down the length of the pitch.
'Get that man with the double chin (that will be Slough's centre half then), who'll always cheat and always win...'
...droaned on Sir John. The cheating was a bit harsh as Slough (and especially their supporters) were welcome visitors. Just leave off the free flowing poetry in motion football next time please.
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
hamletweb
| Saturday 28 February, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Slough Town 4, 28/02/04
'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough, it isn't fit for humans now...'
..bemoaned that well known non-league football fan Sir John Betjeman. Either the bard's poetry premonitions had come into fruition or the Mighty Slough Jets didn't have a game as Champion Hill became easy prey for the 'You’re supposed to be at home' chants.
With the entire population of Slough decamped to SE22 and with confirmation earlier in the week that the top six of the Ryman Division One will be promoted en masse come the end of the season, third placed Hamlet should have been trying not to give up any ground to fifth place Slough.
I said SHOULD.
The Bentjeman Barmy Army went ballistic |
Making his return to Champion Hill and looking like he has had his fair share of porridge since his Hamlet departure was Veli Haki. A mid-season break spent 'recuperating' at Her Majesty's pleasure (Belmont rather than Buckingham) has added a few pounds to the fighting midfielder as he ran 'riot' in the centre of the pitch.
With my mean machine Marin safely locked up behind the goal, the usual shout of 'AWAYYY!!!!' went up in the home penalty area (what else are they gonna shout? 'Please clear the ball upfield my fellow team mate?'). Unfortunately 'AWAYY!!!!' has become an acronym in the Hamlet defence this season for Always Walk Away You Yuseless Yak (Lee Akers an exception), which was the signal for a gift of a goal as Slough's Steve Daly powered home a bullet header after only four minutes. Bugger.
onionbagblog polite word in yer shell, like, for all the visiting fans (who we are more than happy to see down in South London every other week): Yes, we are an inner city club; yes, we do have a compact little ground built up around urban housing; NO, it really isn’t very funny when every time a donkey in defence hoofs the ball out of the ground on a trajectory towards Tooting. Please don't give out a spazzo 'hoorayyy!' cheer each time this happens. It may have been amusing for the first time back in 1949, but the joke (and ball buying budget) soon wears a bit thin.
The first half was characterised with Hamlet offering little threat up front, and local residents no doubt sighing: 'Ah, I bet Hamlet are at home again, hope my hyacinths aren't too damaged’ as yet another bloody ball was booted out.
'Hoorayyy!'
Oh, shut it.
I took my life into my hands with a half time trip to the toilet (slums circa '61 meets Trainspotting) and became tangled up in some unravelled bog roll all over the floor. I don't think that it was a misguided throw, celebrating the action-packed first half on the pitch.
The half-time entertainment has also gone down the shitter as we were subjected to some repulsive R&B piss poor tape loop. The campaign to bring back Britpop '95 begins here.
Repeating their straight from the kick off goal scoring feat from the first half, Slough took a 2-0 lead on 46 minutes with Glen Harris the scorer. With the away team still celebrating, straight from the re-start Craig Dundas put Hamlet back in the game.
Make or break and this is where Hamlet should have piled on the pressure to keep their promotion push on track. A 'keeper error after 64 minutes led to another Slough goal from a header and the Betjeman Barmy Army went ballistic.
With fifteen minutes remaining, a strong run from the Slough number nine through the heart of the Hamlet defence left him with only the 'keeper to beat. Scott Ward got a hand to the ball, but Slough's Tony Boot popped up at the far post to tap home.
I had distant hopes of Match Abandoned when the sleet began to fall in the final minute. You can't begrudge any of the Hamlet coffin dodgers from making an early exit given the pissing weather and piss poor performance on the pitch. If they had hung around until the 90th minute though they would have seen Omari Coleman pull back some respectability with a tap in from the six yard box after a well worked passing move down the length of the pitch.
'Get that man with the double chin (that will be Slough's centre half then), who'll always cheat and always win...'
...droaned on Sir John. The cheating was a bit harsh as Slough (and especially their supporters) were welcome visitors. Just leave off the free flowing poetry in motion football next time please.
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
hamletweb
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 3 Nottingham Panthers 2 (OT), 27/02/04
A rare On Budget (I didn' fare dodge) and On Time tube journey and I was all set to make face off for the first time this season. But then what' this? A Babe at the Bus Stop encounter, making all the right signals suggesting that she wants me to ring her bell, become a back seat driver and have the ride of my life.
I' heading for hockey central on the No. 48 Big Red Racers Fun Bus whilst the public transport tease is in the queue waiting for the flirtatious No. 55, possibly holding out for a No. 69.
Freezing hockey barn Vs Bus Stop Babe?
Running the risk of STD (this is Walthamstow) Vs instant castration with a blunt bread knife from Mrs onionbagblogger?
Hitting the E17 G spot (nothing to do with Brian Harvey) Vs watching 'Glocks' McLaughlin hitting the puck (a near orgasmic experience in itself)?
The good 'ol game’s gotta be the winner. Bus Stop Babe is put on ice where to be honest, she may just do a better job than the Racers given the recent run of results.
Friday night is hockey night and a young man's attention turns towards lustful fantasies involving dominatrix stripeys. There is no more a pleasing site in UK hockey than walking into a half empty corrugated shack and finding that Mss Tottman is ruling the line with all the authority of the Headmistress from Hell who has just been put in charge of dishing out the punishment to the big boys in Year 6 who have overstepped (overskated?) the line. Always a Joy to watch.
Never can work out though if there is any chemistry between us; all this flapping of the arms whenever she gets over-excited and what exactly is it that she calls out? 'NO!!!!?' 'GO!!!!?' 'onionbagblogger get yer skates my son, you've pulled?'
The Joy-ous moment was jeopardised when John Craighead of the Panthers (proof that fans of certain teams get the plug-faced players resembling them the most) skated past the plexi wearing the wall to wall vomit inducing Nottingham away strip (loosely themed on the colours of a 'recycled' chicken Korma).
It's difficult to take any hockey side seriously that has its shorts sponsored by a washing powder product. Like a locker room jock strap that has seen better seasons, Panthers are a fading franchise. The big name players (Koivunoro, Ahlroos, Jinman and Struch) are no nearer to delivering the silverwear and at stake tonight was the stigma of surrendering the league title to their M1 rivals the Sheffield Steelers. A win for Racers (yeah, right...) and an away victory for the Steelers in Belfast would give Panthers the bridesmaid status yet again (Paul Moran was icing after all).
I took up position behind the net for the first period and having lost out on Bus Stop Babe, I thought I would give it a try at lighting the lamp for the goal line judge. What else can you say? 'How are the Shots on Target going babe?'
Not too well for the Racers was the answer (out shout 12-6 in the first) and I then thought of bribing her to try and give the guys better end of season stats if nothing else. But how to win the heart of a luminous jacket wearing Lady of the Lamp? Offer her a not so freshly brewed flask of tea? Perhaps a threesome with Bus Stop Babe (the pencil she was using to record the Shots on Target was looking a little blunt and I had plenty of lead in mine to offer).
With the end of a long season in sight (a hell of a lot sooner for the Play Off-less Racers), both teams looked leg weary during the first period. Panthers rattled the pipes and Racers net minder Evan Lindsay looked a little unsettled with his net moorings appearing looser than a slap happy E17 Babe at the Bus Stop.
The first goal came at 13:41 when Jani Tuominen gave the Racers a surprise lead, firing home with a fast paced shot. Panthers responded late in the period when ex-Knight Mikko Koivunoro lived up to his Assist King reputation and set up Kim Ahlroos who took his time in dummying the net minder and then slotted home. Yet another Made in London (Arena) goal.
A bit of freestyle dub livened up the period break with the Lee Valley CD player doing its best G-G-G Gareth Gates impersonation. Bo Selecta Burton, Burkitt etc.
Panthers came out fired up for the second period with Kalle Konsti for the Racers looking strong in defence. The Panthers pressure paid off during a trademark Racers 'one step up, two steps back' power play; hockey historians will ponder for years to come how the phenomenon of packing it in on the power play and always looking more likely to concede a short-handed effort is unique to the Racers. Why change the habit of a season then as the home team allowed Panthers to turn disadvantage into advantage with a breakaway goal.
Racers refused to buckle however and after having survived a five on three power play (wot no shorthanded?), then turned the tables and managed to find the net with a goal from Mark Scott straight from the face off during their own five on three power play.
All to play for in the third with end to end action as both teams scrapped it out. Lee Jinman came close with seven minutes left on the clock as a wrist shot hit the pipes.
With no breakthrough at the end of regulation time, the home crowd went OTT in OT with a game winning goal from Lukas Filip following a series of goal mouth scrambles with 62:52 on the clock.
Only a second season with for the Racers then and proving that every silver lining has a nasty cloud hovering above to piss all over you, Sheffield Steelers were crowned league champions with a 3-1 away win in Belfast.
onionbagblog verdict: Better than Bus Stop Babe rumpy pumpy.
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
london racers vid clips
| Friday 27 February, 2004 |
London Racers 3 Nottingham Panthers 2 (OT), 27/02/04
A rare On Budget (I didn' fare dodge) and On Time tube journey and I was all set to make face off for the first time this season. But then what' this? A Babe at the Bus Stop encounter, making all the right signals suggesting that she wants me to ring her bell, become a back seat driver and have the ride of my life.
I' heading for hockey central on the No. 48 Big Red Racers Fun Bus whilst the public transport tease is in the queue waiting for the flirtatious No. 55, possibly holding out for a No. 69.
Freezing hockey barn Vs Bus Stop Babe?
Running the risk of STD (this is Walthamstow) Vs instant castration with a blunt bread knife from Mrs onionbagblogger?
Hitting the E17 G spot (nothing to do with Brian Harvey) Vs watching 'Glocks' McLaughlin hitting the puck (a near orgasmic experience in itself)?
How are the Shots on Target going, babe? |
Friday night is hockey night and a young man's attention turns towards lustful fantasies involving dominatrix stripeys. There is no more a pleasing site in UK hockey than walking into a half empty corrugated shack and finding that Mss Tottman is ruling the line with all the authority of the Headmistress from Hell who has just been put in charge of dishing out the punishment to the big boys in Year 6 who have overstepped (overskated?) the line. Always a Joy to watch.
Never can work out though if there is any chemistry between us; all this flapping of the arms whenever she gets over-excited and what exactly is it that she calls out? 'NO!!!!?' 'GO!!!!?' 'onionbagblogger get yer skates my son, you've pulled?'
The Joy-ous moment was jeopardised when John Craighead of the Panthers (proof that fans of certain teams get the plug-faced players resembling them the most) skated past the plexi wearing the wall to wall vomit inducing Nottingham away strip (loosely themed on the colours of a 'recycled' chicken Korma).
It's difficult to take any hockey side seriously that has its shorts sponsored by a washing powder product. Like a locker room jock strap that has seen better seasons, Panthers are a fading franchise. The big name players (Koivunoro, Ahlroos, Jinman and Struch) are no nearer to delivering the silverwear and at stake tonight was the stigma of surrendering the league title to their M1 rivals the Sheffield Steelers. A win for Racers (yeah, right...) and an away victory for the Steelers in Belfast would give Panthers the bridesmaid status yet again (Paul Moran was icing after all).
I took up position behind the net for the first period and having lost out on Bus Stop Babe, I thought I would give it a try at lighting the lamp for the goal line judge. What else can you say? 'How are the Shots on Target going babe?'
Not too well for the Racers was the answer (out shout 12-6 in the first) and I then thought of bribing her to try and give the guys better end of season stats if nothing else. But how to win the heart of a luminous jacket wearing Lady of the Lamp? Offer her a not so freshly brewed flask of tea? Perhaps a threesome with Bus Stop Babe (the pencil she was using to record the Shots on Target was looking a little blunt and I had plenty of lead in mine to offer).
With the end of a long season in sight (a hell of a lot sooner for the Play Off-less Racers), both teams looked leg weary during the first period. Panthers rattled the pipes and Racers net minder Evan Lindsay looked a little unsettled with his net moorings appearing looser than a slap happy E17 Babe at the Bus Stop.
The first goal came at 13:41 when Jani Tuominen gave the Racers a surprise lead, firing home with a fast paced shot. Panthers responded late in the period when ex-Knight Mikko Koivunoro lived up to his Assist King reputation and set up Kim Ahlroos who took his time in dummying the net minder and then slotted home. Yet another Made in London (Arena) goal.
A bit of freestyle dub livened up the period break with the Lee Valley CD player doing its best G-G-G Gareth Gates impersonation. Bo Selecta Burton, Burkitt etc.
Panthers came out fired up for the second period with Kalle Konsti for the Racers looking strong in defence. The Panthers pressure paid off during a trademark Racers 'one step up, two steps back' power play; hockey historians will ponder for years to come how the phenomenon of packing it in on the power play and always looking more likely to concede a short-handed effort is unique to the Racers. Why change the habit of a season then as the home team allowed Panthers to turn disadvantage into advantage with a breakaway goal.
Racers refused to buckle however and after having survived a five on three power play (wot no shorthanded?), then turned the tables and managed to find the net with a goal from Mark Scott straight from the face off during their own five on three power play.
All to play for in the third with end to end action as both teams scrapped it out. Lee Jinman came close with seven minutes left on the clock as a wrist shot hit the pipes.
With no breakthrough at the end of regulation time, the home crowd went OTT in OT with a game winning goal from Lukas Filip following a series of goal mouth scrambles with 62:52 on the clock.
Only a second season with for the Racers then and proving that every silver lining has a nasty cloud hovering above to piss all over you, Sheffield Steelers were crowned league champions with a 3-1 away win in Belfast.
onionbagblog verdict: Better than Bus Stop Babe rumpy pumpy.
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| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 0 Manchester Phoenix 2, 24/02/04
A breeze of a journey with forty winks on the tube relieving the boredom of 'I spy with my little eye, something beginning with T; that will be Tottenham Hale then' – repeat ad nausea for nine non-descript tube stations. I said twenty WINKS by the way, although being Pancake Day there was no shortage of Tube Rage Tossers on the Victoria Line.
A sharp elbow in the ribs twenty five minutes later and I awoke from my Racers fantasy daydream to find that I wasn't actually making my debut for the Big Red Machine in the Play Off Final, and the elbow prodding mystery man wasn't Dennis Maxwell challenging me to go toe to toe, but a kindly pensioner making sure that I didn't sleep through a reverse Victoria Line journey. The poor coffin dodger did drop his gloves though.
...which is more than can be said of Manchester Player / Coach Rick Brebant, making a rare appearance on the ice for Phoenix, proving he likes to pick and choose favourable opponents, much in the same style as Audley Harrison.
The customary late arriving onionbagblog glance up at the Lee Valley clock confirmed that Racers were already 1-0 down midway through the first period. Like a guilty schoolboy who is persistently late for the register, I set about swatting up on what I had already missed; ex-Knight Mark Bultje had put Phoenix one up, the one they call The Great Kilted Tambo was holding court (always good to see) and the usual Bike Shed bursting crowd had been halved on account of some old boy opting for Orient away in Swansea. The poor bugger – the O's lost as well.
Racers rode their luck for what remained of the first period, killing off three Phoenix power plays and once again picking on poor onionbagblogger as puck firing fodder. Twenty three years of puck watching and even with the luxury of plexi protection (yah boo sucks to Ally Pally), yet still onionbagblogger squeals like a little girl who has just peed her pants every time the demon rubber bounces in front of my balding head. Why do we all still do that?
It perhaps wasn't the best night to make the expedition to deepest East London with an army surplus size industrial flask, filled with enough tea to satisfy the throbbing Lee Valley crowd twice over; bursting for a leak during the first period break, and with the door to the gents firmly bolted, I managed to blag myself into the place where the players go to powder their noses. Standing next to me siphoning off his snake was Phoenix forward Marc Lovell (serving a self imposed two minute penalty for... slashing). He wasn't too impressed with my 'so this is where the big nobs hang out' gag.
Early on in the second period and Phoenix net minder Jayme Platt was protesting about pipe blockage. I think he was making reference to his goal pipes drifting loose rather than an incident related to the Lee Valley Bog Lock Out.
With 12:35 on the clock in the second, Darcy Anderson put the puck (and himself) in the back of the net with a goal that is unlikely to score a perfect 6.0 for style and grace.
In the third period Racers had their chances on the power play but it was a case of same old same; plenty of enthusiasm, not enough penetration. Just like my average Saturday night then.
Racers picked up mid-period with (relatively) new boy Noel Burkitt coming close on a two on one breakaway down the ice. Towards the end of the third Racers executed one of the best power plays of the season but the Phoenix defence held strong.
Highlight: The line dancing of four Badly Dressed Blokes in the Time Keepers box bopping away to Cameo's Word Up. Let's see your Cameo cod pieces next time gents.
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| Wednesday 25 February, 2004 |
London Racers 0 Manchester Phoenix 2, 24/02/04
A breeze of a journey with forty winks on the tube relieving the boredom of 'I spy with my little eye, something beginning with T; that will be Tottenham Hale then' – repeat ad nausea for nine non-descript tube stations. I said twenty WINKS by the way, although being Pancake Day there was no shortage of Tube Rage Tossers on the Victoria Line.
A sharp elbow in the ribs twenty five minutes later and I awoke from my Racers fantasy daydream to find that I wasn't actually making my debut for the Big Red Machine in the Play Off Final, and the elbow prodding mystery man wasn't Dennis Maxwell challenging me to go toe to toe, but a kindly pensioner making sure that I didn't sleep through a reverse Victoria Line journey. The poor coffin dodger did drop his gloves though.
Plenty of enthusiasm, not enough penetration |
The customary late arriving onionbagblog glance up at the Lee Valley clock confirmed that Racers were already 1-0 down midway through the first period. Like a guilty schoolboy who is persistently late for the register, I set about swatting up on what I had already missed; ex-Knight Mark Bultje had put Phoenix one up, the one they call The Great Kilted Tambo was holding court (always good to see) and the usual Bike Shed bursting crowd had been halved on account of some old boy opting for Orient away in Swansea. The poor bugger – the O's lost as well.
Racers rode their luck for what remained of the first period, killing off three Phoenix power plays and once again picking on poor onionbagblogger as puck firing fodder. Twenty three years of puck watching and even with the luxury of plexi protection (yah boo sucks to Ally Pally), yet still onionbagblogger squeals like a little girl who has just peed her pants every time the demon rubber bounces in front of my balding head. Why do we all still do that?
It perhaps wasn't the best night to make the expedition to deepest East London with an army surplus size industrial flask, filled with enough tea to satisfy the throbbing Lee Valley crowd twice over; bursting for a leak during the first period break, and with the door to the gents firmly bolted, I managed to blag myself into the place where the players go to powder their noses. Standing next to me siphoning off his snake was Phoenix forward Marc Lovell (serving a self imposed two minute penalty for... slashing). He wasn't too impressed with my 'so this is where the big nobs hang out' gag.
Early on in the second period and Phoenix net minder Jayme Platt was protesting about pipe blockage. I think he was making reference to his goal pipes drifting loose rather than an incident related to the Lee Valley Bog Lock Out.
With 12:35 on the clock in the second, Darcy Anderson put the puck (and himself) in the back of the net with a goal that is unlikely to score a perfect 6.0 for style and grace.
In the third period Racers had their chances on the power play but it was a case of same old same; plenty of enthusiasm, not enough penetration. Just like my average Saturday night then.
Racers picked up mid-period with (relatively) new boy Noel Burkitt coming close on a two on one breakaway down the ice. Towards the end of the third Racers executed one of the best power plays of the season but the Phoenix defence held strong.
Highlight: The line dancing of four Badly Dressed Blokes in the Time Keepers box bopping away to Cameo's Word Up. Let's see your Cameo cod pieces next time gents.
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london racers official site
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| #permalink |
Nice Legs, Shame About the Boat Race
Funny old business the The Boat Race; the same two teams always make the final and it's the only sport where both crews dip their cox in the water come the end. Public School boy breeding and all that.
It will probably come as no great surprise that onionbagblog is not feeling suitably outraged to write to The Daily Mail, Points of View, Tunbridge Wells Advertiser etc bemoaning the fact that the BBC (lefty alert) is principled enough to keep to a non-commercial agenda and tell the Oxbridge oafs where to stick their oars. I'm sure there’s plenty of room up there.
onionbagblog believes firmly in the protection of the sporting 'crown jewels' (Dulwich Hamlet Vs Tooting derbies, London Towers fixtures and Streatham Redskins home matches) and the insistence that these remain freely available to a nation of obese beer slurping sports fans on terrestrial TV.
Watching a bunch of Brideshead buffoons make the seamless transition from their hallowed halls to become elite athletes (yeah, right) who are a bit handy with a plank of wood doesn't rank high on onionbagblog's public broadcasting TV wish list.
In fact nothing would please us more if the exclusive broadcast rights (interactive TV, jerky online streaming, WAP updates, txt msgging, two tins and a piece of string) were snapped up by some shitty Soho start up New Media company that subsequently goes tits up (much like the rowers and their Man Breasts) and leads to a twenty five year broadcast blackout of the whole Establishment Big Day Out in poncey Putney.
It seems likely that ITV will dip its sponsorship seeking toe into the Thames and with a bit of luck, the 'touch and it turns to shit' sporting background of the commercial behemoth will sink the Boat Race for good. We can then look forward to our Saturday afternoons being returned once again to true titanic sporting clashes: Darts from Frimley Green, the 2.40 at from Haydock Park and some obscure Scandinavian snow event involving a man wearing a costume themed on Durex Featherlite sliding off the foot of a mountain on a coffee tray.
| Tuesday 24 February, 2004 |
Funny old business the The Boat Race; the same two teams always make the final and it's the only sport where both crews dip their cox in the water come the end. Public School boy breeding and all that.
It will probably come as no great surprise that onionbagblog is not feeling suitably outraged to write to The Daily Mail, Points of View, Tunbridge Wells Advertiser etc bemoaning the fact that the BBC (lefty alert) is principled enough to keep to a non-commercial agenda and tell the Oxbridge oafs where to stick their oars. I'm sure there’s plenty of room up there.
We can look forward to the 2.40 from Haydock Park |
Watching a bunch of Brideshead buffoons make the seamless transition from their hallowed halls to become elite athletes (yeah, right) who are a bit handy with a plank of wood doesn't rank high on onionbagblog's public broadcasting TV wish list.
In fact nothing would please us more if the exclusive broadcast rights (interactive TV, jerky online streaming, WAP updates, txt msgging, two tins and a piece of string) were snapped up by some shitty Soho start up New Media company that subsequently goes tits up (much like the rowers and their Man Breasts) and leads to a twenty five year broadcast blackout of the whole Establishment Big Day Out in poncey Putney.
It seems likely that ITV will dip its sponsorship seeking toe into the Thames and with a bit of luck, the 'touch and it turns to shit' sporting background of the commercial behemoth will sink the Boat Race for good. We can then look forward to our Saturday afternoons being returned once again to true titanic sporting clashes: Darts from Frimley Green, the 2.40 at from Haydock Park and some obscure Scandinavian snow event involving a man wearing a costume themed on Durex Featherlite sliding off the foot of a mountain on a coffee tray.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Stretham Redskins 2 Invicta Dynamo 6, 22/02/04
The last league match of the season for the re-born Streatham Redskins and still all to play for with a win against table toppers Invicta Dynamos guaranteeing a place in the play-offs. The enthusiasm for old time hockey down at the High Road rink has grown stronger with every game and a large travelling support for Invicta helped to build an end of season carnival atmosphere.
With all the balcony seating already blagged by the drummers, horn blowers and out of tune singers from the Kent countryside (what is this – a school music lesson?), I was left to slum it in the official We Love Adam Noctor corner of the rink. Teenage thrills can run rampant at the most unexpected of times; a Sunday night in Streatham has got to be one of the least likely settings for a posse of pre-pubescent puck bunnies to get all worked up over the sight of a balding bloke wearing a Michelin Man outfit and having vulcanised rubber fired at his head all night. There's probably a top shelf publication where you can view pictures of this, but not at a hockey match eh girls?
The rumour sweeping around the rink ahead of face off was that with the league title already secured, Invicta would quite like to see Streatham make it to the play-offs given the sizeable away following from SW16; this holds about as much credibility as Iraq containing WMD, Jordan shagging Becks and Lord Lucan signing up for the Streatham Supporters club. Invicta might have a nosebleed of a kit (best described as Crystal Palace on ice), but stooges for Streatham they certainly weren't.
Speaking of which... Always trust a politician to seize upon a prestige moment, grab the mic and waffle on endlessly when all you want to see is two brutes punching the lights out of each other. The Redskins were honoured with a visit from the Mayor of Lambeth, although to be fair he was wearing his best Charidee collecting hat and I'm sure that if you cornered him, he could talk the pants off you with the in and outs of the neutral trap zone style of play.
Playing a pace and style of hockey that wouldn't look out of place in the British National League, Invicta took an early lead with a stylish breakaway goal with 1:10 on the clock. A less graceful goal celebration followed which was more Torviall and Dean than Tie Domi.
Usual Crap Match Report Redskins disclaimer: the High Road rink has to be one of the most enjoyable venues to watch the good old game in the South East and the matchday announcer is a human encyclopaedia of UK hockey dating back to, well, let's just say a considerable amount of time. The rink acoustics aren't exactly the listening room at Bang & Olufsen though and so finer details such as goal scorers, assists, badly parked cars in the car park etc have been scratched.
Redskins responded with a goal straight from a face off but Invicta took the lead once more when the puck hit the back of Adam Noctor's pads and bounced in between the pipes. The talk in the We Love Adam Noctor corner then bizarrely changed to 'wouldn't mind getting his pads off' rather than how best to outwit a strong checking Invicta side.
Another defensive error at 10:08 led to a short handed goal for Invicta when the Redskins lost control trying to clear from behind their own net with Invicta seizing control and firing home upstairs.
With just over two minutes left in the first, Noctor pulled off a stunning glove save, only for a fourth to be conceded direct from the following face off.
Inspired by the return of Captain Joe (injury? nope; suspension? 'fraid not; romantic weekend break in NY? Guilty as charged you old lovesick fool), Redskins controlled the play in the second period with the puck permanently parked in the attacking zone. Invicta finally found a way through the much improved home defence though, braking through at the end of the period to net home a fifth.
5-1 down and a place in the play-offs up for grabs. Hopes of the season being extended were raised when two minutes in, a second was clocked up for the home team with a bolting blue liner shot from the wing. There's banging the plexi (good) to show you’re appreciation and there's rattling the plexi (bad); the old High Road rink has had to overcome many an evil plot to bring in the bulldozers over the years and it would be a shame if the rink was wrecked by some tug happy teenager, so to speak, intent on pulling it down piece by piece. Top marks for youthful exuberance though fella.
Redskins were then given a five on three power play chance to change their season. A breakthrough was needed here but Invicta played a well organised penalty kill. The Redskins pushed all the way to make the score line seem more balanced but were left short at the back at 19:24 with a breakaway leaving an Invicta player staring down the face of Adam Noctor. Many a teenage girl in the same situation would no doubt hold that moment and start tonguing the poor chap. Not so hockey players unfortunately, leaving a flattering 6-2 result come the final buzzer.
There is still hope for the Redskins with Bracknell (boo hiss) needing a win to claim the final play off spot ahead of Streatham in their home game next week but chances are that the Hornets will ice some players from the higher BNL Bees team.
As for Streatham... well the theme song all season has been Thin Lizzy’s The Boys are Back. Eleven miserable years is a long time with no hockey in SW16 and if we had ended up basement boys then we’d still be celebrating a remarkable re-birth of a proud old name in British hockey. Elton John's I'm Still Standing may be more appropriate for next season, but somehow I just don't think our Elt is hockey locker room material.
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| Monday 23 February, 2004 |
Stretham Redskins 2 Invicta Dynamo 6, 22/02/04
The last league match of the season for the re-born Streatham Redskins and still all to play for with a win against table toppers Invicta Dynamos guaranteeing a place in the play-offs. The enthusiasm for old time hockey down at the High Road rink has grown stronger with every game and a large travelling support for Invicta helped to build an end of season carnival atmosphere.
With all the balcony seating already blagged by the drummers, horn blowers and out of tune singers from the Kent countryside (what is this – a school music lesson?), I was left to slum it in the official We Love Adam Noctor corner of the rink. Teenage thrills can run rampant at the most unexpected of times; a Sunday night in Streatham has got to be one of the least likely settings for a posse of pre-pubescent puck bunnies to get all worked up over the sight of a balding bloke wearing a Michelin Man outfit and having vulcanised rubber fired at his head all night. There's probably a top shelf publication where you can view pictures of this, but not at a hockey match eh girls?
Many a teenage girl would start tonguing the netminder |
Speaking of which... Always trust a politician to seize upon a prestige moment, grab the mic and waffle on endlessly when all you want to see is two brutes punching the lights out of each other. The Redskins were honoured with a visit from the Mayor of Lambeth, although to be fair he was wearing his best Charidee collecting hat and I'm sure that if you cornered him, he could talk the pants off you with the in and outs of the neutral trap zone style of play.
Playing a pace and style of hockey that wouldn't look out of place in the British National League, Invicta took an early lead with a stylish breakaway goal with 1:10 on the clock. A less graceful goal celebration followed which was more Torviall and Dean than Tie Domi.
Usual Crap Match Report Redskins disclaimer: the High Road rink has to be one of the most enjoyable venues to watch the good old game in the South East and the matchday announcer is a human encyclopaedia of UK hockey dating back to, well, let's just say a considerable amount of time. The rink acoustics aren't exactly the listening room at Bang & Olufsen though and so finer details such as goal scorers, assists, badly parked cars in the car park etc have been scratched.
Redskins responded with a goal straight from a face off but Invicta took the lead once more when the puck hit the back of Adam Noctor's pads and bounced in between the pipes. The talk in the We Love Adam Noctor corner then bizarrely changed to 'wouldn't mind getting his pads off' rather than how best to outwit a strong checking Invicta side.
Another defensive error at 10:08 led to a short handed goal for Invicta when the Redskins lost control trying to clear from behind their own net with Invicta seizing control and firing home upstairs.
With just over two minutes left in the first, Noctor pulled off a stunning glove save, only for a fourth to be conceded direct from the following face off.
Inspired by the return of Captain Joe (injury? nope; suspension? 'fraid not; romantic weekend break in NY? Guilty as charged you old lovesick fool), Redskins controlled the play in the second period with the puck permanently parked in the attacking zone. Invicta finally found a way through the much improved home defence though, braking through at the end of the period to net home a fifth.
5-1 down and a place in the play-offs up for grabs. Hopes of the season being extended were raised when two minutes in, a second was clocked up for the home team with a bolting blue liner shot from the wing. There's banging the plexi (good) to show you’re appreciation and there's rattling the plexi (bad); the old High Road rink has had to overcome many an evil plot to bring in the bulldozers over the years and it would be a shame if the rink was wrecked by some tug happy teenager, so to speak, intent on pulling it down piece by piece. Top marks for youthful exuberance though fella.
Redskins were then given a five on three power play chance to change their season. A breakthrough was needed here but Invicta played a well organised penalty kill. The Redskins pushed all the way to make the score line seem more balanced but were left short at the back at 19:24 with a breakaway leaving an Invicta player staring down the face of Adam Noctor. Many a teenage girl in the same situation would no doubt hold that moment and start tonguing the poor chap. Not so hockey players unfortunately, leaving a flattering 6-2 result come the final buzzer.
There is still hope for the Redskins with Bracknell (boo hiss) needing a win to claim the final play off spot ahead of Streatham in their home game next week but chances are that the Hornets will ice some players from the higher BNL Bees team.
As for Streatham... well the theme song all season has been Thin Lizzy’s The Boys are Back. Eleven miserable years is a long time with no hockey in SW16 and if we had ended up basement boys then we’d still be celebrating a remarkable re-birth of a proud old name in British hockey. Elton John's I'm Still Standing may be more appropriate for next season, but somehow I just don't think our Elt is hockey locker room material.
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| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Towers 103 Scottish Rocks 93, 21/02/04
Having booked my matchday ticket through lastminute.com (REALLY worth flagging that they have a FIVE pound Towers ticket deal for the rest of the season), I thought I would take the time saving principle to its extreme; sorry to say folks but it just can' be done: I challenge any reasonably fit balding thirty something bloke to peddle like a 'mo fo from Sunny Stockwell to Crystal Palace (don't forget THAT back breaking hill) in UNDER thirty minutes.
The joyous news to celebrate in SE19 tonight was that the Palace has had a stay of execution and will definitely be in operation for the next two years. Neil the DJ broke the news by announcing:
'The Towers aren’t going ANYWHERE...'
OK, so we had a shaky start to the season but I wouldn’t go as far that. It hardly works as a mission statement for a flagship franchise – 'the team that's going nowhere.'
This was a game that the Towers needed to win if they wanted to stay on course for the approaching play-offs; the Rocks represented the greatest threat to the Towers in the end of the regular season run in.
Looking around on court and I noticed that there had been yet more changes to the roster; my sweetheart fave wasn't in action and I pondered how I could get through the next hour or so without lusting over that gorgeous body and analysing every muscular move in great detail.
We're talking of course about the hit and miss London Towers Dancers, a troupe that represents a good cross section of the community: The Weight Watchers wing and the Sex on a Stick set. Not wishing to make any judgemental comment about the relative attractiveness of a late teen trim figure and a Big Mac Fries to go frame, I'll leave you to guess which category the absent onionbagblog babe falls in. Let's just say I don’t think she was at McDonalds tonight.
Back on court and Omar Sneed and Ricardo Greer were linking up well in the opening exchanges, as the Towers took a 27-22 lead into the second quarter.
Towers played some well executed moves after the short break, running down the clock to perfection and then going in for the kill with a series of deadly three pointers. Ralph Boy Blalock, Ricardo Greer and yer man Sneed were all on deadly form from outside the area as Towers eased to a 52-42 advantage at the break.
Eyes centre court at the interval for the Towers Dancers, although I felt I rather dirty and unfaithful by even paying a passing interest given the AWOL onionbagblog babe. It was all rather strange with a new routine that involved hoisting up some porker, and then will all the anti-climax of an Oliver Letwin speech... putting her down again. Maybe some of the girls are in training to become weight lifters? If you've got the build, I'd say go for it girls.
More neat passing from the home team followed in the third as the Towers pulled away with an unassailable 73-59 advantage. The game's a done deal, so why then didn't Coach Peers introduce fans favourite Ronnie Baker to the court? What's the point in re-signing England’s most capped player if he's going to be a benchwarmer? Hang on in there Ronnie.
The Rocks started to lose it a bit at this point with some billboard bashing on display after a poor period in play. Ooh. Get you.
Neil the DJ then celebrated a fine exhibition of dunking from Robert Youngblood by digging in the crates and coming up with some obscure jazz standard where the main vocal was 'Youngblood.' Your challenge for next week: Come up with a theme tune that extols the fancy footwork of Emiko Etete.
Towers were never really troubled in the fourth and didn't have to hit top gear – a welcome relief with league leaders Sheffield in town next week as well as a heavy play-off schedule over the coming months. The usual showboating broke out on court in the final two minutes, all capped off with an exquisite flow of play involving the entire team. Even the ref gave Greer the wink at the end after he delivered the final glorious dunk.
Highlight: The seamless playing of the Banana Splits theme just moments after the Towers Dancers performed, yep... the splits. onionbagblog is occasionally read by family and friends and so I will avoid the temptation to insert, so to speak, any banana jokes.
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london towers official
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| Sunday 22 February, 2004 |
London Towers 103 Scottish Rocks 93, 21/02/04
Having booked my matchday ticket through lastminute.com (REALLY worth flagging that they have a FIVE pound Towers ticket deal for the rest of the season), I thought I would take the time saving principle to its extreme; sorry to say folks but it just can' be done: I challenge any reasonably fit balding thirty something bloke to peddle like a 'mo fo from Sunny Stockwell to Crystal Palace (don't forget THAT back breaking hill) in UNDER thirty minutes.
The joyous news to celebrate in SE19 tonight was that the Palace has had a stay of execution and will definitely be in operation for the next two years. Neil the DJ broke the news by announcing:
'The Towers aren’t going ANYWHERE...'
It was a strange routine that involved hoisting up some porker |
This was a game that the Towers needed to win if they wanted to stay on course for the approaching play-offs; the Rocks represented the greatest threat to the Towers in the end of the regular season run in.
Looking around on court and I noticed that there had been yet more changes to the roster; my sweetheart fave wasn't in action and I pondered how I could get through the next hour or so without lusting over that gorgeous body and analysing every muscular move in great detail.
We're talking of course about the hit and miss London Towers Dancers, a troupe that represents a good cross section of the community: The Weight Watchers wing and the Sex on a Stick set. Not wishing to make any judgemental comment about the relative attractiveness of a late teen trim figure and a Big Mac Fries to go frame, I'll leave you to guess which category the absent onionbagblog babe falls in. Let's just say I don’t think she was at McDonalds tonight.
Back on court and Omar Sneed and Ricardo Greer were linking up well in the opening exchanges, as the Towers took a 27-22 lead into the second quarter.
Towers played some well executed moves after the short break, running down the clock to perfection and then going in for the kill with a series of deadly three pointers. Ralph Boy Blalock, Ricardo Greer and yer man Sneed were all on deadly form from outside the area as Towers eased to a 52-42 advantage at the break.
Eyes centre court at the interval for the Towers Dancers, although I felt I rather dirty and unfaithful by even paying a passing interest given the AWOL onionbagblog babe. It was all rather strange with a new routine that involved hoisting up some porker, and then will all the anti-climax of an Oliver Letwin speech... putting her down again. Maybe some of the girls are in training to become weight lifters? If you've got the build, I'd say go for it girls.
More neat passing from the home team followed in the third as the Towers pulled away with an unassailable 73-59 advantage. The game's a done deal, so why then didn't Coach Peers introduce fans favourite Ronnie Baker to the court? What's the point in re-signing England’s most capped player if he's going to be a benchwarmer? Hang on in there Ronnie.
The Rocks started to lose it a bit at this point with some billboard bashing on display after a poor period in play. Ooh. Get you.
Neil the DJ then celebrated a fine exhibition of dunking from Robert Youngblood by digging in the crates and coming up with some obscure jazz standard where the main vocal was 'Youngblood.' Your challenge for next week: Come up with a theme tune that extols the fancy footwork of Emiko Etete.
Towers were never really troubled in the fourth and didn't have to hit top gear – a welcome relief with league leaders Sheffield in town next week as well as a heavy play-off schedule over the coming months. The usual showboating broke out on court in the final two minutes, all capped off with an exquisite flow of play involving the entire team. Even the ref gave Greer the wink at the end after he delivered the final glorious dunk.
Highlight: The seamless playing of the Banana Splits theme just moments after the Towers Dancers performed, yep... the splits. onionbagblog is occasionally read by family and friends and so I will avoid the temptation to insert, so to speak, any banana jokes.
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
london towers official
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 3 Basingstoke Bison 4, 20/02/04
No Bus No. 48 farting about this week; straight outta Walthamstow Central and there was the little red beauty all ready and primed for action. It's always nice to catch up with the Walthamstow Bag Lady, but a more welcome site was the fast track No. 48 tearing up the mean streets of E17 with a demon driver possessed like he had, erm, a train to catch (or a meaningless hockey match).
My excuse for not being able to make the Anthems and honour Her Majesty's lifelong commitment and support to UK hockey was thanks to Brenda's Great Great Grandmother; Victoria may have once ruled over the British Empire with more bark than Oscar the Dog after he got his dangly bits caught up in the Zamboni, but when it comes to running a tube service from Sunny Stockwell to Walthamstow, Victoria is a bit crap.
Which brings us nicely on to the Racers.
I finally entered the Lee Valley inner sanctum with five minutes played on the clock. My heart sank when I heard: 'NUMBER 15' bellowing out around the glorified corrugated chicken shack.
FIFTEEN goals down already? Blimey Charlie.
'Chips and pizza – number 15 your order is ready!'
Close call in the canteen. Still, the chips were down for the Racers (boom boom) as they were already a goal behind. This became a two goal gap with 6:22 left in the first period when Bison Player Coach Steve Moria was credited with scoring. A more honest analysis would give the goal down to the player vying for the top spot in the Racers' goal scoring chart, a certain Mr OG.
Racers pushed hard towards the end of the period and seeing ex-Racer Stormin' Norman Pinnington now icing for Bison I was reminded that we may be bottom of the league, our win column may only display one credit and so what if we have a (superb) net minder with a girlie name who wears a pink top but hey, things are never THAT bad.
The home team came out steaming in the second with Lukas Filip firing home a one timer for... the first time of the season on 19:36. The first of many in the meaningless run in to the play-offs as we seek to avoid the wooden spoon.
Two minutes later and Marc Long broke down the wing and found the way through the five hole of the Bison net minder who was more static than a big red balloon that has just been rubbed against Jordan's chest after a shopping trip for a new mohair jumper.
It didn't take long for the Bison to swap net minders. Net minder number two lasted a matter of seconds before a third big bundling ball of fun from Basingstoke lodged himself between the pipes. What was that all about? Third time lucky? To lose one would be unfortunate, to lose two is careless but THREE? Is there a net minder breeding farm in Basingstoke or something? Perhaps word had filtered through to the team bench of problems on the Victoria Line and a quick getaway was being planned.
As Racers pressed for the win, the tables turned yet again at 29:58 with Darren Hurley forcing the puck over the line, despite net minder Lindsay having the puck smothered.
Play became more open and end to end in the third with the Racers brave fight back leading the defence open to breakaway attacks. Joe Ciccarello found himself clear and took advantage five minutes into the period.
Everyone knows that referee Boniface enjoys the bright lights of centre ice but with 12:59 left on the clock, it looked like even our Nige was taking things a bit too far with his new one man Morris Dance routine. Hold on, that's the signal for a penalty shot you say? Still, bet Nigel enjoys nothing better than a bit of handkerchief twirling in his spare time. Marc Long skated forward for the Racers to take the shot but fired straight at the feet of the padded Bison brute.
The hard working Racers finally found the net with 11:05 left in the game when some good screening in front of the goal allowed Kalle Konsti to guide the puck home from the blue line.
A rough and tumble final four minutes was fun to watch with Warren Tait and Nick Burton showing plenty of passion (and elbows), but Bison rode out the pressure to take the points.
Plenty of spirit from the Racers then to please the bumper crowd which was boosted by a party of local cubs taking in the game:
'London Racers do your best.'
'Roger Black, we will do our best.'
'Dib dib dib, dob dob dob, kick referee Boniface in the...'
Highlight: A half term happy kid shoe-horned into an old Knights jersey giving his old man a good ticking off:
'They're not as bad as you said Daddy...'
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| Saturday 21 February, 2004 |
London Racers 3 Basingstoke Bison 4, 20/02/04
No Bus No. 48 farting about this week; straight outta Walthamstow Central and there was the little red beauty all ready and primed for action. It's always nice to catch up with the Walthamstow Bag Lady, but a more welcome site was the fast track No. 48 tearing up the mean streets of E17 with a demon driver possessed like he had, erm, a train to catch (or a meaningless hockey match).
My excuse for not being able to make the Anthems and honour Her Majesty's lifelong commitment and support to UK hockey was thanks to Brenda's Great Great Grandmother; Victoria may have once ruled over the British Empire with more bark than Oscar the Dog after he got his dangly bits caught up in the Zamboni, but when it comes to running a tube service from Sunny Stockwell to Walthamstow, Victoria is a bit crap.
Is there a net minder breeding farm in deepest Basingstoke? |
I finally entered the Lee Valley inner sanctum with five minutes played on the clock. My heart sank when I heard: 'NUMBER 15' bellowing out around the glorified corrugated chicken shack.
FIFTEEN goals down already? Blimey Charlie.
'Chips and pizza – number 15 your order is ready!'
Close call in the canteen. Still, the chips were down for the Racers (boom boom) as they were already a goal behind. This became a two goal gap with 6:22 left in the first period when Bison Player Coach Steve Moria was credited with scoring. A more honest analysis would give the goal down to the player vying for the top spot in the Racers' goal scoring chart, a certain Mr OG.
Racers pushed hard towards the end of the period and seeing ex-Racer Stormin' Norman Pinnington now icing for Bison I was reminded that we may be bottom of the league, our win column may only display one credit and so what if we have a (superb) net minder with a girlie name who wears a pink top but hey, things are never THAT bad.
The home team came out steaming in the second with Lukas Filip firing home a one timer for... the first time of the season on 19:36. The first of many in the meaningless run in to the play-offs as we seek to avoid the wooden spoon.
Two minutes later and Marc Long broke down the wing and found the way through the five hole of the Bison net minder who was more static than a big red balloon that has just been rubbed against Jordan's chest after a shopping trip for a new mohair jumper.
It didn't take long for the Bison to swap net minders. Net minder number two lasted a matter of seconds before a third big bundling ball of fun from Basingstoke lodged himself between the pipes. What was that all about? Third time lucky? To lose one would be unfortunate, to lose two is careless but THREE? Is there a net minder breeding farm in Basingstoke or something? Perhaps word had filtered through to the team bench of problems on the Victoria Line and a quick getaway was being planned.
As Racers pressed for the win, the tables turned yet again at 29:58 with Darren Hurley forcing the puck over the line, despite net minder Lindsay having the puck smothered.
Play became more open and end to end in the third with the Racers brave fight back leading the defence open to breakaway attacks. Joe Ciccarello found himself clear and took advantage five minutes into the period.
Everyone knows that referee Boniface enjoys the bright lights of centre ice but with 12:59 left on the clock, it looked like even our Nige was taking things a bit too far with his new one man Morris Dance routine. Hold on, that's the signal for a penalty shot you say? Still, bet Nigel enjoys nothing better than a bit of handkerchief twirling in his spare time. Marc Long skated forward for the Racers to take the shot but fired straight at the feet of the padded Bison brute.
The hard working Racers finally found the net with 11:05 left in the game when some good screening in front of the goal allowed Kalle Konsti to guide the puck home from the blue line.
A rough and tumble final four minutes was fun to watch with Warren Tait and Nick Burton showing plenty of passion (and elbows), but Bison rode out the pressure to take the points.
Plenty of spirit from the Racers then to please the bumper crowd which was boosted by a party of local cubs taking in the game:
'London Racers do your best.'
'Roger Black, we will do our best.'
'Dib dib dib, dob dob dob, kick referee Boniface in the...'
Highlight: A half term happy kid shoe-horned into an old Knights jersey giving his old man a good ticking off:
'They're not as bad as you said Daddy...'
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| #permalink |
Crap Journo
Sniffin' out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
Mr Howard Goes to Burnley
Pity the poor PR whore who's handling Michael Howard (a job with only slightly better prospects than Shit Shoveller at Glastonbury). Just over a week ago the Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition called for the PM to resign whilst up to his knees in horse shit at a local allotment. That will teach the Tory twat to stay out of Ann Widdecombe's back garden.
Yesterday's Big Day Out in Burnley featured a crass staged photo opportunity with the placing of a nice young chap wearing a turban seated to the right of Howard. You can bet you won't see a repeat of that at the top table when the Blue Rinse gather at the seaside in September for their annual flag waving 'keep em out' rally.
The Big Day Out in Burnley was nothing but a crass event to appease both the fuckspud supporters of the far right and the whiney liberals in one fell swoop. Devil and deep blue sea etc.
Mr Tony may be the master of centre politics, having an answer for everything without actually expressing an electorate upsetting opinion, but at least he seems to base his stage show on some form of ideological grounding. Not so for the hapless Howard whose Burnley jaunt was probably thought up overnight by cutting up random Reader's Letters from the Daily Mail and The Guardian, mixing them up and then forming a collage which became the basis of his speech.
'No more Johnny Foreigners eating our swans. Immigrants have a lot to offer to our economy. My three in a bed romp with Jordan and a German Mountain Goat.' Whoops, The Sun somehow slipped in there.
Anti-BNP but still calling for the mythical barriers to Blighty to be shut. Next week: Howard pledges to clean up on prostitution in a speech delivered from his Dominatrix' Den in downtown Westminster wearing his best gimp outfit and with an amyl nitrate soaked orange shoved up his ring of fire arse.
Mark and Lard Leave the Big Fab1 FM
onionbagblog has always had a soft spot for Mark and Lard; a classic comedy pairing, straight guy Vs the stooge, a genuine love and knowledge of music and with egos lower than the IQ of your average Sun reader.
So just how the hell then did they manage to hold down a daytime job on Fun 1FM? What is more shocking is that they have been at Radio 1 now for almost a decade; that's a hell of a lot of Take That, Boyzone, Spice Girls and Westlife shit to sit through, especially for a pair of fortysomething Man City supporting, Captain Beefheart loving family men with mortgages.
onionbagblog wishes Scrawn and Lard all the best for the future, although we can't help thinking that with Radcliffe flying solo on Radio 2 and Riley treading his own path towards 6Music (wtf is he going to do? Two hours of Fall records and Fancy a Brew catchphrases?), it will be like eating a jam doughnut, without the jam.
Thumbs-a-loft Macca for Glasto
And so the perennial Glasto rumour finally becomes fact; the one man self-seeking publicity machine whose ex-wife (Gawd bless you Lady Linda) spawned the 'a dog with Wings' joke will hold his thumb aloft, give a cheeky wink and then send the whole of Avon and Somerset to sleep one Saturday night this Summer with the opening bars of Hey Jude.
Let's commit the cardinal British sin and admit that Macca is total tosh. Beatles – LOVE it; solo Macca – a Peter Andre for the spam fritter generation. He has become a predictable Establishment figure who is wheeled out at any major national event, hums Let it Be and we're all expected to gush.
Macca has been confirmed as the Saturday night turn for Glasto after years of blowing out Farmer Eavis who previously offered the bass slapper only the tent-packing half empty Sunday night festival closer.
onionbagblog is praying for either The Pixies to be given the parallel headline slot on the Other Stage or Mendip Council to insist on a 10pm curfew.
Granddads need their sleep you know.
| Friday 20 February, 2004 |
Sniffin' out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
Mr Howard Goes to Burnley
Pity the poor PR whore who's handling Michael Howard (a job with only slightly better prospects than Shit Shoveller at Glastonbury). Just over a week ago the Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition called for the PM to resign whilst up to his knees in horse shit at a local allotment. That will teach the Tory twat to stay out of Ann Widdecombe's back garden.
Yesterday's Big Day Out in Burnley featured a crass staged photo opportunity with the placing of a nice young chap wearing a turban seated to the right of Howard. You can bet you won't see a repeat of that at the top table when the Blue Rinse gather at the seaside in September for their annual flag waving 'keep em out' rally.
Macca is a Peter Andre for the spam fritter generation |
Mr Tony may be the master of centre politics, having an answer for everything without actually expressing an electorate upsetting opinion, but at least he seems to base his stage show on some form of ideological grounding. Not so for the hapless Howard whose Burnley jaunt was probably thought up overnight by cutting up random Reader's Letters from the Daily Mail and The Guardian, mixing them up and then forming a collage which became the basis of his speech.
'No more Johnny Foreigners eating our swans. Immigrants have a lot to offer to our economy. My three in a bed romp with Jordan and a German Mountain Goat.' Whoops, The Sun somehow slipped in there.
Anti-BNP but still calling for the mythical barriers to Blighty to be shut. Next week: Howard pledges to clean up on prostitution in a speech delivered from his Dominatrix' Den in downtown Westminster wearing his best gimp outfit and with an amyl nitrate soaked orange shoved up his ring of fire arse.
Mark and Lard Leave the Big Fab1 FM
onionbagblog has always had a soft spot for Mark and Lard; a classic comedy pairing, straight guy Vs the stooge, a genuine love and knowledge of music and with egos lower than the IQ of your average Sun reader.
So just how the hell then did they manage to hold down a daytime job on Fun 1FM? What is more shocking is that they have been at Radio 1 now for almost a decade; that's a hell of a lot of Take That, Boyzone, Spice Girls and Westlife shit to sit through, especially for a pair of fortysomething Man City supporting, Captain Beefheart loving family men with mortgages.
onionbagblog wishes Scrawn and Lard all the best for the future, although we can't help thinking that with Radcliffe flying solo on Radio 2 and Riley treading his own path towards 6Music (wtf is he going to do? Two hours of Fall records and Fancy a Brew catchphrases?), it will be like eating a jam doughnut, without the jam.
Thumbs-a-loft Macca for Glasto
And so the perennial Glasto rumour finally becomes fact; the one man self-seeking publicity machine whose ex-wife (Gawd bless you Lady Linda) spawned the 'a dog with Wings' joke will hold his thumb aloft, give a cheeky wink and then send the whole of Avon and Somerset to sleep one Saturday night this Summer with the opening bars of Hey Jude.
Let's commit the cardinal British sin and admit that Macca is total tosh. Beatles – LOVE it; solo Macca – a Peter Andre for the spam fritter generation. He has become a predictable Establishment figure who is wheeled out at any major national event, hums Let it Be and we're all expected to gush.
Macca has been confirmed as the Saturday night turn for Glasto after years of blowing out Farmer Eavis who previously offered the bass slapper only the tent-packing half empty Sunday night festival closer.
onionbagblog is praying for either The Pixies to be given the parallel headline slot on the Other Stage or Mendip Council to insist on a 10pm curfew.
Granddads need their sleep you know.
| #permalink |
Big Pow Wow
Astute (or bored) onionbagblog devotees may have noticed the overnight appearance of a big cuddly Red Indian, or an Indigenous Person Originating from Streatham High Road if you will, on the right hand side of this page along with all the rest of the crap that doesn't make it to front page status.
How? or Why? you're probably asking...
Well, the mighty Streatham Redskins are on the verge of making the English National League Division One play-offs in what is their comeback season after the team folded back in the early '90s.
With UK ice hockey looking more shaky than Shakin Stevens after he found out he was suffering from Parkinson's Disease (poor taste I know, but I never did have much time for the denim clad lip curling boy from the Valleys), this season was always going to be a struggle for Streatham to simply survive.
But survive they have, and with some style at that; face offs are frequently delayed to accommodate the queuing punters down at the High Road, the Supporters Club is doing a fine job and the team are playing some fantastic hockey considering their status as (very) old timers and not so fresh faced youth.
Sunday night is hockey night down at Streatham (five pounds gets you on, c'mon – FIVE of Her Majesty's finest, it's gotta be better than Last of the Sodding Summer Wine). But what of the rest of the week? Despite some valiant coverage from the SLP, onionbagblog thought it was about time that the Redskins fanbase (and players – don't be shy now you six foot beasts) had an online presence.
One click from onionbagblog gets you through to the Redskins forum where you can waffle on at length until you give my server a headache. Usual house rules apply – absolutely no racism, respect for others etc, although it is acceptable to call any team north of Watford OIKS or PEASENTS. Actually that includes Bracknell as well.
*Leans back and BANGS as hard as he can on the new computer monitor in the style of a Sunday night South London lynch mob testing the durability of the plexi down at the old rink*
streatham redskins official site
| Thursday 19 February, 2004 |
Astute (or bored) onionbagblog devotees may have noticed the overnight appearance of a big cuddly Red Indian, or an Indigenous Person Originating from Streatham High Road if you will, on the right hand side of this page along with all the rest of the crap that doesn't make it to front page status.
How? or Why? you're probably asking...
Well, the mighty Streatham Redskins are on the verge of making the English National League Division One play-offs in what is their comeback season after the team folded back in the early '90s.
It's OK to call teams north of Watford Oiks or Peasents |
But survive they have, and with some style at that; face offs are frequently delayed to accommodate the queuing punters down at the High Road, the Supporters Club is doing a fine job and the team are playing some fantastic hockey considering their status as (very) old timers and not so fresh faced youth.
Sunday night is hockey night down at Streatham (five pounds gets you on, c'mon – FIVE of Her Majesty's finest, it's gotta be better than Last of the Sodding Summer Wine). But what of the rest of the week? Despite some valiant coverage from the SLP, onionbagblog thought it was about time that the Redskins fanbase (and players – don't be shy now you six foot beasts) had an online presence.
One click from onionbagblog gets you through to the Redskins forum where you can waffle on at length until you give my server a headache. Usual house rules apply – absolutely no racism, respect for others etc, although it is acceptable to call any team north of Watford OIKS or PEASENTS. Actually that includes Bracknell as well.
*Leans back and BANGS as hard as he can on the new computer monitor in the style of a Sunday night South London lynch mob testing the durability of the plexi down at the old rink*
streatham redskins official site
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 1 Cardiff Devils 5, 17/02/04
Pub bores whittle on endlessly about mundane things that blokes get up to in pubs. No shame then in admitting here that I am an online hockey / No. 48 bus baiting bore, and yet again the four wheeled red monster came close to spoiling another Big Hockey Night out in Lee Valley. Any pain and suffering served up on the No. 48 was mild in comparison to the misery of the final score though.
You know it's not going to be the most memorable night of your life when after exiting left at Walthamstow Central, the elusive No. 48 speeds past you with all on board waving out of the window and laughing at you:
'This way to the hockey dude – losers line up with the other Johnnies at the bus stop.'
It proved to be a long wait with only the slightly worrying antics of a coin tossing (don't ask) Walthamstow Bag Lady to keep me company. I had a spare ticket for the hockey and thought of introducing her to the inner sanctum of the Lee Valley Bike Shed, but I didn't want to put a downer on what already looked like a fun evening for her.
All good things come to those who are too dumb to seek an easier alternative. Which is why I was late yet again at the Bike Shed to watch a team seeking only their second win of the season. What else was there to do? Watch the Brits bore-fest? A British award ceremony that celebrates British achievement by parading endless Yanks Vs a British hockey league that encourages British talent by handing out contracts to anyone with a soft spot for apple pie.
A fast paced opening period ended with the teams going in at the buzzer with the score at 0-0. Actually it was 2-0 to the Devils, but seeing as though I arrived ten minutes late and missed the opening two goals, these have now been expunged in the all important great schema of Crap Match Reports.
Do unto others and they do unto you etc. Good to see them that the Racers came out in the second meeting force with force with some big mid ice checks from Nick Burton and Jason Robinson against what is a physical Cardiff side.
Speaking of which, the London branch of the We Love You Dennis fan club was out in force yet again to welcome the returning ex-Knight back to the capital. Maxwell will always hold a special place in the memories of Knights fans but I still just don't get the worshipping of past idols. He now plays for a team based in South Wales, the old London club has long since gone and there are plenty of worthy contenders wearing the red of the Racers who need your support week in week out.
Sacratini made the breakthrough for the Devils midway through the second period to take a 3-0 lead, or 1-0 advantage in my little onionbagblog parallel universe. I quite like this blatant re-writing of history; thinking back I was powdering my nose when Des Walker put the ball in his own net during the '91 Cup Final, which must mean that Forest actually won the FA Cup that year.
A well worked power play goal for the Devils then followed with five minutes remaining in the period as Becker managed to brush aside his hockey hair mullet and slot home. All that was then left to hope for was that Coach Whistle for the Devils would fall arse over tit in his new Armani suit (do they have Armani in Wales?) as he made his customary walk across the ice to the locker room at the end of the period. Why does he do that? Is the more traditional route of round the back of the empty stand, past a few burger munching teenagers and a dog wearing a Racers top really that intimidating?
Racers came out for the third all fired up and to their credit continued to chase the game. Jonathan Phillips killed off the game with a fifth (onionbagblog third) for the away team at 43:38.
Just when another shut out for the away team at Lee Valley seemed likely, Marc Long popped up at the back door to slot home at 49:35 in a free flowing hockey move that I'm sure even the hockey virgin Walthamstow Bag Lady would have appreciated.
I said HOCKEY virgin.
Played 47, won 1; what Racers need is a rough and ready brute of a fellow to mix it up against the likes of Dennis the Menace. Proving that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, I'm volunteering my services to put on the foil ASAP. I just need to get match fit, finally get round to having my Bauer '85s sharpened and of course grow a mullet. I'll be in touch guys once I’m ready.
Highlight: Devils net minder Jason Cugnet deliberately heading the puck over the top of the bar towards the end of the game, taking the phrase 'standing on his head' quite literally.
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| Wednesday 18 February, 2004 |
London Racers 1 Cardiff Devils 5, 17/02/04
Pub bores whittle on endlessly about mundane things that blokes get up to in pubs. No shame then in admitting here that I am an online hockey / No. 48 bus baiting bore, and yet again the four wheeled red monster came close to spoiling another Big Hockey Night out in Lee Valley. Any pain and suffering served up on the No. 48 was mild in comparison to the misery of the final score though.
You know it's not going to be the most memorable night of your life when after exiting left at Walthamstow Central, the elusive No. 48 speeds past you with all on board waving out of the window and laughing at you:
'This way to the hockey dude – losers line up with the other Johnnies at the bus stop.'
All that was left to hope for was that Coach Whistle would fall arse over tit |
All good things come to those who are too dumb to seek an easier alternative. Which is why I was late yet again at the Bike Shed to watch a team seeking only their second win of the season. What else was there to do? Watch the Brits bore-fest? A British award ceremony that celebrates British achievement by parading endless Yanks Vs a British hockey league that encourages British talent by handing out contracts to anyone with a soft spot for apple pie.
A fast paced opening period ended with the teams going in at the buzzer with the score at 0-0. Actually it was 2-0 to the Devils, but seeing as though I arrived ten minutes late and missed the opening two goals, these have now been expunged in the all important great schema of Crap Match Reports.
Do unto others and they do unto you etc. Good to see them that the Racers came out in the second meeting force with force with some big mid ice checks from Nick Burton and Jason Robinson against what is a physical Cardiff side.
Speaking of which, the London branch of the We Love You Dennis fan club was out in force yet again to welcome the returning ex-Knight back to the capital. Maxwell will always hold a special place in the memories of Knights fans but I still just don't get the worshipping of past idols. He now plays for a team based in South Wales, the old London club has long since gone and there are plenty of worthy contenders wearing the red of the Racers who need your support week in week out.
Sacratini made the breakthrough for the Devils midway through the second period to take a 3-0 lead, or 1-0 advantage in my little onionbagblog parallel universe. I quite like this blatant re-writing of history; thinking back I was powdering my nose when Des Walker put the ball in his own net during the '91 Cup Final, which must mean that Forest actually won the FA Cup that year.
A well worked power play goal for the Devils then followed with five minutes remaining in the period as Becker managed to brush aside his hockey hair mullet and slot home. All that was then left to hope for was that Coach Whistle for the Devils would fall arse over tit in his new Armani suit (do they have Armani in Wales?) as he made his customary walk across the ice to the locker room at the end of the period. Why does he do that? Is the more traditional route of round the back of the empty stand, past a few burger munching teenagers and a dog wearing a Racers top really that intimidating?
Racers came out for the third all fired up and to their credit continued to chase the game. Jonathan Phillips killed off the game with a fifth (onionbagblog third) for the away team at 43:38.
Just when another shut out for the away team at Lee Valley seemed likely, Marc Long popped up at the back door to slot home at 49:35 in a free flowing hockey move that I'm sure even the hockey virgin Walthamstow Bag Lady would have appreciated.
I said HOCKEY virgin.
Played 47, won 1; what Racers need is a rough and ready brute of a fellow to mix it up against the likes of Dennis the Menace. Proving that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, I'm volunteering my services to put on the foil ASAP. I just need to get match fit, finally get round to having my Bauer '85s sharpened and of course grow a mullet. I'll be in touch guys once I’m ready.
Highlight: Devils net minder Jason Cugnet deliberately heading the puck over the top of the bar towards the end of the game, taking the phrase 'standing on his head' quite literally.
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| #permalink |
'Orrible
BBC3 has delivered yet another ratings flop with fewer than 30,000 viewers tuning in last night for the MUSN'T see TV of Live at Johnny's. That's only slightly more than the average Hamlet home gate, and considerably a lot more than the 30,000 plus sad tossers viewing the repeat of Minder on Paramount.
I'm not sure which concerns me most – the fact that the wacky world of BBC3 is subsidised by a good honest licence payer such as myself, despite the fact that I can't even access the turd of a channel even if I wanted to, or that 30,000 plus people thought that an evening in with our Terry and Arfur was a better option than going to the pub, going for a walk, dancing naked at your local off licence etc. Anything but another miserable Monday stuck in with Minder and 'er indoors.
onionbagblog can't help thinking that Live at Johnny's was on a downer with the budget blowing appearance of failed Tory leader (...take yer pick here to be honest) Iain Duncan Smith as the political 'expert.'
What does it say about IDS that only a matter of months after he was putting himself up as a credible alternative to run the country that he now has to accept that he is nothing but a fall guy (and a balding twatish one at that) for a failed chat show host? Still, with a captive audience of 30,000, that's considerably more than he has been use to of late.
You can almost imagine the programming pitch for Live at Johnny's:
'Um, the budget's not quite primetime Saturday evening TV. Hey, let's broadcast live from... a shed! Tom Cruise is busy this week. I know, let's try that knobber IDS! Script? Bloody SCRIPT? Oh, just talk your usual oafish mockney banter Johnny and everyone will be ogling at the tits, chirping PARKLIFE! and snorting like it was 1995 all over again.'
Cultural legend Frank Sidebottom had his own Fantastic Shed Show in the early '90s. Back in the day it was widely understood that anyone taking seriously a TV show featuring a grown man wearing a giant paper mache head talking crap to a host of D-list celebs while playing a Botmepi organ in a shed wasn't best suited to a future career in TV.
Vaughan described his Shed Show as: 'like nothing that viewers have ever seen before.'
Blink and you'll miss it TV for sure.
| Tuesday 17 February, 2004 |
BBC3 has delivered yet another ratings flop with fewer than 30,000 viewers tuning in last night for the MUSN'T see TV of Live at Johnny's. That's only slightly more than the average Hamlet home gate, and considerably a lot more than the 30,000 plus sad tossers viewing the repeat of Minder on Paramount.
I'm not sure which concerns me most – the fact that the wacky world of BBC3 is subsidised by a good honest licence payer such as myself, despite the fact that I can't even access the turd of a channel even if I wanted to, or that 30,000 plus people thought that an evening in with our Terry and Arfur was a better option than going to the pub, going for a walk, dancing naked at your local off licence etc. Anything but another miserable Monday stuck in with Minder and 'er indoors.
Tom Cruise is busy - I know, let’s try that knobber IDS |
What does it say about IDS that only a matter of months after he was putting himself up as a credible alternative to run the country that he now has to accept that he is nothing but a fall guy (and a balding twatish one at that) for a failed chat show host? Still, with a captive audience of 30,000, that's considerably more than he has been use to of late.
You can almost imagine the programming pitch for Live at Johnny's:
'Um, the budget's not quite primetime Saturday evening TV. Hey, let's broadcast live from... a shed! Tom Cruise is busy this week. I know, let's try that knobber IDS! Script? Bloody SCRIPT? Oh, just talk your usual oafish mockney banter Johnny and everyone will be ogling at the tits, chirping PARKLIFE! and snorting like it was 1995 all over again.'
Cultural legend Frank Sidebottom had his own Fantastic Shed Show in the early '90s. Back in the day it was widely understood that anyone taking seriously a TV show featuring a grown man wearing a giant paper mache head talking crap to a host of D-list celebs while playing a Botmepi organ in a shed wasn't best suited to a future career in TV.
Vaughan described his Shed Show as: 'like nothing that viewers have ever seen before.'
Blink and you'll miss it TV for sure.
| #permalink |
Mondays Musings
The Stranglers - Norfolk Coast
Cromer, Sheringham, Blakeney – all charming quaint little seaside resorts off the North Norfolk Coast; JJ Burnell, Jet Black (made up name ahoy!) and the balding Baz Warne – the once not so quaint Men in Black of the punk scene, or if truth be told, pub rockers that hitched a lift on the passing bandwagon. So wtf are the Enfant Terribles of '76 doing making an album that promotes North Norfolk and all its crab fishing, seal trips and crazy golf glory? Truth is of course that without Hugh Cornwall (there we go again with yet more English tourist board namedropping), The Stranglers in their current incarnation are about as dangerous as a cold cup of tea. onionbagblog crap Cornwall anecdote: whilst working in a hideous record chain store back in the late '80s, yer man Hugh had a Spinal Tap-esque in-store signing session. As one security geezer fought back the throng of three punk old timers, and with the blaring out of the shit sandwich of a new album by Cornwall causing other customers to flee the store en masse, the not very diplomatic security geezer No. 2 used his internal radio gizmo to ask his mate: 'What the fuck are we playing this shit for?' Geezer No. 1 was standing right next to Mr Cornwall at the time. Told you it wasn't much cop.
Duran Duran - Greatest
If the Brummie Fab Five were so ace back in the day, why has it taken almost twenty years past their peak for them to be put on a Brits posturing pedestal? If they were loved so much by so many (pant wetting teens who now have married, divorced and live their life through a Dido album), then why didn't the coke snorting guitar wielding midget, the drummer with even less charisma than Ringo and the good looking one with the cheekbones worthy of a good punch stay away from the big nosed one and the freako make up wearing Eno obsessed one for the best part of two decades? Creative differences? ('I love keyboards me.' 'I love guitars me.' 'Well fuck off and form the Power Station then.' 'No, you fuck off and form Arcadia.') Drug differences? ('I love coke me.' 'I love coke as well.' 'Fuck off you cunt, where's all me sodding gear?'). Or perhaps just plain embarrassment from Seven and the Ragged Tiger? It really is time to turn out the lights if the best that British mainstream music has to offer in 2004 is some forty-something bloated tossers wearing white suits singing about birds being as about as easy as a nuclear war. As for this album... been there done that. The Reflex had a so so video, Save a Prayer was always good for a youth club hand up the blouse touchy feely moment whilst Wild Boys reminds you why The Smiths were so important back in 1984.
Busted - Who's David?
Who gives a wet monkey? Who is actually buying this green apple splat toilet tirade? Who the fuck are Busted?
All albums and 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 16 February, 2004 |
The Stranglers - Norfolk Coast
Cromer, Sheringham, Blakeney – all charming quaint little seaside resorts off the North Norfolk Coast; JJ Burnell, Jet Black (made up name ahoy!) and the balding Baz Warne – the once not so quaint Men in Black of the punk scene, or if truth be told, pub rockers that hitched a lift on the passing bandwagon. So wtf are the Enfant Terribles of '76 doing making an album that promotes North Norfolk and all its crab fishing, seal trips and crazy golf glory? Truth is of course that without Hugh Cornwall (there we go again with yet more English tourist board namedropping), The Stranglers in their current incarnation are about as dangerous as a cold cup of tea. onionbagblog crap Cornwall anecdote: whilst working in a hideous record chain store back in the late '80s, yer man Hugh had a Spinal Tap-esque in-store signing session. As one security geezer fought back the throng of three punk old timers, and with the blaring out of the shit sandwich of a new album by Cornwall causing other customers to flee the store en masse, the not very diplomatic security geezer No. 2 used his internal radio gizmo to ask his mate: 'What the fuck are we playing this shit for?' Geezer No. 1 was standing right next to Mr Cornwall at the time. Told you it wasn't much cop.
Duran Duran - Greatest
If the Brummie Fab Five were so ace back in the day, why has it taken almost twenty years past their peak for them to be put on a Brits posturing pedestal? If they were loved so much by so many (pant wetting teens who now have married, divorced and live their life through a Dido album), then why didn't the coke snorting guitar wielding midget, the drummer with even less charisma than Ringo and the good looking one with the cheekbones worthy of a good punch stay away from the big nosed one and the freako make up wearing Eno obsessed one for the best part of two decades? Creative differences? ('I love keyboards me.' 'I love guitars me.' 'Well fuck off and form the Power Station then.' 'No, you fuck off and form Arcadia.') Drug differences? ('I love coke me.' 'I love coke as well.' 'Fuck off you cunt, where's all me sodding gear?'). Or perhaps just plain embarrassment from Seven and the Ragged Tiger? It really is time to turn out the lights if the best that British mainstream music has to offer in 2004 is some forty-something bloated tossers wearing white suits singing about birds being as about as easy as a nuclear war. As for this album... been there done that. The Reflex had a so so video, Save a Prayer was always good for a youth club hand up the blouse touchy feely moment whilst Wild Boys reminds you why The Smiths were so important back in 1984.
Busted - Who's David?
Who gives a wet monkey? Who is actually buying this green apple splat toilet tirade? Who the fuck are Busted?
All albums and 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 |
Crap Match Report
Nottingham Panthers 4 London Racers 1, 14/02/04
Manchester United manage to take 10,000 away fans in their quest for global sporting dominance; in their equally challenging strive for a first away win of the season, London Racers boasted twelve away supporters for the Nottingham road trip, which ain't at all bad considering the 8-3 home drubbing at the hands of Belfast Giants was just twenty four hours earlier. Safety in numbers and all that.
I arrived in time to see the opening face off for the first time ever as a Racers fan. The 200 plus mile trip from Sunny Stockwell up to Nottingham is a breeze compared to the No. 48 bus cursing crapness of an expedition out to Lee Valley on a Friday night. Doesn't mean I'm going to become a part time Panthers puck hopper though - my ability to smile, make polite conversation with strangers and not have a face that looks like it has just got the better of a dozen Big Macs rules me out from owning a Panthers jersey.
Ten minutes in and the Racers weren't 5-0 down. Which makes a change. Some strong defensive play from the away team, coupled with an under-achieving Panthers squad led to a tight opening period. Racers held off until the final two minutes of the first period when Craighead shot home a power play effort from the point.
26:20 on the clock and Jani Tuominen smashed home an equaliser for the Racers. Blimey Charlie, we might actually win this.
If you thought that the Lee Valley Bike Shed was a soulless backwater barn of a building, you should try the National Ice Centre when the League Whipping Boys (us) are providing the lash strokes to one of the flagship teams in the league (them).
The corporate setting of the NIC ('The urinals at the NIC are proudly sponsored by pissyerpants.com, manufactures of incontinence products for the elderly gentleman') is a world away from the old Nottingham Parliament Street rink, and at times the home team struggle to find an identity. 'If it moves, sell it' is the money making mantra for the Panthers. To my alarm Mr PA Man then name checked a 'helmet' sponsorship deal. I hope he was referring to items of kit, rather the purple headed variety.
Back on the ice and the game was coming to a climax too; having battled well for the first two periods, Racers let three goals slip by on the bounce, the best of which came from Kim Ahlroos at 49:54 after an assist from Mikko Koivunoro and had Made in London (Arena) written all over it.
We had to endure the Panthers fans Borg like synchronised clapping at the end along to Bryan Adams' We're Gonna Win (a song deemed so eardrum drilling dull that even my Dad has to leave a room whenever it is played).
Give me Beck's Loser any day.
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| Sunday 15 February, 2004 |
Nottingham Panthers 4 London Racers 1, 14/02/04
Manchester United manage to take 10,000 away fans in their quest for global sporting dominance; in their equally challenging strive for a first away win of the season, London Racers boasted twelve away supporters for the Nottingham road trip, which ain't at all bad considering the 8-3 home drubbing at the hands of Belfast Giants was just twenty four hours earlier. Safety in numbers and all that.
I arrived in time to see the opening face off for the first time ever as a Racers fan. The 200 plus mile trip from Sunny Stockwell up to Nottingham is a breeze compared to the No. 48 bus cursing crapness of an expedition out to Lee Valley on a Friday night. Doesn't mean I'm going to become a part time Panthers puck hopper though - my ability to smile, make polite conversation with strangers and not have a face that looks like it has just got the better of a dozen Big Macs rules me out from owning a Panthers jersey.
Blimey Charlie, we might actually win this |
26:20 on the clock and Jani Tuominen smashed home an equaliser for the Racers. Blimey Charlie, we might actually win this.
If you thought that the Lee Valley Bike Shed was a soulless backwater barn of a building, you should try the National Ice Centre when the League Whipping Boys (us) are providing the lash strokes to one of the flagship teams in the league (them).
The corporate setting of the NIC ('The urinals at the NIC are proudly sponsored by pissyerpants.com, manufactures of incontinence products for the elderly gentleman') is a world away from the old Nottingham Parliament Street rink, and at times the home team struggle to find an identity. 'If it moves, sell it' is the money making mantra for the Panthers. To my alarm Mr PA Man then name checked a 'helmet' sponsorship deal. I hope he was referring to items of kit, rather the purple headed variety.
Back on the ice and the game was coming to a climax too; having battled well for the first two periods, Racers let three goals slip by on the bounce, the best of which came from Kim Ahlroos at 49:54 after an assist from Mikko Koivunoro and had Made in London (Arena) written all over it.
We had to endure the Panthers fans Borg like synchronised clapping at the end along to Bryan Adams' We're Gonna Win (a song deemed so eardrum drilling dull that even my Dad has to leave a room whenever it is played).
Give me Beck's Loser any day.
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 3 Belfast Giants 8, 13/02/04
I don't sacrifice my precious Friday night pizza scoffing / TV watching downtime to be stuck out in some East End wasteland on the No. 48 bus; arrived late, yet again and managed to miss the first two goals for the Giants. Needn't worry, there will be plenty more where they came from before the evening is out.
I made it to my seat just as some other poor Racers masochist behind me yelled out the customary 'SI’ DARNNNN', meaning that they missed the third goal go in. I like to feel that in some small way I have made my personal contribution to making a fellow fans weekend less painful.
3-0 down with just over ten minutes on the clock. RESULT! Just five days ago away in Belfast the Racers were 5-0 down at the same stage. Full marks for trying boys. This led to the ultimate hockey humiliation – starting net minder Evan Lindsay was pulled for back up Van Der Velden.
I see little point in listing the carnage that characterised the rest of the evening. You've seen the 8-3 score line and I’m hiding under the title of a Crap Match Report. Whadya expect? Detailed accounts of goals, assists and timings for ELEVEN bloody goals? I haven't the time, websapce or dedication to whittle on about what has become a LOSING team yet again. This performance was flatter than a pancake that has been sat on by Rick Waller after a night out on the cream doughnuts.
It's almost as if with the main objective of the season successfully accomplished (win ONE game), it's back to business as usual for the Racers. I'm starting to question now why exactly I have arranged an entire weekend (and a VALENTINES one at that – they're queuing up outside my door) around a Nottingham road trip for tonight.
Highlight: The anti-climax of a Giants player skating up to receive his Man of the Match award, only to find that that the case of Bud was in fact an EMPTY Bud cardboard box. Bottled it. Just like the home team.
Gota go – train to catch for the expected Valentines Massacre up at Nottingham. Here's hoping Midland Mainline is as piss poor as the No. 48 bus – wouldn't want to miss out on any of the 'fun' now would we?
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| Saturday 14 February, 2004 |
London Racers 3 Belfast Giants 8, 13/02/04
I don't sacrifice my precious Friday night pizza scoffing / TV watching downtime to be stuck out in some East End wasteland on the No. 48 bus; arrived late, yet again and managed to miss the first two goals for the Giants. Needn't worry, there will be plenty more where they came from before the evening is out.
I made it to my seat just as some other poor Racers masochist behind me yelled out the customary 'SI’ DARNNNN', meaning that they missed the third goal go in. I like to feel that in some small way I have made my personal contribution to making a fellow fans weekend less painful.
This performance was flatter than a pancake that has been sat on by Rick Waller |
I see little point in listing the carnage that characterised the rest of the evening. You've seen the 8-3 score line and I’m hiding under the title of a Crap Match Report. Whadya expect? Detailed accounts of goals, assists and timings for ELEVEN bloody goals? I haven't the time, websapce or dedication to whittle on about what has become a LOSING team yet again. This performance was flatter than a pancake that has been sat on by Rick Waller after a night out on the cream doughnuts.
It's almost as if with the main objective of the season successfully accomplished (win ONE game), it's back to business as usual for the Racers. I'm starting to question now why exactly I have arranged an entire weekend (and a VALENTINES one at that – they're queuing up outside my door) around a Nottingham road trip for tonight.
Highlight: The anti-climax of a Giants player skating up to receive his Man of the Match award, only to find that that the case of Bud was in fact an EMPTY Bud cardboard box. Bottled it. Just like the home team.
Gota go – train to catch for the expected Valentines Massacre up at Nottingham. Here's hoping Midland Mainline is as piss poor as the No. 48 bus – wouldn't want to miss out on any of the 'fun' now would we?
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| #permalink |
Shark Eyes
Strange pastime swimming; you never actually look forward to the weekly ritual, you spend just as much time out of the water as in, arseing about with getting changed, showering etc and then you're finally feel relieved when it's all over.
If the appeal of getting semi-naked and bathing with random strangers and their assorted toe jam, knob cheese and fanny batter extras wasn't bad enough, lane swimming London style is like trying to drive northwards on the South Circular during the morning rush hour.
The supposed stress busting swim at Brixton Rec yesterday afternoon didn't get off to a good start when I opted for the Lard Arse Lane rather than the Fit as Fuck Olympic Trials stretch of water. A couple of lengths in and I decided that having my head shoved up the arse of some sixty year old plus granddad wearing a thong wasn't going to help me sleep at night. Sure he had a fine breaststroke technique, but his ball of Edam with the wire cutter choice of swimwear was thrust open wider with every stroke.
I was feeling a little peckish but the menu of cheese served up on a saggy sixty year old arse, eaten rimming style, led me to a quick lane hop to join the SW9 Olympians.
Bad move. If any sport should lend itself to a serene and individually focussed non-competitive ethos then swimming must surely fit the bill. Not down in the dog eat dog world in the Fit as Fuck lane at Brixton Rec though. If you're not close on setting an SW9 all-comers record, the penalty is for some six pack knobber with veins popping out of his shaven meat skull attempting to drown you mid-length.
These freako webbed foot fuckers should be told that a public pool in the afternoon is not the best setting to practise their freestyle butterfly moves, especially with a heavily pregnant woman quietly going about her business in the adjacent lane.
Having just about survived G-String Granddad and Speedo Boy on Drugs, I was finally forced out of the water with the arrival of The Walker in the pool. This legendary Brixton Rec character has the annoying habit of stopping his swim mid-length, walking the remainder of the distance and causing a tailback longer than the Dartford Tunnel on a Friday evening.
The Walker's personal party trick however is a guaranteed pool clearer; when he reaches the end of the lane, he has the delightful habit of clearing his nose in the style favoured by many a Premiership footballer. Dirty dog.
And so on to the post-swim shower. It said it all really that after having spent twenty minutes or so immersed in water, you still feel the need to shower thoroughly to remove all traces of flem, jam rag juice and kiddy piss. At least the changing rooms will be a sanctuary for personal hygiene. Just make sure that you avoid the sink third from the left as some yoof was such a dumbfuck that he clearly couldn't see the urinal opposite the sinks and decided to piss in the wash basin instead.
See you all again next week.
| Friday 13 February, 2004 |
Strange pastime swimming; you never actually look forward to the weekly ritual, you spend just as much time out of the water as in, arseing about with getting changed, showering etc and then you're finally feel relieved when it's all over.
If the appeal of getting semi-naked and bathing with random strangers and their assorted toe jam, knob cheese and fanny batter extras wasn't bad enough, lane swimming London style is like trying to drive northwards on the South Circular during the morning rush hour.
Having my head shoved up the arse of a granddad wearing a thong wasn’t going to help me sleep at night |
I was feeling a little peckish but the menu of cheese served up on a saggy sixty year old arse, eaten rimming style, led me to a quick lane hop to join the SW9 Olympians.
Bad move. If any sport should lend itself to a serene and individually focussed non-competitive ethos then swimming must surely fit the bill. Not down in the dog eat dog world in the Fit as Fuck lane at Brixton Rec though. If you're not close on setting an SW9 all-comers record, the penalty is for some six pack knobber with veins popping out of his shaven meat skull attempting to drown you mid-length.
These freako webbed foot fuckers should be told that a public pool in the afternoon is not the best setting to practise their freestyle butterfly moves, especially with a heavily pregnant woman quietly going about her business in the adjacent lane.
Having just about survived G-String Granddad and Speedo Boy on Drugs, I was finally forced out of the water with the arrival of The Walker in the pool. This legendary Brixton Rec character has the annoying habit of stopping his swim mid-length, walking the remainder of the distance and causing a tailback longer than the Dartford Tunnel on a Friday evening.
The Walker's personal party trick however is a guaranteed pool clearer; when he reaches the end of the lane, he has the delightful habit of clearing his nose in the style favoured by many a Premiership footballer. Dirty dog.
And so on to the post-swim shower. It said it all really that after having spent twenty minutes or so immersed in water, you still feel the need to shower thoroughly to remove all traces of flem, jam rag juice and kiddy piss. At least the changing rooms will be a sanctuary for personal hygiene. Just make sure that you avoid the sink third from the left as some yoof was such a dumbfuck that he clearly couldn't see the urinal opposite the sinks and decided to piss in the wash basin instead.
See you all again next week.
| #permalink |
Totally Tropical
A throwaway comment heard on 5Live last Saturday whilst I was stuck indoors cleaning the bathroom (Hamlet were away, what else are you suppose to do?):
'And Jason Lee should have equalised for Falkirk.'
Suddenly the piss stains behind the back of the U-bend (HERS, not mine) seemed so trivial. Jason Lee? JASON FUCKING LEE? At Falkirk you say?
Now I accept that even in these penny pinching days within professional football, there is still some 2,500 plus pasta eating players. There is of course every chance that the toilet cleaning on hold Jason Lee is not THE Jason Lee.
A quick Google of jason+lee+jock+football+pineapple gave me the opportunity to run around the flat for a few minutes, cream cleaner and sponge still in hand, quite literally pissing myself and thus creating more domestic woe.
I thought we had seen last of the Great Pineappled One when Forest first loaned him out to Charlton, and then Grimsby, leading to presumably a downward spiral until he ended up propping up the pyramid system at somewhere glamorous like Gravesend. Yet here is he, still masquerading as a Johnny on the Spot and doing it in the semi-respectful Scottish First Division.
Nice work fella.
Of course he was punching above his weight when the then Premiership promotion bound Forest signed him for two hundred grand from Southend back in '94. We bought Collymore from the same club and so when the promotion push started to wobble, it was surely worth a punt yet again.
On the day he signed for the Reds, Lee stated during a local radio interview that:
'I'm a big bloke and I like to rough it up.'
Chalk and cheese then for Collymore who after delivering promotion with his one man show then found that he was rewarded with a new playing partner, Bryan Roy. We didn't see much of Lee in the first team from then onwards...
It's not that he was a poor player; his own observations of his 'abilities' were spot on – he was a fine battering ram for the First Division. His downfall however was entirely down to some cruel and painfully unfunny jibes from Baddiel and Skinner on Fantasy Football.
I always felt quite uncomfortable with the pineapple piss take. Here we had two white middle class blokes essentially laughing at nothing more than an ethnic hairstyle. Racist? Probably not. Clumsy? Almost as awkward as the player himself.
Like a modern day Samson, Lee's confidence never recovered, even after giving in to the piss takes and taking a trip to the barbers for an image makeover. The head shave led to the goal drought, which is probably why he now finds himself at Falkirk.
Fantasy Football is back this summer for Euro 2004. Seeing as though the focus of the show will be international football, the chances of Lee becoming a running joke yet again are about as likely as England lifting the trophy.
Jason Lee wearing the Three Lions? That really would be worthy of further toilet-seat staining mishaps.
| Thursday 11 February, 2004 |
A throwaway comment heard on 5Live last Saturday whilst I was stuck indoors cleaning the bathroom (Hamlet were away, what else are you suppose to do?):
'And Jason Lee should have equalised for Falkirk.'
Suddenly the piss stains behind the back of the U-bend (HERS, not mine) seemed so trivial. Jason Lee? JASON FUCKING LEE? At Falkirk you say?
I’m a big bloke and I like to rough it up |
A quick Google of jason+lee+jock+football+pineapple gave me the opportunity to run around the flat for a few minutes, cream cleaner and sponge still in hand, quite literally pissing myself and thus creating more domestic woe.
I thought we had seen last of the Great Pineappled One when Forest first loaned him out to Charlton, and then Grimsby, leading to presumably a downward spiral until he ended up propping up the pyramid system at somewhere glamorous like Gravesend. Yet here is he, still masquerading as a Johnny on the Spot and doing it in the semi-respectful Scottish First Division.
Nice work fella.
Of course he was punching above his weight when the then Premiership promotion bound Forest signed him for two hundred grand from Southend back in '94. We bought Collymore from the same club and so when the promotion push started to wobble, it was surely worth a punt yet again.
On the day he signed for the Reds, Lee stated during a local radio interview that:
'I'm a big bloke and I like to rough it up.'
Chalk and cheese then for Collymore who after delivering promotion with his one man show then found that he was rewarded with a new playing partner, Bryan Roy. We didn't see much of Lee in the first team from then onwards...
It's not that he was a poor player; his own observations of his 'abilities' were spot on – he was a fine battering ram for the First Division. His downfall however was entirely down to some cruel and painfully unfunny jibes from Baddiel and Skinner on Fantasy Football.
I always felt quite uncomfortable with the pineapple piss take. Here we had two white middle class blokes essentially laughing at nothing more than an ethnic hairstyle. Racist? Probably not. Clumsy? Almost as awkward as the player himself.
Like a modern day Samson, Lee's confidence never recovered, even after giving in to the piss takes and taking a trip to the barbers for an image makeover. The head shave led to the goal drought, which is probably why he now finds himself at Falkirk.
Fantasy Football is back this summer for Euro 2004. Seeing as though the focus of the show will be international football, the chances of Lee becoming a running joke yet again are about as likely as England lifting the trophy.
Jason Lee wearing the Three Lions? That really would be worthy of further toilet-seat staining mishaps.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 3 Corinthian Casuals 2, 10/02/04
I peddled at some pace through Camberwell, setting a new Personal Best of just under thirteen minutes to reach Champion Hill. Waste of effort – I buggered up the kick off time of course, arriving to see the warm up for the first time in eight seasons and then actually catching the start of the game. Disaster. This put me strangely out of synch with my usual match day routine – a bit like waking up and finding that Wogan has popped his clogs and there is some other knobber on Radio 2.
A disappointing midweek crowd left an eerie impression around Champion Hill; more noise was coming from the seven-a-side games just behind the main pitch. Same old same though: 'Fuck, bollox, pass the pissing ball!!!!'
The opening half hour or so was an end to end master class in playing the offside trap with both teams perfecting their late '80s Arsenal tactics. I like to think that in fifteen years time the Hamlet will have progressed in a similar fashion and we'll have a Thierry Henry figure strutting around in SE5.
Both teams looked goal shy in the opening exchanges and there seemed more chance of the pesky pigeon perched above me in the main stand hitting his target (my head) than either side delivering the goods. You're shit – ARGHHHHH etc.
The breakthrough came for Hamlet after thirty minutes when Craig Dundas scrambled in an effort after comical defending from Casuals. It was hit or miss for a few seconds if the goal actually stood as the ref dithered. Confirmation only came when Dundas made his way back down the pitch with a half arsed goal celebration that seemed just enough to convince the officials. Always worth a try.
Five minutes into the second half and Casuals equalised from what was some quite casual Hamlet defending; a lame free kick was flicked on from an unmarked player on the edge of the area.
Hamlet responded with a goal straight from a corner. Always sweet to see and it makes the keeper look like a right Joey.
What should have been a sleepy midweek 1-0 stroll for the Hamlet became a bit of panic when Casuals were allowed back into the game for a second time after yet another misunderstanding in the home defence. A perfectly timed lob on the edge of the area set up a tense finish with Hamlet needing a win to keep their top six promotion hopes on course.
Hamlet took no time in taking the lead again when Dundas scored his second of the evening during yet another move which was more Six Nations that Sexy Football. Must try harder, boom boom.
With ninety minutes almost up, I was getting a bit concerned that the usual Champion Hill free for all fisticuffs wasn't going to make an appearance. Cometh the hour (and a half), cometh the man; a fine way to cap a debut as new boy Ted Hart was shown a red card after a late challenge on the Casuals keeper which sparked off the customary 'Ooh get you!', 'no, get YOU!' pantomime routine.
Highlight: Five goals and a red card but there's no substitute for an out of date half time Snickers bar and a luke warm flask of tea.
Crap Match Report Compendium
hamletweb
| Wednesday 11 February, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 3 Corinthian Casuals 2, 10/02/04
I peddled at some pace through Camberwell, setting a new Personal Best of just under thirteen minutes to reach Champion Hill. Waste of effort – I buggered up the kick off time of course, arriving to see the warm up for the first time in eight seasons and then actually catching the start of the game. Disaster. This put me strangely out of synch with my usual match day routine – a bit like waking up and finding that Wogan has popped his clogs and there is some other knobber on Radio 2.
A disappointing midweek crowd left an eerie impression around Champion Hill; more noise was coming from the seven-a-side games just behind the main pitch. Same old same though: 'Fuck, bollox, pass the pissing ball!!!!'
I like to think we’ll have a Thierry Henry figure in SE22 |
Both teams looked goal shy in the opening exchanges and there seemed more chance of the pesky pigeon perched above me in the main stand hitting his target (my head) than either side delivering the goods. You're shit – ARGHHHHH etc.
The breakthrough came for Hamlet after thirty minutes when Craig Dundas scrambled in an effort after comical defending from Casuals. It was hit or miss for a few seconds if the goal actually stood as the ref dithered. Confirmation only came when Dundas made his way back down the pitch with a half arsed goal celebration that seemed just enough to convince the officials. Always worth a try.
Five minutes into the second half and Casuals equalised from what was some quite casual Hamlet defending; a lame free kick was flicked on from an unmarked player on the edge of the area.
Hamlet responded with a goal straight from a corner. Always sweet to see and it makes the keeper look like a right Joey.
What should have been a sleepy midweek 1-0 stroll for the Hamlet became a bit of panic when Casuals were allowed back into the game for a second time after yet another misunderstanding in the home defence. A perfectly timed lob on the edge of the area set up a tense finish with Hamlet needing a win to keep their top six promotion hopes on course.
Hamlet took no time in taking the lead again when Dundas scored his second of the evening during yet another move which was more Six Nations that Sexy Football. Must try harder, boom boom.
With ninety minutes almost up, I was getting a bit concerned that the usual Champion Hill free for all fisticuffs wasn't going to make an appearance. Cometh the hour (and a half), cometh the man; a fine way to cap a debut as new boy Ted Hart was shown a red card after a late challenge on the Casuals keeper which sparked off the customary 'Ooh get you!', 'no, get YOU!' pantomime routine.
Highlight: Five goals and a red card but there's no substitute for an out of date half time Snickers bar and a luke warm flask of tea.
Crap Match Report Compendium
hamletweb
| #permalink |
Juiced Up
If the above pics are leaving you blank, you need to know that you are looking at the first online snaps of the funky new 'Juice Bar' that has just been completed at Lansdowne Youth Centre, SW8. The construction may appear to be nothing more than a glorified set of park benches, but even Lambeth Council would have a job explaining to the Council Tax paying public that the total cost of a few planks of wood has weighed in at a rain forest clearing seventy eight thousand pounds.
Yep, that's right – 78 sodding grand for what is nothing more than some strips of ten by two slapped down on a concrete base. You would hope that the final cost includes labour as the tea slurping brickies who assembled the above masterpiece spent the best part of a year putting it all together (and waking me up every morning with their 6am drilling before the onset of a two hour tea breaks kicked in).
What exactly is a 'Juice Bar' anyway and precisely where IS the Juice Bar in the above pics? I may not be the freshest orange in the brown paper bag but I'm guessing that you send yourself sky high downing bottles of Sunny Delight before becoming so hyper that you go and vandalise the nearest public space. Which is probably a Juice Bar.
Pre-Juice Bar and the hooded masses of South Lambeth Road hung around outside the Youth Centre, marking out their territory like a piss happy cat urinating its own boundary. Some of the youths did that as well, and seeing as though the Juice Bar is lacking not only a bar but toilet facilities as well, we can expect to see a few more SW8 Piss Alleys on future additions of the A-Z.
I can't see how eighty grand is going to radically alter the nocturnal habits of the pre-pub age group; an outdoor Juice Bar is essentially the same as hanging around outside a Youth Club, except that you're no longer looking intimidating to the passing public; you’re drinking juice whilst looking intimidating to the passing public.
South Lambeth Road may have the reputation as being London's Little Portugal but unfortunately all that we seem to inherit are the Porto junkies and not the Mediterranean climate. A Stockwell Juice Bar is likely to do most of its trade (and I sincerely hope that it only of the fresh fruit variety) during the summer months. Which leaves the Juice Bar battling for business during the rest of the year with the other vandalised benches in the area that become home sweet home for the narcotic needle crew.
My beef aint with the yoof. Shit, I'm even walking and talking the Juice Bar jive now. I look back in horror to my own youth club days where the activities on offer consisted of drinking incredibly weak plastic cups of shandy, exploring the female anatomy at the back of the football court or having the shit kicked out of you by the meatheads in the year above.
Yoof is homeless and a Juice Bar isn't the solution to clear the streets of the hoodies. We shouldn’t even be WANTING to clear the streets of them – they ARE the local community. Providing an all purpose outdoor doss area for the kids to gather on mass with no other purpose apart from to pump themselves up to the max with Tesco Value Juice is not going to give them a purpose.
Juice Bars may work in Mayfair but the Met Bar mentality has yet to trickle down to humble Stockwell.
| Tuesday 10 February, 2004 |
If the above pics are leaving you blank, you need to know that you are looking at the first online snaps of the funky new 'Juice Bar' that has just been completed at Lansdowne Youth Centre, SW8. The construction may appear to be nothing more than a glorified set of park benches, but even Lambeth Council would have a job explaining to the Council Tax paying public that the total cost of a few planks of wood has weighed in at a rain forest clearing seventy eight thousand pounds.
Yep, that's right – 78 sodding grand for what is nothing more than some strips of ten by two slapped down on a concrete base. You would hope that the final cost includes labour as the tea slurping brickies who assembled the above masterpiece spent the best part of a year putting it all together (and waking me up every morning with their 6am drilling before the onset of a two hour tea breaks kicked in).
we can expect to see a few more SW8 Piss Alleys on the A-Z |
Pre-Juice Bar and the hooded masses of South Lambeth Road hung around outside the Youth Centre, marking out their territory like a piss happy cat urinating its own boundary. Some of the youths did that as well, and seeing as though the Juice Bar is lacking not only a bar but toilet facilities as well, we can expect to see a few more SW8 Piss Alleys on future additions of the A-Z.
I can't see how eighty grand is going to radically alter the nocturnal habits of the pre-pub age group; an outdoor Juice Bar is essentially the same as hanging around outside a Youth Club, except that you're no longer looking intimidating to the passing public; you’re drinking juice whilst looking intimidating to the passing public.
South Lambeth Road may have the reputation as being London's Little Portugal but unfortunately all that we seem to inherit are the Porto junkies and not the Mediterranean climate. A Stockwell Juice Bar is likely to do most of its trade (and I sincerely hope that it only of the fresh fruit variety) during the summer months. Which leaves the Juice Bar battling for business during the rest of the year with the other vandalised benches in the area that become home sweet home for the narcotic needle crew.
My beef aint with the yoof. Shit, I'm even walking and talking the Juice Bar jive now. I look back in horror to my own youth club days where the activities on offer consisted of drinking incredibly weak plastic cups of shandy, exploring the female anatomy at the back of the football court or having the shit kicked out of you by the meatheads in the year above.
Yoof is homeless and a Juice Bar isn't the solution to clear the streets of the hoodies. We shouldn’t even be WANTING to clear the streets of them – they ARE the local community. Providing an all purpose outdoor doss area for the kids to gather on mass with no other purpose apart from to pump themselves up to the max with Tesco Value Juice is not going to give them a purpose.
Juice Bars may work in Mayfair but the Met Bar mentality has yet to trickle down to humble Stockwell.
| #permalink |
Form Queue to Give Standard a Kicking
Unbelievable front page story in the Late issue of the Sub-Standard this evening; the hacks from the suburbs have bashed out some tosh claiming that 'Red Ken' (strange we never get 'Serial Bed Hopper Norris' or Michael 'Poll Tax' Howard) wants to make the boarding scramble for a London bus a crime.
In terms of front page protocol, even on what is a quiet news day, it's hardly up there with GOTCHA or FREDDIE STAR ATE MY HAMASTER.
But lo, what have we here? Dig deeper and the Sub-Standard agenda becomes clear; the pesky perpetrators of this very un-British way of behaviour are... yep, that’s right – nasty foreigners and asylum seekers. In other words the very people that either pile millions of pounds into the economy of this fine city or work for piss poor wages doing all the jobs that are so shit that any normal bus queuing citizen wouldn’t even get out of bed for. Like selling the Sub-Standard shit on the streets.
Anyone who has tried to board a bus in single file on Brixton High Street at school chucking out time knows that the Sub-Standard is of course talking bollocks. It just 'aint practical and besides, the bus scrum is character building for living in a city whose freedom of the press is monopolised by the Sub-Standard and it's SW9 scare stories.
Point to remember:
• With an election looming for 'Red Ken', the Sub-Standard will of course take any opportunity over the next few months to cobble together any old crap about the newt lover. I'm sure there is a Bus Queue story out there waiting to be told (although probably not as a front page splash), but to make a pathetic link to asylum seekers and Livingstone is bordering on Lard Arse Specy Gilligan storytelling.
• Using public transport is an alien concept for the Sub-Standard hacks who are more accustomed to black cabs to take them back to Hertfordshire every night.
• No one ever reads the Sub-Standard on a London bus. Funny that.
| Monday 9 January, 2004 |
Unbelievable front page story in the Late issue of the Sub-Standard this evening; the hacks from the suburbs have bashed out some tosh claiming that 'Red Ken' (strange we never get 'Serial Bed Hopper Norris' or Michael 'Poll Tax' Howard) wants to make the boarding scramble for a London bus a crime.
In terms of front page protocol, even on what is a quiet news day, it's hardly up there with GOTCHA or FREDDIE STAR ATE MY HAMASTER.
No one reads the Sub-Standard on a bus - funny that |
Anyone who has tried to board a bus in single file on Brixton High Street at school chucking out time knows that the Sub-Standard is of course talking bollocks. It just 'aint practical and besides, the bus scrum is character building for living in a city whose freedom of the press is monopolised by the Sub-Standard and it's SW9 scare stories.
Point to remember:
• With an election looming for 'Red Ken', the Sub-Standard will of course take any opportunity over the next few months to cobble together any old crap about the newt lover. I'm sure there is a Bus Queue story out there waiting to be told (although probably not as a front page splash), but to make a pathetic link to asylum seekers and Livingstone is bordering on Lard Arse Specy Gilligan storytelling.
• Using public transport is an alien concept for the Sub-Standard hacks who are more accustomed to black cabs to take them back to Hertfordshire every night.
• No one ever reads the Sub-Standard on a London bus. Funny that.
| #permalink |
Mondays Musings
Von Bondies - Pawn Shoppe Heart
It would be useful here to home in on the word 'PAWN' - that's pawn as in feeding your heroin habit by cashing in Grandma’s jewellery, rather than indulging with nine inches of bendy silicon PORN. Looks like they've taken the wrong route somewhere along the way. Whenever America sneezes, the UK seems to catch a cold. Musical trends are no different which explains why we are having to suffer this second wave of US Garage shit from bands who have little more to offer than a half-arsed live album from The Fall circa late '80s. The VB's have arrived on the NME' New Rock Revolution' (stop sniggering) scene purely through guilt by association; they have all shagged either Jack or Meg (or both), blood has been exchanged between bands (fisticuffs, not sexually, but then again you never know...) and like the Great White Brother 'n Sister Hopes, Motown (you know, DETROIT Motown), '60s Soul, '70s funk, hip hop and pill popping off yer tits dance culture has all but passed them by. Loop the riffs, do away with the whingeing vocals and bring in a beatbox. Music for tossers, as opposed to music to toss to.
Courtney Love - America's Sweetheart
Difficult to diss Mrs Cobain; she may be a junkie fuck up, she may have shagged 90% of the Punk Rock Family Tree in a bid for fame but she's still hanging on in there, unlike Nancy and Paula. Only just. It's important to also remember that whereas Nancy Spungen's musical career involved nothing more than howling backing vocals at Sid's last stand cabaret gigs (mic thankfully turned off), and Paula Yates's vinyl claim to fame is the sample of her 'Hey' shriek on the Bill Withers Lovely Day remix, Courtney consistently bangs out some brawling belters; Doll Parts, Celebrity Skin and now finally, thirteen new tracks including the ode to Mr Casablancas, But Julian, I'm a Little Older Than You. Bet that won’t stop her bedding him before Christmas, that's if she hasn’t already. America's Sweetheart comes delivered in a cover to die for which should come supplied with a plastic coating. Happy tugging.
Emma Bunton - Free Me
Pity poor little Baby Emma. Now all grown up, puppy fat unfolded to become stretch marks (and then some), running out of hip collaboration partners (after they've all been chewed up and spat put by Posh) and the only thing fighting off the mantle of 'Failed Spice' is that Mel B had the bollocks (quite literally) to attempt a solo career. In the fickle world of major label marketing, it's a sad testament that the only reason you’re not dropped is because the men in suits are hanging on to your 'blander than Dido' career in the vein hope that your stock will rise when the much mooted Spice reunion finally arrives. Somewhere in Spiceworld there is liposuction emporium for grown up girls with the odd ten million gained from past crimes floating about in their leopard skin purses. Emma Bunton is on permanent vacation there.
All albums 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 9 February, 2004 |
Von Bondies - Pawn Shoppe Heart
It would be useful here to home in on the word 'PAWN' - that's pawn as in feeding your heroin habit by cashing in Grandma’s jewellery, rather than indulging with nine inches of bendy silicon PORN. Looks like they've taken the wrong route somewhere along the way. Whenever America sneezes, the UK seems to catch a cold. Musical trends are no different which explains why we are having to suffer this second wave of US Garage shit from bands who have little more to offer than a half-arsed live album from The Fall circa late '80s. The VB's have arrived on the NME' New Rock Revolution' (stop sniggering) scene purely through guilt by association; they have all shagged either Jack or Meg (or both), blood has been exchanged between bands (fisticuffs, not sexually, but then again you never know...) and like the Great White Brother 'n Sister Hopes, Motown (you know, DETROIT Motown), '60s Soul, '70s funk, hip hop and pill popping off yer tits dance culture has all but passed them by. Loop the riffs, do away with the whingeing vocals and bring in a beatbox. Music for tossers, as opposed to music to toss to.
Courtney Love - America's Sweetheart
Difficult to diss Mrs Cobain; she may be a junkie fuck up, she may have shagged 90% of the Punk Rock Family Tree in a bid for fame but she's still hanging on in there, unlike Nancy and Paula. Only just. It's important to also remember that whereas Nancy Spungen's musical career involved nothing more than howling backing vocals at Sid's last stand cabaret gigs (mic thankfully turned off), and Paula Yates's vinyl claim to fame is the sample of her 'Hey' shriek on the Bill Withers Lovely Day remix, Courtney consistently bangs out some brawling belters; Doll Parts, Celebrity Skin and now finally, thirteen new tracks including the ode to Mr Casablancas, But Julian, I'm a Little Older Than You. Bet that won’t stop her bedding him before Christmas, that's if she hasn’t already. America's Sweetheart comes delivered in a cover to die for which should come supplied with a plastic coating. Happy tugging.
Emma Bunton - Free Me
Pity poor little Baby Emma. Now all grown up, puppy fat unfolded to become stretch marks (and then some), running out of hip collaboration partners (after they've all been chewed up and spat put by Posh) and the only thing fighting off the mantle of 'Failed Spice' is that Mel B had the bollocks (quite literally) to attempt a solo career. In the fickle world of major label marketing, it's a sad testament that the only reason you’re not dropped is because the men in suits are hanging on to your 'blander than Dido' career in the vein hope that your stock will rise when the much mooted Spice reunion finally arrives. Somewhere in Spiceworld there is liposuction emporium for grown up girls with the odd ten million gained from past crimes floating about in their leopard skin purses. Emma Bunton is on permanent vacation there.
All albums 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 |
Crap Match Report
Streatham Redskins 2 Bracknell Hornets 0, 08/02/04
A sixty minute South London Sunday night bus journey (total distance travelled: two miles) meant that there was no seats left on the balcony at the High Road when I finally arrived. I ended up on a bench in front of the plexi, in full earshot of some giggling Avril wannabes who squeeled like a mating pig every time Redskins' back up netminder James Tanner was in view. The three little piggies came close to orgasm when the great padded one did the splits during the warm-up.
'A very warm welcome to the High Road' greeted us from the PA. That’s 'warm' as in cheers for making the effort to venture out on a bitterly cold Sunday night sense, as the old barn hasn't lost any of its freeze yer bollox off charm.
The Bracknell Hornets took to the ice wearing the old Bracknell Bees kit, last seen at a rink near you in the old Superleague. That's the equivalent of my local Supporters Team turning out on a Sunday morning wearing Man Utd's strip from the previous season. Any attempt to punch above their weight in terms of kit ranking clearly backfired on the Hornets when you consider that season on season, the Bees were the shittest of shit ever seen in the top league of British hockey.
A frantic few minutes opened the first period where it became obvious that 'Bracknell' Hornets are not a team of village idiots all born and bred in the loveable Berkshire shithole, but more likely a collection of players probably parachuted in. From somewhere like the NHL. The Redskins took a number of hard hits in the opening exchanges with some blatant cross checks, boarding and spearing from the Hornets, all missed by the referee of course.
Battered and bruised, the home team sustained the opening exchanges and then managed to take a surprise lead with a power play effort scored by 'muffle muffle, hiss hiss' – apologies but the PA just wasn't hitting all the right notes down by the plexi.
The Hornets responded with yet more cheap shots, including an almost copy cat McSorely Vs Brashear attack from behind which led to a five plus game penalty for both sets of players following the earlier cross check which provoked the attack.
Redskins did well to keep out the Hornets in the second period with the away team looking strong on a number of power play attacks in a period that remained goaless.
One minute into the third period and Redskins stretched their lead with a wonderful solo goal. A combination of orgasming pubescent teenage girls and a 70's PA system means that in true Crap Match Report style, the best moment of the game can't be credited.
Home netminder Adam Noctor then kept the Redskins in the game with a truly brilliant reflex double save with five minutes left on the clock which come the final buzzer, was rightfully rewarded with the Man of the Match award.
Highlight: A great night for the launch of 'Banging the Plexi,' a new Redskins fanzine. The pesky kids sitting too close to comfort for me took it all too literally and gave the synthetic glass the biggest bang since Gareth Gates told Jordan to 'F F F F F F FUCK ME,' and the damn thing nearly fell through onto the ice during the end of game celebrations.
Lowlight: I'm all for vocal intimidation down at a rink but the three periods of constant 'C'mon 'Skins' that the old geezer behind me was giving it in his finest South London groan started to grate a little towards the end. Especially when his false teeth added to the effect to make it sound more like 'Come FORESKINS.' His wife left with an big expectant smile on her face.
No kissing on the back seat of the bus home.
Crap Match Report Compendium
streatham redskins official site
| Sunday 8 February, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 2 Bracknell Hornets 0, 08/02/04
A sixty minute South London Sunday night bus journey (total distance travelled: two miles) meant that there was no seats left on the balcony at the High Road when I finally arrived. I ended up on a bench in front of the plexi, in full earshot of some giggling Avril wannabes who squeeled like a mating pig every time Redskins' back up netminder James Tanner was in view. The three little piggies came close to orgasm when the great padded one did the splits during the warm-up.
Streatham hasn't lost any of its freeze yer bollox off charm |
The Bracknell Hornets took to the ice wearing the old Bracknell Bees kit, last seen at a rink near you in the old Superleague. That's the equivalent of my local Supporters Team turning out on a Sunday morning wearing Man Utd's strip from the previous season. Any attempt to punch above their weight in terms of kit ranking clearly backfired on the Hornets when you consider that season on season, the Bees were the shittest of shit ever seen in the top league of British hockey.
A frantic few minutes opened the first period where it became obvious that 'Bracknell' Hornets are not a team of village idiots all born and bred in the loveable Berkshire shithole, but more likely a collection of players probably parachuted in. From somewhere like the NHL. The Redskins took a number of hard hits in the opening exchanges with some blatant cross checks, boarding and spearing from the Hornets, all missed by the referee of course.
Battered and bruised, the home team sustained the opening exchanges and then managed to take a surprise lead with a power play effort scored by 'muffle muffle, hiss hiss' – apologies but the PA just wasn't hitting all the right notes down by the plexi.
The Hornets responded with yet more cheap shots, including an almost copy cat McSorely Vs Brashear attack from behind which led to a five plus game penalty for both sets of players following the earlier cross check which provoked the attack.
Redskins did well to keep out the Hornets in the second period with the away team looking strong on a number of power play attacks in a period that remained goaless.
One minute into the third period and Redskins stretched their lead with a wonderful solo goal. A combination of orgasming pubescent teenage girls and a 70's PA system means that in true Crap Match Report style, the best moment of the game can't be credited.
Home netminder Adam Noctor then kept the Redskins in the game with a truly brilliant reflex double save with five minutes left on the clock which come the final buzzer, was rightfully rewarded with the Man of the Match award.
Highlight: A great night for the launch of 'Banging the Plexi,' a new Redskins fanzine. The pesky kids sitting too close to comfort for me took it all too literally and gave the synthetic glass the biggest bang since Gareth Gates told Jordan to 'F F F F F F FUCK ME,' and the damn thing nearly fell through onto the ice during the end of game celebrations.
Lowlight: I'm all for vocal intimidation down at a rink but the three periods of constant 'C'mon 'Skins' that the old geezer behind me was giving it in his finest South London groan started to grate a little towards the end. Especially when his false teeth added to the effect to make it sound more like 'Come FORESKINS.' His wife left with an big expectant smile on her face.
No kissing on the back seat of the bus home.
Crap Match Report Compendium
streatham redskins official site
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Racers 1 Cardiff Devils 2, 06/02/04
Missed the opening ten minutes due to the absurd London Transport dictum that requires the driver of the No. 48 bus bus to take a break outside the Bakers Arms, arse about with his on board computer ('ticket machine') for five minutes and then discuss the plot form the previous weeks soaps with his handover double decker driving ticket puncher.
The death of the ISL last season and the brave new world of the Elite League in all its Emperor's New Clothes glory was supposed to signal the end of back to back fixtures with such glamour boys as Bracknell; so here we have the Cardiff team back in the Bike Shed for a second consecutive week, no doubt feeling a little bruised after becoming the first team to lose to the whipping boys last week.
From what I saw of the first period, Ex-London Knight Mad Mike Ware (don't even ask about his brother) was certainly fired up for the Devils. Thankfully the Lee Valley DJ booth offers more selection than a Buy One Get One Free sale in a downtown Amsterdam brothel and a quick blast of Men at Work followed by the bizarre choice of Matthew Wilder's Break My Stride (guess who has been downloading Now That’s What I Call Music 2 all week?) soon calmed the big man down.
I've no idea what the plural term is for a succession of glove saves (a smothering? a fistful? a fingering?), but Evan Lindsay plucked the puck out with ease in front of the Racers net. The breakthrough came for the Devils who finally put the biscuit in the barrel (I'm warming up for an NHL trip) after five shut out periods at the Bike Shed with a short-handed effort from veteran Doug McEwan with 26:26 on the clock.
The lead was extended at 35:38 with a blue liner power play effort from Jeff Borgoyne that found its way through the five hole of Lindsay. That's not something that you hear John Motson say now is it?
Racers responded soon after with a goal straight out of the 'if at first you don’t succeed' coaching manual; time stood still as first a shot in front of the net was missed and the puck lay stranded in no-mans land. Warren 'Taiters' (predictable) Tait was first to it and fired home at 37:01.
The difference between pre and epoch changing post-win Racers is that the team will now always chase the game. The home team battled hard in the third to try and draw level and were unlucky to have a free flowing goal washed out for offside by referee Boniface, who once again demonstrated how much he enjoys the attention of flapping his arms about on ice wearing a silly pair of armbands.
I spent the remainder of the match ducking and diving as it seemed that I had been selected as target practise for the players as they fired the puck over the plexi, time and time again. OK, so it was the end of a long working week (where quite frankly I have been ducking and diving) and I wasn't perhaps looking my best. Still no excuse to catch a puck in yer face fired in by some Scandinavian sixteen stoner.
Parity has once again be-restored down at the Bike Shed with the Racers reverting back to the mantle of ''plucky losers'.' Bit of an insult if you ask me; plucky losers have a place in the English psyche alongside failures such as the C5, grinning Eurovision pop pap idiots and bloody John Major. Racers have far more to offer than this: The best collection of burned CDs in any UK rink, a mad dog that is taken for walkies around a freezing ice rink every Friday night and the only pink kit in British ice hockey. And did I mention that we have actually WON a game?
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| Saturday 7 January, 2004 |
London Racers 1 Cardiff Devils 2, 06/02/04
Missed the opening ten minutes due to the absurd London Transport dictum that requires the driver of the No. 48 bus bus to take a break outside the Bakers Arms, arse about with his on board computer ('ticket machine') for five minutes and then discuss the plot form the previous weeks soaps with his handover double decker driving ticket puncher.
The death of the ISL last season and the brave new world of the Elite League in all its Emperor's New Clothes glory was supposed to signal the end of back to back fixtures with such glamour boys as Bracknell; so here we have the Cardiff team back in the Bike Shed for a second consecutive week, no doubt feeling a little bruised after becoming the first team to lose to the whipping boys last week.
Did I mention that we have actually WON a game? |
I've no idea what the plural term is for a succession of glove saves (a smothering? a fistful? a fingering?), but Evan Lindsay plucked the puck out with ease in front of the Racers net. The breakthrough came for the Devils who finally put the biscuit in the barrel (I'm warming up for an NHL trip) after five shut out periods at the Bike Shed with a short-handed effort from veteran Doug McEwan with 26:26 on the clock.
The lead was extended at 35:38 with a blue liner power play effort from Jeff Borgoyne that found its way through the five hole of Lindsay. That's not something that you hear John Motson say now is it?
Racers responded soon after with a goal straight out of the 'if at first you don’t succeed' coaching manual; time stood still as first a shot in front of the net was missed and the puck lay stranded in no-mans land. Warren 'Taiters' (predictable) Tait was first to it and fired home at 37:01.
The difference between pre and epoch changing post-win Racers is that the team will now always chase the game. The home team battled hard in the third to try and draw level and were unlucky to have a free flowing goal washed out for offside by referee Boniface, who once again demonstrated how much he enjoys the attention of flapping his arms about on ice wearing a silly pair of armbands.
I spent the remainder of the match ducking and diving as it seemed that I had been selected as target practise for the players as they fired the puck over the plexi, time and time again. OK, so it was the end of a long working week (where quite frankly I have been ducking and diving) and I wasn't perhaps looking my best. Still no excuse to catch a puck in yer face fired in by some Scandinavian sixteen stoner.
Parity has once again be-restored down at the Bike Shed with the Racers reverting back to the mantle of ''plucky losers'.' Bit of an insult if you ask me; plucky losers have a place in the English psyche alongside failures such as the C5, grinning Eurovision pop pap idiots and bloody John Major. Racers have far more to offer than this: The best collection of burned CDs in any UK rink, a mad dog that is taken for walkies around a freezing ice rink every Friday night and the only pink kit in British ice hockey. And did I mention that we have actually WON a game?
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
| #permalink |
Number Crunching Wednesday
A bit of background: Being the type that believes that 50p is far too much to pay for the midweek Lottery (I pay half for the Saturday draw, SHE pays half; if 'we' win and SHE hasn’t paid her share, then bye bye darling, a non-stop NHL holiday here we come...), you can assume that I have more financial prudence than the Iron Chancellor having just realised that Mr Tony has stitched him up once again by switching over the weekly Downing Street milk bills for No 10 and No11.
Live within your means is a doctrine to which I live my life.
Mild palpitations this morning then when nice Mr Postie dropped threw the letterbox the bill from Thieving Knobbers and Partners Solicitors for the most basic, bog-standard conveyancey work for onionbagblog Towers.
Buried away amongst the usual bank draining charges such as Indemnity (wtf?), Land Registry search, Bankruptcy search (not yet, but if I stick with Thieving Knobbers and Partners then you never know) and Telegraphic Transfer (which still amazes me in these days of electronic banking) were.:
Postage and Telephone Calls – THIRTY THIEVING BASTARD QUID plus
Petty Incidentals – a not so petty tidy sum of THIRTY smackers.
What kind of telephone service is Thieving Knobbers and Partners using? An 0898 Whip Me, Spank Me, Tease Me Your Honour hotline? I estimate that I spoke with Dizzy Newly Qualified Solicitor three times over the long and drawn out process of ME trying to advise HER how to go about her overpaid job.
Each call was an infringement on MY time and not HERS. And believe me baby, if you were ever fortunate enough to be in a position to pay for MY services, thirty quid wouldn't even get you past the 'shall we make a move upstairs, leave the cash on the counter' stage.
You just have to laugh at Petty Incidentals. These are presumably so Petty that Thieving Knobbers and Partners, even with their low monetary morals, realise that to actually itemise office tea fund, new nail varnish for Dizzy Newly Qualified Solicitor and a fresh supply of red ribbons to ponce up all their official correspondence would be stretching the joke just a little too far.
They've taken my cash so why not just take the piss as well?
onionbagblog dilemma: Do I pay for such pitiful extras? If not, presumably legal action will be taken against me by Thieving Knobbers and Partners. See where this is leading? I would no doubt need legal representation and the legal money go round starts off all over again.
Maybe I should just buy a midweek Lottery ticket after all.
Elsewhere in this bumper Number Crunching Wednesday:
Big up the 6,000 plus Everton fans who travelled down to Loftus Road to watch their team in the FA Cup replay against Fulham tonight. Not forgetting the 'romance of the Cup' etc, it would still take a lot more than a midweek down at Fulham to motivate me to make the 500 plus mile round trip. I even stall at the ten minute bike ride for a midweek Hamlet home match. There is a huge gulf however between the FA Cup and the Surrey Senior Cup, and we're not talking TV rights here.
Continuing the Cup Crunching:
Full time: Spuz 3, ten men Man City 4. The Blue Mooners were 3-0 down at half time. With back page career obituaries already being penned for King Kev, City have pulled off one of the great Cup comebacks. Bet they still lose at home to Birmingham on Saturday.
I have two experiences of four goal comebacks; first, Forest away at Coventry in the Cup sometime in the early '90s. Three nil down at half time, Number 9 Nigel bags a second half hatrick, only for the most mundane side in the midlands to grab a last minute winner. Never did like Jimmy Hill.
The second game is a contender for my All Time Greatest Game EVER, but just fails to make it to the top spot as it was in the Simod Cup so no one gives a toss. The score in the '89 Wembley final ended up Forest 4, Everton 3, which included the greatest ever goal to grace the Twin Towers, after Gary Parker ran the length of the pitch before firing home past mucky pup Neville. Seeing as though there wasn't a global broadcast scramble for the media rights for the Simod, you'll just have to take my word for it.
Final FUCKING Number Crunching Wednesday:
'He just said FUCKING CUNT' on live TV SHE said. I have personally made a deliberate decision to avoid all contact with I'm a Spazzo Get Me Out of Here. I like to think that I have cleverly out-witted the cunning plan to plant Johnny Boy in with the rest of the Knobbers as a ploy to get starry-eyed '76 romantics such as myself interested in a TV format that holds about as much appeal to me as a poke up the arse from a Viking's splintered oar.
I admit however to bit of channel hopping in-between the ads elsewhere, just to see if the filth and fury is still in place. And right on cue, with the highest ratings for the series so far, Johnny Boy delivered the FUCKING goods.
We shouldn't really be surprised; If 'fucking rotter' was such a shock back in '76, have we really not advanced the delicacies of the English language far enough for FUCKING CUNT not to be acceptable twenty eight years later?
Given the rate of social acceleration since '76 (mainly due to punk), we should be at the stage now where Blue Peter is introduced each night with: 'Hi there, you FUCKING CUNTS; have we got a fist full of fanny fun for you this afternoon...’
The Number Crunching at work here is that 98 FUCKING CUNTS felt the need to complain to ITV. onionbagblog would gladly welcome that level of fucking feedback. You know where to click, you cunts.
| Wednesday 4 February, 2004 |
A bit of background: Being the type that believes that 50p is far too much to pay for the midweek Lottery (I pay half for the Saturday draw, SHE pays half; if 'we' win and SHE hasn’t paid her share, then bye bye darling, a non-stop NHL holiday here we come...), you can assume that I have more financial prudence than the Iron Chancellor having just realised that Mr Tony has stitched him up once again by switching over the weekly Downing Street milk bills for No 10 and No11.
Live within your means is a doctrine to which I live my life.
Hi there, you FUCKING CUNTS; have we got a fist full of fanny fun for you |
Buried away amongst the usual bank draining charges such as Indemnity (wtf?), Land Registry search, Bankruptcy search (not yet, but if I stick with Thieving Knobbers and Partners then you never know) and Telegraphic Transfer (which still amazes me in these days of electronic banking) were.:
Postage and Telephone Calls – THIRTY THIEVING BASTARD QUID plus
Petty Incidentals – a not so petty tidy sum of THIRTY smackers.
What kind of telephone service is Thieving Knobbers and Partners using? An 0898 Whip Me, Spank Me, Tease Me Your Honour hotline? I estimate that I spoke with Dizzy Newly Qualified Solicitor three times over the long and drawn out process of ME trying to advise HER how to go about her overpaid job.
Each call was an infringement on MY time and not HERS. And believe me baby, if you were ever fortunate enough to be in a position to pay for MY services, thirty quid wouldn't even get you past the 'shall we make a move upstairs, leave the cash on the counter' stage.
You just have to laugh at Petty Incidentals. These are presumably so Petty that Thieving Knobbers and Partners, even with their low monetary morals, realise that to actually itemise office tea fund, new nail varnish for Dizzy Newly Qualified Solicitor and a fresh supply of red ribbons to ponce up all their official correspondence would be stretching the joke just a little too far.
They've taken my cash so why not just take the piss as well?
onionbagblog dilemma: Do I pay for such pitiful extras? If not, presumably legal action will be taken against me by Thieving Knobbers and Partners. See where this is leading? I would no doubt need legal representation and the legal money go round starts off all over again.
Maybe I should just buy a midweek Lottery ticket after all.
Elsewhere in this bumper Number Crunching Wednesday:
Big up the 6,000 plus Everton fans who travelled down to Loftus Road to watch their team in the FA Cup replay against Fulham tonight. Not forgetting the 'romance of the Cup' etc, it would still take a lot more than a midweek down at Fulham to motivate me to make the 500 plus mile round trip. I even stall at the ten minute bike ride for a midweek Hamlet home match. There is a huge gulf however between the FA Cup and the Surrey Senior Cup, and we're not talking TV rights here.
Continuing the Cup Crunching:
Full time: Spuz 3, ten men Man City 4. The Blue Mooners were 3-0 down at half time. With back page career obituaries already being penned for King Kev, City have pulled off one of the great Cup comebacks. Bet they still lose at home to Birmingham on Saturday.
I have two experiences of four goal comebacks; first, Forest away at Coventry in the Cup sometime in the early '90s. Three nil down at half time, Number 9 Nigel bags a second half hatrick, only for the most mundane side in the midlands to grab a last minute winner. Never did like Jimmy Hill.
The second game is a contender for my All Time Greatest Game EVER, but just fails to make it to the top spot as it was in the Simod Cup so no one gives a toss. The score in the '89 Wembley final ended up Forest 4, Everton 3, which included the greatest ever goal to grace the Twin Towers, after Gary Parker ran the length of the pitch before firing home past mucky pup Neville. Seeing as though there wasn't a global broadcast scramble for the media rights for the Simod, you'll just have to take my word for it.
Final FUCKING Number Crunching Wednesday:
'He just said FUCKING CUNT' on live TV SHE said. I have personally made a deliberate decision to avoid all contact with I'm a Spazzo Get Me Out of Here. I like to think that I have cleverly out-witted the cunning plan to plant Johnny Boy in with the rest of the Knobbers as a ploy to get starry-eyed '76 romantics such as myself interested in a TV format that holds about as much appeal to me as a poke up the arse from a Viking's splintered oar.
I admit however to bit of channel hopping in-between the ads elsewhere, just to see if the filth and fury is still in place. And right on cue, with the highest ratings for the series so far, Johnny Boy delivered the FUCKING goods.
We shouldn't really be surprised; If 'fucking rotter' was such a shock back in '76, have we really not advanced the delicacies of the English language far enough for FUCKING CUNT not to be acceptable twenty eight years later?
Given the rate of social acceleration since '76 (mainly due to punk), we should be at the stage now where Blue Peter is introduced each night with: 'Hi there, you FUCKING CUNTS; have we got a fist full of fanny fun for you this afternoon...’
The Number Crunching at work here is that 98 FUCKING CUNTS felt the need to complain to ITV. onionbagblog would gladly welcome that level of fucking feedback. You know where to click, you cunts.
| #permalink |
White Elephant
Any film that makes fiction out of a real life disaster is easy prey for critics who feel uncomfortable with glamorising a tragedy. My problem with Elephant, Gus Van Sant's loosely based interpretation of the Columbine shootings, is that it is painfully dull to sit through; not a lot happens, apart from the disaster at the end of course.
Running with the strap line of: 'An ordinary High School Day. Except it's not...' should be an early indicator of how shoddy and uninspiring the film actually is. 'A mockumentary interpreting the Columbine High School Massacre. Except its crap' would have done the job.
Elephant walked away with the celebrated Palme d'Or award at Cannes last year. Leaving aside the prickly issue of examining a sensitive issue with such a short time period having elapsed, Elephant is exactly the kind of film that liberal film critics love to adopt as a vehicle for their own attempts to connect with the gritty reality of everyday life.
'Bloody well get on with it' is essentially what is wrong with Elephant. Given the arbitrary title of the film, chances are that you already know what to expect come the end, otherwise why pay six quid for a film with a meaningless title? This all means that you spend the next eighty minutes becoming comatosed with a succession of slow paced video diaries from some of the blandest teenage characters that Middle America has to offer. If this was purely fiction then you would be cheering on the killers to put such uninspiring characters out of their misery.
The sense that something wicked this way comes in Elephant is sign-posted with all the subtly of, well, an Elephant. Early on we see the representation of the Klebold and Harris characters playing a Nazi themed computer game. Midway through and they're ordering firearms over the internet. By the time they're shown marching up to the school gates in full army surplus gear, it really doesn’t take a genius to work out that they're not simply taking part in a Wear Your Own Clothes Day.
The narrative and pace of Van Sant's direction doesn't exactly help to clarify the events; Elephant follows a copycat Pulp Fiction 'time travel' plot with events in the future being shown before the circumstances that led to them are played out. It may have worked a treat for Pumpkin and Honey Bunny in Tarantino's masterpiece, but in Elephant the constant one step up and two steps back flow just leaves you confused and irritated with the sloppy editing.
Come the conclusion and there's no great surprise or cliff hanger as to what takes place in the final eight minutes; bang bang goes the pistol, pop pop goes the gun. The dialogue is almost surreal and given that there are no survivors from those directly involved in the real life tragic end game, we can assume that the monotone 'hey dude, what are you doing?' lines were scripted.
Not wanting to turn a tragedy into a blockbuster, but seeing as though some creative licence has been used throughout the rest of the film, it would have been nice to at least address the motivations of those responsible and add a sense of drama to what is essentially a piece of 'entertainment.'
For a more realistic and reasoned approach, Michael Moore's Bowling for Columbine offers a documentation of the events leading up to the tragedy, as well as digging deeper and attempting to explain the context of what possessed two High School students to gun down fifteen of their fellow pupils.
The most poignant part of Moore's film essay is his interview with the devil incarnate, Marilyn Manson. The God of Fuck was thrust forward in the aftermath of Columbine as the scapegoat for poisoning the minds of two teenage kids. When quizzed by Moore what he would have done to prevent the tragedy, Manson simply responds with:
'Talk to them.'
Elephant offers no such dialogue. It doesn't explain why the killings happened. It doesn't reason how future events may be prevented. It doesn't even make for an entertaining work of fiction. Elephant just plods along slowly. One elephant. Two elephant. Three elephant... Tiresome.
| Tuesday 3 February, 2004 |
Any film that makes fiction out of a real life disaster is easy prey for critics who feel uncomfortable with glamorising a tragedy. My problem with Elephant, Gus Van Sant's loosely based interpretation of the Columbine shootings, is that it is painfully dull to sit through; not a lot happens, apart from the disaster at the end of course.
Running with the strap line of: 'An ordinary High School Day. Except it's not...' should be an early indicator of how shoddy and uninspiring the film actually is. 'A mockumentary interpreting the Columbine High School Massacre. Except its crap' would have done the job.
If this was fiction you would be cheering on the killers |
'Bloody well get on with it' is essentially what is wrong with Elephant. Given the arbitrary title of the film, chances are that you already know what to expect come the end, otherwise why pay six quid for a film with a meaningless title? This all means that you spend the next eighty minutes becoming comatosed with a succession of slow paced video diaries from some of the blandest teenage characters that Middle America has to offer. If this was purely fiction then you would be cheering on the killers to put such uninspiring characters out of their misery.
The sense that something wicked this way comes in Elephant is sign-posted with all the subtly of, well, an Elephant. Early on we see the representation of the Klebold and Harris characters playing a Nazi themed computer game. Midway through and they're ordering firearms over the internet. By the time they're shown marching up to the school gates in full army surplus gear, it really doesn’t take a genius to work out that they're not simply taking part in a Wear Your Own Clothes Day.
The narrative and pace of Van Sant's direction doesn't exactly help to clarify the events; Elephant follows a copycat Pulp Fiction 'time travel' plot with events in the future being shown before the circumstances that led to them are played out. It may have worked a treat for Pumpkin and Honey Bunny in Tarantino's masterpiece, but in Elephant the constant one step up and two steps back flow just leaves you confused and irritated with the sloppy editing.
Come the conclusion and there's no great surprise or cliff hanger as to what takes place in the final eight minutes; bang bang goes the pistol, pop pop goes the gun. The dialogue is almost surreal and given that there are no survivors from those directly involved in the real life tragic end game, we can assume that the monotone 'hey dude, what are you doing?' lines were scripted.
Not wanting to turn a tragedy into a blockbuster, but seeing as though some creative licence has been used throughout the rest of the film, it would have been nice to at least address the motivations of those responsible and add a sense of drama to what is essentially a piece of 'entertainment.'
For a more realistic and reasoned approach, Michael Moore's Bowling for Columbine offers a documentation of the events leading up to the tragedy, as well as digging deeper and attempting to explain the context of what possessed two High School students to gun down fifteen of their fellow pupils.
The most poignant part of Moore's film essay is his interview with the devil incarnate, Marilyn Manson. The God of Fuck was thrust forward in the aftermath of Columbine as the scapegoat for poisoning the minds of two teenage kids. When quizzed by Moore what he would have done to prevent the tragedy, Manson simply responds with:
'Talk to them.'
Elephant offers no such dialogue. It doesn't explain why the killings happened. It doesn't reason how future events may be prevented. It doesn't even make for an entertaining work of fiction. Elephant just plods along slowly. One elephant. Two elephant. Three elephant... Tiresome.
| #permalink |
Social Engineering
Making a journey on public transport across London is never easy at the best of times. Add in factors such as a weekend timetable, pissing rain and every commuter's nightmare, ENGINEERING WORKS, and your vision of an inter-connected metropolis leaves you strangely looking towards Croydon and envying the tram system that keeps the Surrey shithole moving. Would never want to live there though – trams are good for getting in, and then getting out, ASAP.
What should have been a simple journey from Mottingham back to Sunny Stockwell this afternoon experienced all three of the above obstacles. SE10 to SW8 in just over two hours. The day trip out becomes the journey itself. No need to actually make any plans once you get from A to B. It's like a poor man's cruise, except the ocean liner is replaced with a battered boneshaker double decker that last saw public service with Blakey and co on board.
The romantic route of Southampton to New York is replaced with a round the houses non-guided tour of South East London’s long lost commuter towns – Kidbrooke, New Eltham (shit, how bad must OLD Eltham be?) and Grove Park. Each looking depressingly similar; a sprinkling of kebab shops, taxi firms and video rentals. What sort of lifestyle does a SE suburban Londoner live? Order a taxi to deliver a Doner, which by the time it arrives has mutated into soggy piece of shit stuffed into a stale pita. Never mind, there's always a night in watching yet more video rental crap. On the Busses anyone?
Engineering works today meant that the thoughtful folk at South Eastern Trains had every angle covered. We wouldn't want to be open to accusations that we aren't serving the great swarming suburban mass of Shooter's Hill; let's make sure that the replacement rail service from Lewisham to Mottingham takes in every small gathering with a population of more than thirty kebab eating, taxi driving video viewers. As the Crow Flies is interpreted to mean a blind crow that has about as much sense of direction as a broken boomerang.
Departure times are scribbled on a piece of paper at the bus stop which has now faded as the South London rain sweeps over anyone stupid enough to attempt a weekend journey. The frequency and accuracy of the timetable makes the Northern Line indicator boards seems like a model example of precision time keeping.
And then there are your fellow cruise passengers; a family of eight, all with their heads buried inside an industrial sized pack of Monster Munch. Sitting at the front is guaranteed to be a couple of cagouled German tourists who you have to presume are lost.
Half an hour at Mottingham and still no bus. This is the signal of course for the rain to become a dirty downpour and standing at the shelter-less bus stop you then start to realise that Herr and Frau Cagoule are not so dumb after all.
I accept that engineering works need to be carried out to our creaking transport system but why be a killjoy and allow them to eat into out precious leisure time? Make the captains of industry pay by melting down the network during the weekday commute to carry out engineering works. I would gladly report in late for work with a legitimate travel excuse rather than give up yet more of my ever decreasing free time.
An accessible transport network is one of the fundamental infrastructures that every thriving city needs. Isolation in your own little corner of the city leads to ignorance. Ignorance is just one step away from bigotry. Bigotry in Little England is the very same reason that you decided to up sticks from your Daily Mail loving home town in the first place.
The reason for my Mottingham misfortune? A 5-2 drubbing of the Supporters Team. And I missed an absolute sitter. I blame travel sickness.
| Monday 2 February, 2004 |
Making a journey on public transport across London is never easy at the best of times. Add in factors such as a weekend timetable, pissing rain and every commuter's nightmare, ENGINEERING WORKS, and your vision of an inter-connected metropolis leaves you strangely looking towards Croydon and envying the tram system that keeps the Surrey shithole moving. Would never want to live there though – trams are good for getting in, and then getting out, ASAP.
SE10 to SW8 in just over two hours |
The romantic route of Southampton to New York is replaced with a round the houses non-guided tour of South East London’s long lost commuter towns – Kidbrooke, New Eltham (shit, how bad must OLD Eltham be?) and Grove Park. Each looking depressingly similar; a sprinkling of kebab shops, taxi firms and video rentals. What sort of lifestyle does a SE suburban Londoner live? Order a taxi to deliver a Doner, which by the time it arrives has mutated into soggy piece of shit stuffed into a stale pita. Never mind, there's always a night in watching yet more video rental crap. On the Busses anyone?
Engineering works today meant that the thoughtful folk at South Eastern Trains had every angle covered. We wouldn't want to be open to accusations that we aren't serving the great swarming suburban mass of Shooter's Hill; let's make sure that the replacement rail service from Lewisham to Mottingham takes in every small gathering with a population of more than thirty kebab eating, taxi driving video viewers. As the Crow Flies is interpreted to mean a blind crow that has about as much sense of direction as a broken boomerang.
Departure times are scribbled on a piece of paper at the bus stop which has now faded as the South London rain sweeps over anyone stupid enough to attempt a weekend journey. The frequency and accuracy of the timetable makes the Northern Line indicator boards seems like a model example of precision time keeping.
And then there are your fellow cruise passengers; a family of eight, all with their heads buried inside an industrial sized pack of Monster Munch. Sitting at the front is guaranteed to be a couple of cagouled German tourists who you have to presume are lost.
Half an hour at Mottingham and still no bus. This is the signal of course for the rain to become a dirty downpour and standing at the shelter-less bus stop you then start to realise that Herr and Frau Cagoule are not so dumb after all.
I accept that engineering works need to be carried out to our creaking transport system but why be a killjoy and allow them to eat into out precious leisure time? Make the captains of industry pay by melting down the network during the weekday commute to carry out engineering works. I would gladly report in late for work with a legitimate travel excuse rather than give up yet more of my ever decreasing free time.
An accessible transport network is one of the fundamental infrastructures that every thriving city needs. Isolation in your own little corner of the city leads to ignorance. Ignorance is just one step away from bigotry. Bigotry in Little England is the very same reason that you decided to up sticks from your Daily Mail loving home town in the first place.
The reason for my Mottingham misfortune? A 5-2 drubbing of the Supporters Team. And I missed an absolute sitter. I blame travel sickness.
| #permalink |
