onionbagblog
Leafy Streatham Suburbs
I've just been informed that a third challenge match has been arranged for the Streatham Redskins before the end of the season – Hurrahhhhh!
And it’s a bit of a biggie...
On Sunday 17 April Redskins will proudly host the Toronto Maple Leafs. Yes, that's THE Toronto Maple Leafs!!!!
The NHL team are on a short training camp tour around Europe ahead of the play-offs and have requested opposition to be lined up that will provide a variety of challenges. Apparently the coaching staff had heard good things about the fitness levels of the Redskins players and are using the game to try out some new lines.
There is also an historical link as the Maple Leafs played back in the old barn in September 1934 and were the first foreign team that the Redskins ever faced.
Because demand for this game is likely to be high, prices have been set at £50 seats, £35 standing. Might sound steep but to see a genuine NHL side up close for that amount still represents great value for money. Tickets will go on sale from the rink as of today, April 1. Cash only - the Maple Leafs tour is being funded by game night receipts.
Supporters have been asked not to carry out the traditional banging on the plexi on game night as it is not exactly NHL hockey etiquette.
Let's play hockey!
| Thursday 1 April, 2004 |
I've just been informed that a third challenge match has been arranged for the Streatham Redskins before the end of the season – Hurrahhhhh!
And it’s a bit of a biggie...
On Sunday 17 April Redskins will proudly host the Toronto Maple Leafs. Yes, that's THE Toronto Maple Leafs!!!!
The NHL team are on a short training camp tour around Europe ahead of the play-offs and have requested opposition to be lined up that will provide a variety of challenges. Apparently the coaching staff had heard good things about the fitness levels of the Redskins players and are using the game to try out some new lines.
There is also an historical link as the Maple Leafs played back in the old barn in September 1934 and were the first foreign team that the Redskins ever faced.
Because demand for this game is likely to be high, prices have been set at £50 seats, £35 standing. Might sound steep but to see a genuine NHL side up close for that amount still represents great value for money. Tickets will go on sale from the rink as of today, April 1. Cash only - the Maple Leafs tour is being funded by game night receipts.
Supporters have been asked not to carry out the traditional banging on the plexi on game night as it is not exactly NHL hockey etiquette.
Let's play hockey!
| #permalink |
Jock Swap
An amusing day for fans of Scottish football. Nope, not Forfar 5, East Fife 4; not even McBerti giving a garbled press conference. Just an average day of ground swapping with more reckless abandon than the partner swapping taking place in the fearful Footballers' Wives.
I gave up ground hopping sometime around 1994 when I realised that there wasn't really any great grass roots romance in seeing your newly relegated team turn out a turd of a 0-0 draw away at Barnsley. We're Shit, And We Know We Are wasn't doing the rounds back then on account of the Pet Shop Boys still being rather good and not resorting to releasing crap Village People covers. Hence my fellow Trent Enders and I just booed rather loudly and told the lard arse Neil Webb to piss off.
If I was a fan of Scottish football however I might just be tempted out of ground hopping retirement.
Deep breath...
Hearts have been given the go-ahead to play at Murrayfield, the traditional home of egg chasing Jocks, and Princess Anne when she can find the time to break away from allowing her bull terriers to bite any non blue-blooded subjects of the crown.
Dundee are going to make the shortest geographical trip in any British two team football city and play out of United's Tannadice stadium. That’s DUNDEE United by the way, not Manchester. Both teams are managed by whingeing Sweaties though.
Clyde are pushing for promotion and if they reach the top division of Scottish football (probably on par with the Rymans Premier), the Clydesiders can play at Kilmarnock's Rugby Park ground. Makes sense of course, naming your ground after a totally different and inferior sport.
Likewise, promotion pending, Falkirk will be doing the business down at Dunfermline's East End Park.
Sales of Scottish A-Zs must be soaring.
Why is all this blatant franchise shifting happening? Money of course. The current state of Scottish football makes Leeds United look like a model for financial prudence.
And to think that I was almost inconsolable when my beloved London Racers ice hockey team announced overnight that the franchise was moving across town from Ally Pally to the lacklustre Lee Valley.
| Wednesday 30 March, 2004 |
An amusing day for fans of Scottish football. Nope, not Forfar 5, East Fife 4; not even McBerti giving a garbled press conference. Just an average day of ground swapping with more reckless abandon than the partner swapping taking place in the fearful Footballers' Wives.
I gave up ground hopping sometime around 1994 when I realised that there wasn't really any great grass roots romance in seeing your newly relegated team turn out a turd of a 0-0 draw away at Barnsley. We're Shit, And We Know We Are wasn't doing the rounds back then on account of the Pet Shop Boys still being rather good and not resorting to releasing crap Village People covers. Hence my fellow Trent Enders and I just booed rather loudly and told the lard arse Neil Webb to piss off.
 Both teams are managed by whingeing Sweaties |
Deep breath...
Hearts have been given the go-ahead to play at Murrayfield, the traditional home of egg chasing Jocks, and Princess Anne when she can find the time to break away from allowing her bull terriers to bite any non blue-blooded subjects of the crown.
Dundee are going to make the shortest geographical trip in any British two team football city and play out of United's Tannadice stadium. That’s DUNDEE United by the way, not Manchester. Both teams are managed by whingeing Sweaties though.
Clyde are pushing for promotion and if they reach the top division of Scottish football (probably on par with the Rymans Premier), the Clydesiders can play at Kilmarnock's Rugby Park ground. Makes sense of course, naming your ground after a totally different and inferior sport.
Likewise, promotion pending, Falkirk will be doing the business down at Dunfermline's East End Park.
Sales of Scottish A-Zs must be soaring.
Why is all this blatant franchise shifting happening? Money of course. The current state of Scottish football makes Leeds United look like a model for financial prudence.
And to think that I was almost inconsolable when my beloved London Racers ice hockey team announced overnight that the franchise was moving across town from Ally Pally to the lacklustre Lee Valley.
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Long Hot Summer
With the long summer months just around the corner it is looking increasingly unlikely that Brockwell Lido will be open this year. Fusion, the management company whose bid was successful to run the South London Olympic size pool for the next twenty five years, is no nearer to undertaking the promised building work that was central to the awarding of the lease from Lambeth Council over twelve months ago.
Officially the lease was handed over to Fusion in September 2003 when the gates were closed for the final time under the magnificent management of Paddy and Casey, who have been running the Lido for the past nine years after it fell into a state of disrepair.
Time was always going to be an issue if the Lido was going to undertake the required building maintenance that was guaranteed in Fusion's bid. Modernisation of the changing rooms is required for health and safety purposes. Fusion's proposal is to extend the wall along the side of the main entrance of the listed building to the perimeter of the park.
This planning application has yet to be submitted.
The consultation process was rigorous and detailed with the intention to prevent exactly this kind of situation occurring. Brockwell Lido Users Group, a steering committee and general users of the Lido were all given assurances by Fusion that their project would be on time and on budget.
Paddy and Casey are willing to open up the Lido themselves again for one final fling this summer until Fusion can get their act together. However the shower area still needs significant repairs estimated at around £30,000 for the pool to open.
Given the reluctance of Lambeth Council to invest in the Lido in the past, it is looking like the gates will remained locked over the coming summer months. This still hasn't stopped the local authority from proudly displaying a picture of the Lido on their own official website as one of the 'Lambeth landmarks' that appears as a series of rotating images.
As an alternative there is always Tooting Lido but the Wandsworth run pool just doesn't have the same ambience of South London’s favourite outdoor Lido. Much of the appeal of Brixton Beach has been the style and manner in which Paddy and Casey have managed the facility and Fusion would do well to look and learn.
Last year the Lido was blessed with a glorious run of five months of near perfect weather. With Easter falling late, Lido lovers were given the opportunity for the their first dip of the season on Good Friday, with the pool remaining open right up until late September.
Looks like being a long, hot and bothered summer ahead this year.
| Tuesday 30 March, 2004 |
With the long summer months just around the corner it is looking increasingly unlikely that Brockwell Lido will be open this year. Fusion, the management company whose bid was successful to run the South London Olympic size pool for the next twenty five years, is no nearer to undertaking the promised building work that was central to the awarding of the lease from Lambeth Council over twelve months ago.
Officially the lease was handed over to Fusion in September 2003 when the gates were closed for the final time under the magnificent management of Paddy and Casey, who have been running the Lido for the past nine years after it fell into a state of disrepair.
The planning application has yet to be submitted |
This planning application has yet to be submitted.
The consultation process was rigorous and detailed with the intention to prevent exactly this kind of situation occurring. Brockwell Lido Users Group, a steering committee and general users of the Lido were all given assurances by Fusion that their project would be on time and on budget.
Paddy and Casey are willing to open up the Lido themselves again for one final fling this summer until Fusion can get their act together. However the shower area still needs significant repairs estimated at around £30,000 for the pool to open.
Given the reluctance of Lambeth Council to invest in the Lido in the past, it is looking like the gates will remained locked over the coming summer months. This still hasn't stopped the local authority from proudly displaying a picture of the Lido on their own official website as one of the 'Lambeth landmarks' that appears as a series of rotating images.
As an alternative there is always Tooting Lido but the Wandsworth run pool just doesn't have the same ambience of South London’s favourite outdoor Lido. Much of the appeal of Brixton Beach has been the style and manner in which Paddy and Casey have managed the facility and Fusion would do well to look and learn.
Last year the Lido was blessed with a glorious run of five months of near perfect weather. With Easter falling late, Lido lovers were given the opportunity for the their first dip of the season on Good Friday, with the pool remaining open right up until late September.
Looks like being a long, hot and bothered summer ahead this year.
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SW8 Stockwell Sunset, BST
Here comes the sun,
Here comes the Lido,
Here comes the cricket,
Here comes The Globe,
Here comes Glasto.
Why am I still freezing my bollocks off in bed then?
| Monday 29 March, 2004 |
Here comes the sun,
Here comes the Lido,
Here comes the cricket,
Here comes The Globe,
Here comes Glasto.
Why am I still freezing my bollocks off in bed then?
| #permalink |
Mondays Musings
Iron Maiden - No More Lies
Good, honest, truthful dull as ditchwater English rock bands never lie. They leave this immoral behaviour to souless hangers on who somehow manage to blag a very nice, although personally pointless, Iron Maiden Best Of Box Set out of EMI circa '97, and then despite the odd missing CD here and there (always a prime component of any CD collection), swindle some poor Johnny Foreigner over in Belgium ('zee crazy world of rock and roll') out of the best part of 500 quid with a pork pie gobbling somewhat economical with the truth ebay blurb. Do I feel the shame? Do I fuck.
Lulu - Keep Talkin', I'm Listening
Notice how the Jock Dwarf has dropped the 'g' from Talking in a ludicrous attempt to somehow make a menopausing midget appear popular to the Playstation generation? The Christian calendar can now be constructed around the release (and believe me this is one hell of a turd) of crap comeback songs from coffin dodgers who really should be playing scrabble in some home with their fellow bus pass permit pensioners; Sir Cliff's cocksucking Christmas cringe of an anthem always heralds in the Festive season; likewise you can time the arrival of Easter and the subsequent execrable Eurovision whenever Lulu opens her gob and graces us with a tonsil throttler that sounds like she has been garbling with a packet of twenty Marlboro before breakfast. Which the old bint probably has. The cover for this single wouldn't look out of place in a phone box alongside the Whip Me, Spank Me, Tease Me slapper cards. Keep Talkin', I'm Listening - genuine picture - 0898 etc...
Basement Jaxx - Plug It In
The sound of urban Britain 2004; culture mashing, genre bending, pill popping messy weekends etc. All of course may be true, but also all made by two white middle class males who could do with a damn good wash 'n brush up. At least they keep it real though with more than just a tokenistic use of new talent. Not sure where or even how Siouxsie fits into all of this. Whatever next Wayne Hussey Vs the Jaxx? Miranda Sex Garden? Fields of the Neph?
All singles are released today.
WHY DON'T YOU... piss all over the instantly forgettable marketing masquerading as music as mentioned above and go and DOWNLOAD something much more memorable instead?
Mass Mondays Musings
| Monday 29 March, 2004 |
Iron Maiden - No More Lies
Good, honest, truthful dull as ditchwater English rock bands never lie. They leave this immoral behaviour to souless hangers on who somehow manage to blag a very nice, although personally pointless, Iron Maiden Best Of Box Set out of EMI circa '97, and then despite the odd missing CD here and there (always a prime component of any CD collection), swindle some poor Johnny Foreigner over in Belgium ('zee crazy world of rock and roll') out of the best part of 500 quid with a pork pie gobbling somewhat economical with the truth ebay blurb. Do I feel the shame? Do I fuck.
Lulu - Keep Talkin', I'm Listening
Notice how the Jock Dwarf has dropped the 'g' from Talking in a ludicrous attempt to somehow make a menopausing midget appear popular to the Playstation generation? The Christian calendar can now be constructed around the release (and believe me this is one hell of a turd) of crap comeback songs from coffin dodgers who really should be playing scrabble in some home with their fellow bus pass permit pensioners; Sir Cliff's cocksucking Christmas cringe of an anthem always heralds in the Festive season; likewise you can time the arrival of Easter and the subsequent execrable Eurovision whenever Lulu opens her gob and graces us with a tonsil throttler that sounds like she has been garbling with a packet of twenty Marlboro before breakfast. Which the old bint probably has. The cover for this single wouldn't look out of place in a phone box alongside the Whip Me, Spank Me, Tease Me slapper cards. Keep Talkin', I'm Listening - genuine picture - 0898 etc...
Basement Jaxx - Plug It In
The sound of urban Britain 2004; culture mashing, genre bending, pill popping messy weekends etc. All of course may be true, but also all made by two white middle class males who could do with a damn good wash 'n brush up. At least they keep it real though with more than just a tokenistic use of new talent. Not sure where or even how Siouxsie fits into all of this. Whatever next Wayne Hussey Vs the Jaxx? Miranda Sex Garden? Fields of the Neph?
All singles are released today.
WHY DON'T YOU... piss all over the instantly forgettable marketing masquerading as music as mentioned above and go and DOWNLOAD something much more memorable instead?
Mass Mondays Musings
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Tamara Pinklebottom's Football Results
Welcome to the Classified Football Results read by Tamara Pinklebottom and aided by her sister Fanny. Tamara is a lifelong Gunners supporter and enjoys nothing better than taking Fanny up the Arse on a Saturday afternoon.
Warning: Not exactly office friendly
| Sunday 28 March, 2004 |
Welcome to the Classified Football Results read by Tamara Pinklebottom and aided by her sister Fanny. Tamara is a lifelong Gunners supporter and enjoys nothing better than taking Fanny up the Arse on a Saturday afternoon.
Warning: Not exactly office friendly
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Crap Match Report
London Towers 87 Milton Keynes Lions 79, 27/03/04
Another Saturday night, another packed house at the Crystal Palace dive. That will be the Mad as a Wet Hen spine bending youth then leaping twenty foot from the diving board in the pool below. I pondered some pics of the belly flopping boys but it didn’t seem appropriate having snaps of barely legal teenagers in swimwear. The Towers Dancers however are a different matter. If there's grass in the outfield etc, play ball. Mmmmmm.
It's no surprise that the Towers unbeaten home form in 2004 has coincided with the Dancers own fine form on the court. Who could fail to be inspired by a dozen or so hoop honeyz panting, pelvis pushing and p-teasing in-between play? My my, those basketball shorts sure are baggy, which is a good job as I'm some of the players must be playing at full mast. No need to ask as to why I need to remain seated throughout a game.
With a play-off place already guaranteed, Towers were playing to hold on to home court advantage ahead of the end of season finale. It was good to see Ronnie Baker back on court for a full thirty minutes. Shame it was only for the warm-up. When England's most capped player is reduced to the role of benchwarmer then it shows the level of confidence and skill surrounding the Towers right now.
Another returning favourite was Towlie, the most virile youth in UK basketball. Who else could charm the crowds at halftime shooting his load from the halfway line with ease? Good work fella and we hope to see you in a Towers jersey soon.
Baskets were exchanged during a workmanlike opening quarter with the most spectacular sight being ex-Tower John O'Connell's latest lighthouse look masquerading as a haircut. The home team trailed 18-19 come the short break.
Towers were finding it hard to find their feet. Shame that Lions point guard Sherman Rivers (I'm not making this up) managed to find his voice. A WHOOP here, a SQUEAL there and a CHAMON you Badass Mutha every time he wanted the ball. Towers took a 46-33 lead into the halftime break without truly breaking sweat.
A quick burst from the Lions at the start of the third brought the score back to 50-49 and the home team were in need of some inspiration. Cometh the hour, cometh the leg flashing lovelies. Unfortunately Neil the DJ managed to mess up the music leaving the girls stranded centre court strutting their stuff in silence. Even without the bump and grind I was still in a state of excitement where it was socially unacceptable for me to stand up and proudly display my own current state of play.
'Towers Dancers I owe you a BIG kiss' declared Neil.
Not sure who is the luckiest here.
'I promise I won't mess this up,' said the man with the mic. Towers coach Robbie Peers was no doubt thinking the same as his team were in danger of a fourth quarter collapse.
A poor finish from both teams prevented either side pulling away. With play like this, Towers will be punished come the play-offs. Trailing 70-74 at one stage, it was left to the ever reliant Omar Sneed to power Towers home with a late quarter burst.
Highlight: My cover being blown and being chatted up by the Towers Dancers. Well, I was the one doing all the chatting as they looked up for a familiar face with a thought bubble saying:
'HELP! Scary man with a goatee... And why won't he stand up whilst he is talking to us...?'
Lowlight: No more lastminute.com five quid offers.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
Crap Match Report Compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Sunday 28 March, 2004 |
London Towers 87 Milton Keynes Lions 79, 27/03/04
Another Saturday night, another packed house at the Crystal Palace dive. That will be the Mad as a Wet Hen spine bending youth then leaping twenty foot from the diving board in the pool below. I pondered some pics of the belly flopping boys but it didn’t seem appropriate having snaps of barely legal teenagers in swimwear. The Towers Dancers however are a different matter. If there's grass in the outfield etc, play ball. Mmmmmm.
It's no surprise that the Towers unbeaten home form in 2004 has coincided with the Dancers own fine form on the court. Who could fail to be inspired by a dozen or so hoop honeyz panting, pelvis pushing and p-teasing in-between play? My my, those basketball shorts sure are baggy, which is a good job as I'm some of the players must be playing at full mast. No need to ask as to why I need to remain seated throughout a game.
Cometh the hour, cometh the leg flashing lovelies |
Another returning favourite was Towlie, the most virile youth in UK basketball. Who else could charm the crowds at halftime shooting his load from the halfway line with ease? Good work fella and we hope to see you in a Towers jersey soon.
Baskets were exchanged during a workmanlike opening quarter with the most spectacular sight being ex-Tower John O'Connell's latest lighthouse look masquerading as a haircut. The home team trailed 18-19 come the short break.
Towers were finding it hard to find their feet. Shame that Lions point guard Sherman Rivers (I'm not making this up) managed to find his voice. A WHOOP here, a SQUEAL there and a CHAMON you Badass Mutha every time he wanted the ball. Towers took a 46-33 lead into the halftime break without truly breaking sweat.
A quick burst from the Lions at the start of the third brought the score back to 50-49 and the home team were in need of some inspiration. Cometh the hour, cometh the leg flashing lovelies. Unfortunately Neil the DJ managed to mess up the music leaving the girls stranded centre court strutting their stuff in silence. Even without the bump and grind I was still in a state of excitement where it was socially unacceptable for me to stand up and proudly display my own current state of play.
'Towers Dancers I owe you a BIG kiss' declared Neil.
Not sure who is the luckiest here.
'I promise I won't mess this up,' said the man with the mic. Towers coach Robbie Peers was no doubt thinking the same as his team were in danger of a fourth quarter collapse.
A poor finish from both teams prevented either side pulling away. With play like this, Towers will be punished come the play-offs. Trailing 70-74 at one stage, it was left to the ever reliant Omar Sneed to power Towers home with a late quarter burst.
Highlight: My cover being blown and being chatted up by the Towers Dancers. Well, I was the one doing all the chatting as they looked up for a familiar face with a thought bubble saying:
'HELP! Scary man with a goatee... And why won't he stand up whilst he is talking to us...?'
Lowlight: No more lastminute.com five quid offers.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report Compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Saturday 27 March, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 3 Marlow 1, 27/03/04
Welcome to football friendly Dulwich Hamlet, home of grass roots football in the local community. The hand of welcome from The Voice of Champion Hill wasn't quite that open however, declaring before kick off:
'A message for our younger fans (which given the average age of the doddering Dulwich coffin dodgers means anyone under the age of 55): If you want to play football, DON'T.'
Quite right to. The reason we sit in the stand scoffing our hot dogs whilst the muscular models of manhood make merry on the pitch is because we're shit and we know we are. I don't pay my seven quid to watch some playground kick about break out on the vast open and empty terraces. Actually I don't pay my seven quid at all, but that's not the point. Now clear off back to your Playstations or whatever ankle munchers get up to on Saturday afternoon in their quest lower the average IQ of the nation.
The most challenging task awaiting me was to unscrew the lid off my flask |
Blue-Mouthed Boy Al-James Hannigan headed home at the far post after nine minutes and then hotfooted over to the Hamlet fans, no doubt to thank them all politely for not hoofing the ball on to the pitch.
The chain of command down at Dulwich is direct; if the Chairman is unhappy with the state of the pitch he tells the Manager. The Manager then informs the Chief Groundsman who in his spare time also cleans up any stray pigeon shit from the stands. Chairman / Manager / Pigeon Shit Sweeper Martin Eede is the main motivating reason as to why Dulwich are positioned well for promotion. So what if the pitch is cutting up after eight months of football? It still didn’t stop Omari Coleman from stroking the ball around with the inside of his boot, finding his man every time.
Meanwhile Marlow 'keeper Kieron Drake looked set for a busy afternoon. There's nothing quite like blowing your own trumpet but with some Burberry bedecked yoof behind his net hooting as loud and as often as possible on his own organ, so to speak, goal mouth clearances were landing in the nearby Sainsbury car park.
Dulwich were dominating the play but failing to give Hannigan further cause to demonstrate his commendable expletive dexterity. Fuck that, we just want a goal you cunts.
A goal duly came after thirty six minutes which indeed did induce mass swearing from the shackled fans who were probably now wishing that they could organise their own 5-a-side behind the net to ease their frustration. A deflection from a cross caught out Dulwich 'keeper Paul Seuke to give a 1-1 scoreline as the teams headed in at halftime.
As the two teams tucked into their cuppa and I gave myself a Chinese burn trying to unscrew my flask, The Voice of Champion Hill gleefully had his hands wrapped around his own seven inches of fun. A new roaming microphone has been invested in and gosh, this has got potential; the possibilities are endless – live reports during the pre-game toss up ('Heads. Right you are son, which way do you wanna kick?'), halftime analysis from the Dulwich Rabble ('Where's me sodding ball?') and post-game in-depth conversation with Al-James. Actually, fuck that.
With the Happy Mondays Step On still blasting out as teams took to the pitch again, Dulwich did just that and put their foot down. A wonderful cross field through ball delivered by David Moore was positioned perfectly for Omari Coleman (who else?) to volley across the face of the goal and into the corner after forty nine minutes.
With the three points never really in ever doubt, the game then drifted for Dulwich until Francis Quarm fired home a net buster from the edge of the area with seventy seven minutes played.
A 3-1 final score against a lacklustre Marlow team. Perhaps the real reason as to why kick-a-bouts have been banned is that the away teams are afraid of being out-classed by some Man Utd replica wearing whippersnapper. Promotion to a higher standard of league can’t come quick enough.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report Compendium
hamletweb
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Tour De Mass
Reports of the death of Critical Mass have proven to be premature; with the summer season approaching, the London Mass awoke from hibernation on Friday night with a healthy random gathering (yeah, right...) of cyclists taking pedal power through the streets of the capital bringing some joy, anger and sheer bewilderment to the Johnny's at the Bus Stop.
'Who are you?'
We're Critical Mass.
'What are you doing?'
Some of us are protesting about the treatment of cyclists from motorists and the authorities in London. Some of us are trying to encourage other Londoners out of their cars and onto their bikes. Some of us are just having a nice friendly cycle around our city on a Friday night.
'My my, what a fine pair of cycling legs you have...'
Want my mobile number love?
Starting underneath Waterloo Bridge, the spiritual home of Critical Mass, around 300 cyclists weaved their way around the West End. A short detour towards Grosvenor Square took in the US Embassy where the language turned bluer than a lard arse cabbie who has just cut up yet another cyclist.
Back en route and the traditional pause for breath at Piccadilly Circus, plus a stretch of Oxford Street much to the annoyance of one particular cabbie who wasn't best pleased when the Boys in Blue on Bikes told him where to stick his pig ugly petrol head persona. Picture evidence below.
'What a fucking joke,' observed some knobber from the safety of the pavement, suited and booted and with his filofax waving at the Mass to show his rage.
'What, your crap suit?' came the reply from the Mass. On yer bike, mate.
10.5 miles into the ride and my legs needed to be saved for the weekend. More cycling planned of course, plus 90 minutes of running around on Sunday making more of a twat of myself than our sharp suited Oxford Street heckler.
Next month is the BIG ride: TEN cycle shaking, horn blowing, street reclaiming years of Critical Mass in London. Of course there is no organisation or leadership of the Mass, but chances are that if you turn up at around 6pm on the last Friday of the month under Waterloo Bridge then you might meet some like minded souls.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
Critical Mass London
| Saturday 27 March, 2004 |
Reports of the death of Critical Mass have proven to be premature; with the summer season approaching, the London Mass awoke from hibernation on Friday night with a healthy random gathering (yeah, right...) of cyclists taking pedal power through the streets of the capital bringing some joy, anger and sheer bewilderment to the Johnny's at the Bus Stop.
'Who are you?'
We're Critical Mass.
'What are you doing?'
Some of us are protesting about the treatment of cyclists from motorists and the authorities in London. Some of us are trying to encourage other Londoners out of their cars and onto their bikes. Some of us are just having a nice friendly cycle around our city on a Friday night.
'My my, what a fine pair of cycling legs you have...'
Want my mobile number love?
My my, what a fine pair of cycling legs you have... |
Back en route and the traditional pause for breath at Piccadilly Circus, plus a stretch of Oxford Street much to the annoyance of one particular cabbie who wasn't best pleased when the Boys in Blue on Bikes told him where to stick his pig ugly petrol head persona. Picture evidence below.
'What a fucking joke,' observed some knobber from the safety of the pavement, suited and booted and with his filofax waving at the Mass to show his rage.
'What, your crap suit?' came the reply from the Mass. On yer bike, mate.
10.5 miles into the ride and my legs needed to be saved for the weekend. More cycling planned of course, plus 90 minutes of running around on Sunday making more of a twat of myself than our sharp suited Oxford Street heckler.
Next month is the BIG ride: TEN cycle shaking, horn blowing, street reclaiming years of Critical Mass in London. Of course there is no organisation or leadership of the Mass, but chances are that if you turn up at around 6pm on the last Friday of the month under Waterloo Bridge then you might meet some like minded souls.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Critical Mass London
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Friday Free For All
Can things get any more divine down at The Den right now? Ninety minutes away from an FA Cup final appearance PLUS a place in the UEFA, (what chance of Charlton in the first round?), a promising promotion push and now the hungry Lions eating the hapless Hamsters 4-1 at home. Not too sure if the fans to Old Bill ratio of 17-1 was justified though to welcome our East End friends south of the river. You'd get better odds than 17-1 in a Bermondsey bookies for a 10-0 Cup Final tonking of Arsenal, Mark McGhee to be named the next 'flair' coach for Brazil and Denny Boy to receive an honorary life membership at Leicester City. Remember back in those dark days in October when we thought appointing Dennis was a bit of a gamble? Time to cash in...
'Challenge matches' have a long and proud tradition in the history of UK ice hockey. So does Streatham Redskins veteran Peter Quiney. It was a shame then that the puck slapper with the most challenging of slapheads in the Streatham squad was absent during the challenge game down at the old High Road rink last Sunday. The South London boys were whacked 8-1 by Eastern Star, a team based north of the river but with their roots more in St Petersburg than St Pancras. Having just missed out on a play-off place in their first season back after an eleven year break, it's nothing short of a Miracle on Ice that the ageing Redskins have managed to combine semi-pro hockey with collecting their pensions. As for Granddad Quiney? Probably had a quiet night in washing his hair...
| Friday 26 March, 2004 |
Can things get any more divine down at The Den right now? Ninety minutes away from an FA Cup final appearance PLUS a place in the UEFA, (what chance of Charlton in the first round?), a promising promotion push and now the hungry Lions eating the hapless Hamsters 4-1 at home. Not too sure if the fans to Old Bill ratio of 17-1 was justified though to welcome our East End friends south of the river. You'd get better odds than 17-1 in a Bermondsey bookies for a 10-0 Cup Final tonking of Arsenal, Mark McGhee to be named the next 'flair' coach for Brazil and Denny Boy to receive an honorary life membership at Leicester City. Remember back in those dark days in October when we thought appointing Dennis was a bit of a gamble? Time to cash in...
'Challenge matches' have a long and proud tradition in the history of UK ice hockey. So does Streatham Redskins veteran Peter Quiney. It was a shame then that the puck slapper with the most challenging of slapheads in the Streatham squad was absent during the challenge game down at the old High Road rink last Sunday. The South London boys were whacked 8-1 by Eastern Star, a team based north of the river but with their roots more in St Petersburg than St Pancras. Having just missed out on a play-off place in their first season back after an eleven year break, it's nothing short of a Miracle on Ice that the ageing Redskins have managed to combine semi-pro hockey with collecting their pensions. As for Granddad Quiney? Probably had a quiet night in washing his hair...
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Heroes, Villains & Orville
Exciting times ahead for Aston Villa; our second city's 'glamour' club (not exactly a difficult role to fill when up against Steve Bruce and his hairy arse Birmingham City cloggers) is ripe for a £30m takeover.
Joining former Man City defender Ray Ransom in a consortium to oust 80-year-old Deadly Doug is none other than Richard Thompson and Keith Harris.
Blimey Charlie – half time entertainment down at the Holt End looks like being fun; an ageing English folk maestro and a balding twat with his hand stuck up the arse of a pesky plastic duck providing an unlikely Bovril slurping double act.
On closer inspection it sadly transpires that Thompson is not the Fairport Convention craftsman but the ex-QPR chairman. Likewise Harris isn't the pathetic panto prick but the former head of the Football League whose career highlight to date was inking the deal that allowed ITV Digital to send most Division Two and Three clubs into debt.
Probably better off with the bloody bird come to think of it.
The consortium has estimated that Villa's assets are worth around £30m at current market value. That high? You would probably raise more dosh auctioning off Dion Dublin's 'assets' for a porn flick.
| Thursday 25 March, 2004 |
Exciting times ahead for Aston Villa; our second city's 'glamour' club (not exactly a difficult role to fill when up against Steve Bruce and his hairy arse Birmingham City cloggers) is ripe for a £30m takeover.
Joining former Man City defender Ray Ransom in a consortium to oust 80-year-old Deadly Doug is none other than Richard Thompson and Keith Harris.
Blimey Charlie – half time entertainment down at the Holt End looks like being fun; an ageing English folk maestro and a balding twat with his hand stuck up the arse of a pesky plastic duck providing an unlikely Bovril slurping double act.
On closer inspection it sadly transpires that Thompson is not the Fairport Convention craftsman but the ex-QPR chairman. Likewise Harris isn't the pathetic panto prick but the former head of the Football League whose career highlight to date was inking the deal that allowed ITV Digital to send most Division Two and Three clubs into debt.
Probably better off with the bloody bird come to think of it.
The consortium has estimated that Villa's assets are worth around £30m at current market value. That high? You would probably raise more dosh auctioning off Dion Dublin's 'assets' for a porn flick.
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Tamara Pinklebottom's Football Results
Welcome to the Classified Football Results read by Tamara Pinklebottom and aided by her sister Fanny. Tamara is a lifelong Gunners supporter and enjoys nothing better than taking Fanny up the Arse on a Saturday afternoon.
Warning: Not exactly office friendly
| Wednesday 24 March, 2004 |
Welcome to the Classified Football Results read by Tamara Pinklebottom and aided by her sister Fanny. Tamara is a lifelong Gunners supporter and enjoys nothing better than taking Fanny up the Arse on a Saturday afternoon.
Warning: Not exactly office friendly
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Country Coffin Dodgers
On paper it's not exactly the perfect pitch for a movie: Slacker roadie upholds minor Dead Rock Star's request to take his corpse and set fire to it in the desert. Try filling an entire film with that. Grand Theft Parsons turns out to be a delightful little road movie though, taking a touch of artistic licence in telling the story of how Phil Kaufman stole the body of Gram Parsons, drove halfway across the Joshua Tree National Park with only a junkie hippy for company and then honoured a pyre pact he made with the alt-country artist.
Fears of this being nothing but a full length Jackass: The Road Movie aren't overcome with Johnny Knoxville cast as Kaufman. Given that the plot is built around the solitary gag of a coffin continually falling out of a hearse and you almost expect The Wee Man to catapult across the screen at random intervals.
Never has so much comedy been made out of a stiff since Confessions of a Window Cleaner Cleaner. Death is an old gag of course but the old ones are the best. Grand Theft Parsons is essentially a re-make of Eric Sykes classic The Plank, replacing the wooden star of the Brit comedy with a wooden rotting corpse. Throw in Wacky Racers on Narcotics and some stunning cinematography shot in the Californian desert and you have a potential cult classic on your hands.
Knoxville fills the cowboy boots with ease, tackling a serious role without reducing it to his usual slapstick. There are some killer one liners, so to speak:
'Wherever there's a hippy there’s a crime, even if the crime hasn't happened yet...'
Or
'What happened to your head?'
'The hippy hit it...'
The Parsons story is well known and so it's not exactly going to be a spoiler to mention that the final scenes with the fire flickering across the screen are quite moving. This must be the only movie where the central character doesn't make an appearance. Well, not quite, but perhaps there's the teaser for you.
| Tuesday 23 March, 2004 |
On paper it's not exactly the perfect pitch for a movie: Slacker roadie upholds minor Dead Rock Star's request to take his corpse and set fire to it in the desert. Try filling an entire film with that. Grand Theft Parsons turns out to be a delightful little road movie though, taking a touch of artistic licence in telling the story of how Phil Kaufman stole the body of Gram Parsons, drove halfway across the Joshua Tree National Park with only a junkie hippy for company and then honoured a pyre pact he made with the alt-country artist.
Fears of this being nothing but a full length Jackass: The Road Movie aren't overcome with Johnny Knoxville cast as Kaufman. Given that the plot is built around the solitary gag of a coffin continually falling out of a hearse and you almost expect The Wee Man to catapult across the screen at random intervals.
Wherever there’s a hippy there’s a crime |
Knoxville fills the cowboy boots with ease, tackling a serious role without reducing it to his usual slapstick. There are some killer one liners, so to speak:
'Wherever there's a hippy there’s a crime, even if the crime hasn't happened yet...'
Or
'What happened to your head?'
'The hippy hit it...'
The Parsons story is well known and so it's not exactly going to be a spoiler to mention that the final scenes with the fire flickering across the screen are quite moving. This must be the only movie where the central character doesn't make an appearance. Well, not quite, but perhaps there's the teaser for you.
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Caught in the Headlights
Also known as:
The reason as to why I don't seem to be able to get any sleep until 3am right now seeing as though every Petrol Head living within a five mile radius seems to think that it is a good idea to undertake a reverse ferret of the natural human body clock and drive like a mad fucker through the mean streets of South London, when really they should be tucked up under the duvet having wet dreams over the pending prospect of promotion for Dulwich Hamlet.
Of course other plausible suggestions might include:
• My ailing body parts. Long gone are the days when I could run a half marathon in the morning, swim 50 lengths at lunchtime and then find enough energy to hump the frump twice over before lights out. I'm still up all night, but sadly for the wrong reasons.
• My daily tea intake has overtaken my daily capacity for internal water storage. Three times a night man, that's me. Unfortunately not a virile boast, unless waking up at 3am, 4am and 5am, stumbling out of bed and then ending up pissing in your wardrobe in all the confusion is something to shout home about.
• The NHL play-offs are about to start. Late night Channel 5 viewing has not been so addictive since the 'adult art films' resulted in me waking up every morning with a sprained wrist.
• Work related stress; not the stress of being unable to cope with the daily workload but the stress of waking up and accepting the mundane matter that you need to pay to play.
Or it might just be that I have an obscene amount (quite literally) of gigabytes queued up for viewing on my hard drive. Sleepless nights, tossing and turning etc.
| Monday 22 March, 2004 |
Also known as:
The reason as to why I don't seem to be able to get any sleep until 3am right now seeing as though every Petrol Head living within a five mile radius seems to think that it is a good idea to undertake a reverse ferret of the natural human body clock and drive like a mad fucker through the mean streets of South London, when really they should be tucked up under the duvet having wet dreams over the pending prospect of promotion for Dulwich Hamlet.
Of course other plausible suggestions might include:
• My ailing body parts. Long gone are the days when I could run a half marathon in the morning, swim 50 lengths at lunchtime and then find enough energy to hump the frump twice over before lights out. I'm still up all night, but sadly for the wrong reasons.
• My daily tea intake has overtaken my daily capacity for internal water storage. Three times a night man, that's me. Unfortunately not a virile boast, unless waking up at 3am, 4am and 5am, stumbling out of bed and then ending up pissing in your wardrobe in all the confusion is something to shout home about.
• The NHL play-offs are about to start. Late night Channel 5 viewing has not been so addictive since the 'adult art films' resulted in me waking up every morning with a sprained wrist.
• Work related stress; not the stress of being unable to cope with the daily workload but the stress of waking up and accepting the mundane matter that you need to pay to play.
Or it might just be that I have an obscene amount (quite literally) of gigabytes queued up for viewing on my hard drive. Sleepless nights, tossing and turning etc.
| #permalink |
Parklife
I really should be Bangin the Plexi and watching ice hockey right now but after a run around for the Supporters Team (a respectable 2-2 draw deep down in some Kent No Mans Land), my creaking knees just can't manage to keep the peddles turning all the way up Brixton Hill. I blame it on the carpet burn.
Instead, a bit of a post-game warm down spent wandering lazily around Larkhall Park, one of South London’s best kept secrets. So much so in fact that the useless tossers at Lambeth Council routinely forget to pay attention to the upkeep of the amphitheatre on account of the fact that it doesn’t have an SW4 postcode. Still, at least you won't find any Arthur or Martha prominent MPs cruising the bushes.
The late evening Sunday sunshine was just too good an opportunity to go into a snap happy frenzy and enjoy the tranquillity of the hidden gardens (even the winos can't find them) as a fine early Spring sunset appeared over SW8.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
friends of larkhall park
| Sunday 21 March, 2004 |
I really should be Bangin the Plexi and watching ice hockey right now but after a run around for the Supporters Team (a respectable 2-2 draw deep down in some Kent No Mans Land), my creaking knees just can't manage to keep the peddles turning all the way up Brixton Hill. I blame it on the carpet burn.
Instead, a bit of a post-game warm down spent wandering lazily around Larkhall Park, one of South London’s best kept secrets. So much so in fact that the useless tossers at Lambeth Council routinely forget to pay attention to the upkeep of the amphitheatre on account of the fact that it doesn’t have an SW4 postcode. Still, at least you won't find any Arthur or Martha prominent MPs cruising the bushes.
The late evening Sunday sunshine was just too good an opportunity to go into a snap happy frenzy and enjoy the tranquillity of the hidden gardens (even the winos can't find them) as a fine early Spring sunset appeared over SW8.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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friends of larkhall park
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Crap Match Report
London Towers 98 Newcastle Eagles 94, 20/03/04
A tight toe to toe tussle at the Towers tonight – and that was just my waistline wedging past the chunky chap in front of me after I came close to overdosing on Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. Having watched a Money Programme special earlier in the week all about how the Donut company with clearly no comprehension of grammar (I don't KREAM myself each time I see the lovely Towers Dancers), I thought it only fair that to see what all the fuss was about.
I commenced my pre-game preparation with a dozen of the copious calorie cillers (see what I have done there? Well, do you? I've changed KILLERS to CILLERS. Ha ha. A soulless and unfulfilling job in marketing beckons).
I then suffered ninety minutes of hyper-activity having consumed enough E (not that kind) numbers to turn my brain into a human form of candy floss. The downside was that I also suffered extreme flatulence for the rest of the evening.
Being a family friendly event, my only moment of opportunity to naturally release the gasses back into the environment was each time the hooter sounded. Given that most hooter honks then lead to the appearance on court of the tantalising Towers Dancers, my posterior pump action had about as much sense of timing as a typical Towers attempt to run down the clock.
Back on court and Towers were also having their problems trumping the lowly League placed Eagles. A Towers win would help to set up home court advantage in the play-offs but with Eagles taking a 24-25 lead into the second quarter, the visitors weren't farting around.
The star of the show was missing tonight; no Towers Towel Boy to sink those halfway line shots during the break (always worth the admission money alone). In his absence though was Jeremy Hyatt for the Eagles. The Newcastle guard wasn't crawling around on all fours mopping up beads of sweats, but he was hitting the hoop consistently with his three pointers, keeping the visitors in the game with the score at 49-44 at the interval.
Omar Sneed showed his strength in the third quarter, powering up and down the court and dominating the game. Each time Towers tried to pull away though, Eagles matched them basket for basket. Tony Kitt tried his best hop, skip and jump ahead of a dunk, only for Big Omar to spare his blushes by finishing off the move. Ralph Boy Blalock kept his cool come the end of quarter buzzer (...and relax, as everyone sitting within a five metre radius of me looked around to see who supplied it and then who denied it), sinking a couple of free throws to set up a 73-71 Towers advantage into the fourth quarter.
With the contest heading for a tight finish, Neil the DJ was getting all excited about the possibility of overtime. Of which we presume he is paid, 'cos gripping as though the game was, I needed to head home hasty to pebble dash out the Krispy Kreems in time to settle down for The Premiership.
Robert Youngblood found his target with a three pointer at the start of the fourth, but Hyatt hit back as the Towers number nine was still celebrating. With the clock counting down the final six minutes, Eagles edged ahead for the first time in the game. The Heat is On then blasted out over the PA, and for one of the few occasions since Christmas, the heat at the Crystal Palace Sauna wasn't coming from the pool below but from a spirited away team.
The game was settled with an outrageous under the basket shot from Sneed which also drew a foul. Towers then counted down the clock to hold on to a 98-94 advantage come the final buzzer.
Highlight: Making it home in record time and then sorting out enough reading material to get me through the next half hour or so I headed for the smallest room in the house. I think you know where you can stick yer Krispy Kreems next time.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
Crap Match Report Compendium
london towers official
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Saturday 20 March, 2004 |
London Towers 98 Newcastle Eagles 94, 20/03/04
A tight toe to toe tussle at the Towers tonight – and that was just my waistline wedging past the chunky chap in front of me after I came close to overdosing on Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. Having watched a Money Programme special earlier in the week all about how the Donut company with clearly no comprehension of grammar (I don't KREAM myself each time I see the lovely Towers Dancers), I thought it only fair that to see what all the fuss was about.
I commenced my pre-game preparation with a dozen of the copious calorie cillers (see what I have done there? Well, do you? I've changed KILLERS to CILLERS. Ha ha. A soulless and unfulfilling job in marketing beckons).
The Eagles weren’t farting around |
Being a family friendly event, my only moment of opportunity to naturally release the gasses back into the environment was each time the hooter sounded. Given that most hooter honks then lead to the appearance on court of the tantalising Towers Dancers, my posterior pump action had about as much sense of timing as a typical Towers attempt to run down the clock.
Back on court and Towers were also having their problems trumping the lowly League placed Eagles. A Towers win would help to set up home court advantage in the play-offs but with Eagles taking a 24-25 lead into the second quarter, the visitors weren't farting around.
The star of the show was missing tonight; no Towers Towel Boy to sink those halfway line shots during the break (always worth the admission money alone). In his absence though was Jeremy Hyatt for the Eagles. The Newcastle guard wasn't crawling around on all fours mopping up beads of sweats, but he was hitting the hoop consistently with his three pointers, keeping the visitors in the game with the score at 49-44 at the interval.
Omar Sneed showed his strength in the third quarter, powering up and down the court and dominating the game. Each time Towers tried to pull away though, Eagles matched them basket for basket. Tony Kitt tried his best hop, skip and jump ahead of a dunk, only for Big Omar to spare his blushes by finishing off the move. Ralph Boy Blalock kept his cool come the end of quarter buzzer (...and relax, as everyone sitting within a five metre radius of me looked around to see who supplied it and then who denied it), sinking a couple of free throws to set up a 73-71 Towers advantage into the fourth quarter.
With the contest heading for a tight finish, Neil the DJ was getting all excited about the possibility of overtime. Of which we presume he is paid, 'cos gripping as though the game was, I needed to head home hasty to pebble dash out the Krispy Kreems in time to settle down for The Premiership.
Robert Youngblood found his target with a three pointer at the start of the fourth, but Hyatt hit back as the Towers number nine was still celebrating. With the clock counting down the final six minutes, Eagles edged ahead for the first time in the game. The Heat is On then blasted out over the PA, and for one of the few occasions since Christmas, the heat at the Crystal Palace Sauna wasn't coming from the pool below but from a spirited away team.
The game was settled with an outrageous under the basket shot from Sneed which also drew a foul. Towers then counted down the clock to hold on to a 98-94 advantage come the final buzzer.
Highlight: Making it home in record time and then sorting out enough reading material to get me through the next half hour or so I headed for the smallest room in the house. I think you know where you can stick yer Krispy Kreems next time.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report Compendium
london towers official
whats bev - uk basketball forums
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Friday Free For All
As every South London schoolboy should know, back in 1937 when Millwall last reached the semi-finals of the FA Cup, mainland Europe was bracing itself for a long period of attrition. Sixty seven years later and our Fancy Dan continental cousins are on the verge of yet another sustained campaign as the mighty Lions are just ninety minutes away from an unlikely UEFA Cup place. With only Mick McCarthy's Sunderland to overcome in the semis, imagine the fun we can have teaching the French the words to 'No One Likes Us' - actually, this could become the adopted French National Anthem.
And so Greg Rusedski has been given the go-ahead to grace the rolling fields of SW19 down at Wimbledon this summer. Smiling Greg (if you’ve ever seen his missus then you'd understand why) found himself in a spot of bother you may remember with the authorities; nope, not for falling foul of David Blunkett's draconian new immigration policy requiring all British citizens to swear like a South London docker rather than a passport waving phoney patriot, but the man with a grin wider than Niagara Falls was accused of taking something a little stronger than Viagra. Back to that smile again. Conclusive proof that the Battersea Boy (yeah, right...) is not a bona fide Brit came when Greg was asked to empty the contents of his bowels into the bucket; unlike the preoccupied Peckham drugs test dodger Rio, Smiling Boy managed to turn up ON TIME. Stick to the Barley water next time though eh Greg?
| Friday 19 March, 2004 |
As every South London schoolboy should know, back in 1937 when Millwall last reached the semi-finals of the FA Cup, mainland Europe was bracing itself for a long period of attrition. Sixty seven years later and our Fancy Dan continental cousins are on the verge of yet another sustained campaign as the mighty Lions are just ninety minutes away from an unlikely UEFA Cup place. With only Mick McCarthy's Sunderland to overcome in the semis, imagine the fun we can have teaching the French the words to 'No One Likes Us' - actually, this could become the adopted French National Anthem.
And so Greg Rusedski has been given the go-ahead to grace the rolling fields of SW19 down at Wimbledon this summer. Smiling Greg (if you’ve ever seen his missus then you'd understand why) found himself in a spot of bother you may remember with the authorities; nope, not for falling foul of David Blunkett's draconian new immigration policy requiring all British citizens to swear like a South London docker rather than a passport waving phoney patriot, but the man with a grin wider than Niagara Falls was accused of taking something a little stronger than Viagra. Back to that smile again. Conclusive proof that the Battersea Boy (yeah, right...) is not a bona fide Brit came when Greg was asked to empty the contents of his bowels into the bucket; unlike the preoccupied Peckham drugs test dodger Rio, Smiling Boy managed to turn up ON TIME. Stick to the Barley water next time though eh Greg?
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Polo Pricks
There's only one thing worse than Jolly Hockey Sticks and that's Jolly Polo Sticks. Twice the fun though when you're trying to shove the wooden hammers up the arse of the Public School boy pricks that swing them around as compensation for their own lack of plankage down below in the jodhpurs department.
Throw in some truculent Tarquin and Tallulah marketing fuckspuds and you have forty five minutes of the most nauseous TV since It's A Royal Knock Out (which sadly wasn't themed on blue blooded bastards (that will be Prince Harry) entering a boxing ring and having the bells bashed out of them by Mike Tyson).
Trouble at the Top on BBC2 on Thursday night was public service broadcasting masquerading as free publicity for the pathetically named Preta Polo, a sports marketing company whose basic business plan involved conning gullible blue chip organisations out of some serious dosh and then throwing a wheeze of a party for all their family and friends.
Sexing up the business was the presence of Jodi Kidd, a former 'grunge' waif of a supermodel who we can assume probably doesn’t own a copy of Nevermind and if you mention the name Kurt Cobain to her, the response would probably be:
'Ya, super dahhhhling; let's invite him to our next party. Got his number sweetie?'
This is the direction that Trouble at the Top took for the first half hour as the spunky bright young things potted and planned the launch party for their company. My understanding of business models is not quite up there with Sir John Harvey Jones but I couldn't quite see how any 'serious money' (which was the buzz phrase) was going to be made by inviting some knobber celebs along to what was essentially an up-market village fete.
The wish list that Jodi and her fellow blonde bombshells were trying bring on board read like a Who's Who of the onionbagblog Villain list:
JK, Martine McCutcheon, Richard and Judy, Anna Friel, Jamie and Louise, Jamie and Jools and Duncan from Blue. That's DUNCAN FROM BLUE for fucks sake.
When James Nesbitt was unaccounted for and Jodi was throwing a hissy fit into her mobile ('Have you got James’ number? Well, have you??!!'), onionbagblogger could be found stretching out on his settee, scratching his balls and shouting back at the TV:
'Calm down dear. If you really want to contact Jimmy then you could do a lot worse than head down to Brockwell Lido where he can be found most summer afternoons parading around in his shreddies, lying next to some big black Brixton mumma and trying to avoid his mobile and daft bints like you and your fellow Polo twats.'
As the big day approached and with a major sponsor surprisingly on board (Virgin Holidays), filofaxes were flung aside as the shallow folk of Preta Polo pondered the most pressing issue hanging over the party: Goldfish or not as the centre piece of each table decoration? It's a daily dilemma I have as I settle down with my chips and saveloy just as the credits for Coronation Street kick in.
It soon became clear that Preta Polo's profits were to be forged on association. Bring together a marquee of arse wipe celebs and allow your crap sponsors to brown nose them with all the subtlety of Julian Clary rimming Robbie Williams. Brand proximity was being raised up the flagpole faster then a swarm of flies swarming around a freshly laid turd. Which wasn’t too far removed from the whole celeb / brand relationship thing actually.
A 'communication breakdown' was the response given with the 'unexpected delivery' of an Astin Martin outside the Big Top just before the first chukka was thrown (apparently a polo term but there was plenty of more rustic chuckkas being thrown inside the marquee once the cheap champers mixed in with the goldfish).
An 'unexpected delivery?' How the hell did that happen then? I wake up most mornings, brush aside the curtains in Sunny Stockwell and then yell:
'Fuck me, not another bloody freebie on my doorstep. Get me Ferrari on the phone - NOW?'
Like organising some end of term summer ball, it was all a big game for Preta Pola. This WASN'T a career choice – if it all goes tits up then there's always Daddy's Diner card to bail you out. Comes in handy cutting up the coke as well.
With the last champagne cork popped and Tarquin and Tallulah looking jolly squiffy (not to mention pig face UGLY), Preta Pola decided to diversify. Why stop at polo when you can organise corporate jollies such as Preta Golf, Preta Ski and Preta Prickhead?
All of which has given onionbagblogger an idea; I'm gonna start up my own sports marketing 'synergy' company, organising weekends away taking in non-league football grounds, obscure British ice hockey rinks and the occasional foray into darts from Frimley Green.
Anyone got the number for Richard Branson?
| Thursday 18 March, 2004 |
There's only one thing worse than Jolly Hockey Sticks and that's Jolly Polo Sticks. Twice the fun though when you're trying to shove the wooden hammers up the arse of the Public School boy pricks that swing them around as compensation for their own lack of plankage down below in the jodhpurs department.
Throw in some truculent Tarquin and Tallulah marketing fuckspuds and you have forty five minutes of the most nauseous TV since It's A Royal Knock Out (which sadly wasn't themed on blue blooded bastards (that will be Prince Harry) entering a boxing ring and having the bells bashed out of them by Mike Tyson).
Allow your sponsors to brown nose the celebs with all the subtlety of Julian Clary rimming Robbie Williams |
Sexing up the business was the presence of Jodi Kidd, a former 'grunge' waif of a supermodel who we can assume probably doesn’t own a copy of Nevermind and if you mention the name Kurt Cobain to her, the response would probably be:
'Ya, super dahhhhling; let's invite him to our next party. Got his number sweetie?'
This is the direction that Trouble at the Top took for the first half hour as the spunky bright young things potted and planned the launch party for their company. My understanding of business models is not quite up there with Sir John Harvey Jones but I couldn't quite see how any 'serious money' (which was the buzz phrase) was going to be made by inviting some knobber celebs along to what was essentially an up-market village fete.
The wish list that Jodi and her fellow blonde bombshells were trying bring on board read like a Who's Who of the onionbagblog Villain list:
JK, Martine McCutcheon, Richard and Judy, Anna Friel, Jamie and Louise, Jamie and Jools and Duncan from Blue. That's DUNCAN FROM BLUE for fucks sake.
When James Nesbitt was unaccounted for and Jodi was throwing a hissy fit into her mobile ('Have you got James’ number? Well, have you??!!'), onionbagblogger could be found stretching out on his settee, scratching his balls and shouting back at the TV:
'Calm down dear. If you really want to contact Jimmy then you could do a lot worse than head down to Brockwell Lido where he can be found most summer afternoons parading around in his shreddies, lying next to some big black Brixton mumma and trying to avoid his mobile and daft bints like you and your fellow Polo twats.'
As the big day approached and with a major sponsor surprisingly on board (Virgin Holidays), filofaxes were flung aside as the shallow folk of Preta Polo pondered the most pressing issue hanging over the party: Goldfish or not as the centre piece of each table decoration? It's a daily dilemma I have as I settle down with my chips and saveloy just as the credits for Coronation Street kick in.
It soon became clear that Preta Polo's profits were to be forged on association. Bring together a marquee of arse wipe celebs and allow your crap sponsors to brown nose them with all the subtlety of Julian Clary rimming Robbie Williams. Brand proximity was being raised up the flagpole faster then a swarm of flies swarming around a freshly laid turd. Which wasn’t too far removed from the whole celeb / brand relationship thing actually.
A 'communication breakdown' was the response given with the 'unexpected delivery' of an Astin Martin outside the Big Top just before the first chukka was thrown (apparently a polo term but there was plenty of more rustic chuckkas being thrown inside the marquee once the cheap champers mixed in with the goldfish).
An 'unexpected delivery?' How the hell did that happen then? I wake up most mornings, brush aside the curtains in Sunny Stockwell and then yell:
'Fuck me, not another bloody freebie on my doorstep. Get me Ferrari on the phone - NOW?'
Like organising some end of term summer ball, it was all a big game for Preta Pola. This WASN'T a career choice – if it all goes tits up then there's always Daddy's Diner card to bail you out. Comes in handy cutting up the coke as well.
With the last champagne cork popped and Tarquin and Tallulah looking jolly squiffy (not to mention pig face UGLY), Preta Pola decided to diversify. Why stop at polo when you can organise corporate jollies such as Preta Golf, Preta Ski and Preta Prickhead?
All of which has given onionbagblogger an idea; I'm gonna start up my own sports marketing 'synergy' company, organising weekends away taking in non-league football grounds, obscure British ice hockey rinks and the occasional foray into darts from Frimley Green.
Anyone got the number for Richard Branson?
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Crap Season Report
| Wednesday 17 March, 2004 |
The history books for the London Racers state that Year Zero was April 5 2003 (1936 my arse), when a londonracers.com advertising board made a shock appearance at the Play-Off Finals in Nottingham.
'You can stick yer London Racers up yer arse...' wasn't exactly an open arms welcome from the Knights hardcore as their team crashed out of the play-offs and then out of business.
Oscar the Dog was the dogs bollox |
As the countdown to the season starter at home to Sheffield on September 12 grew closer, the rumour machine went into overdrive; no ice time (WRONG), no players (WRONG) and no coach (WRO, er hang on, we never did get to the bottom of that one did we?).
After a summer of abstinence and lured by the prospect of ending a five year affair for a filthy new fling (more like a case of Any Port in a Storm to be honest), onionbagblogger overlooked all pre-season principles and made the trek up THAT bloody back breaking hill, tempted by the soiled fruit of another and ready to cream himself all over the sight of the first six footer hockey haired Johnny on the Spot waving his big stick in my direction. Absence makes the hockey heart grow fonder.
For the record the first franchise fray finished London Racers 1 Sheffield Steelers 6 - never mind, we'll win by Christmas. This was by no means a disaster for a club that had literally just landed on its feet; signs of an ardent fan base were in place, Ally Pally had a 'touchy feely don't stray too near to the netting' spirit and Oscar the Dog was the dogs bollox. You scratch mine, I'll scratch yours.
One month in and like yer man Elton said, I'm Still Standing. Thankfully the bank balance wasn’t linked to the wins column deficit, although there were signs of improvement with new Coach Ekroth on board and a narrow 2-1 away defeat at Coventry mid-October pointing to promising times ahead. We'll win by Christmas.
Coach Ekroth was now starting to build his own roster with a higher count of player turnovers than puck turnovers. The elusive first franchise win was only three minutes away at home to Coventry at the end of October with the game ending up 4-4 after overtime. We'll win by Christmas.
As the festive season approached, the seedy allure of Ally Pally was now starting to lose some of its faded dirty slapper (shot) glory; face-offs were becoming later (kick the kiddies off the ice and not support junior development? What do you think this is guv, some sort of lip service of a league?), the rink clock looked like it hadn’t been used since 1936 (bet that was a Racers loss as well) and the PA system made the man with the most seductive voice in UK hockey sound as sexy as Oliver Letwin trying to chat up your teenage daughter.
Time for a re-think. A 9-3 home defeat at the hands of Belfast (we'll win by Christmas...) blew away any notion that Old Time Hockey in an ageing barn would intimidate our flash arena loving, Quo dancing money to burn big boy opposition. What we need is a rink that is somehow even more difficult to reach than Ally Pally, has less ambience than a cow shed, and here comes the clincher: Let's announce the blatant franchise hopping overnight with all the subtly of a blink and you’ll miss it refresh of a web page without even consulting or telling the few season ticket holders that have stood by us through thin and thinner.
Sounds like a plan to me.
'You can stick yer Lee Valley up your arse' etc, there's NO WAY Jose that onionbagblogger is going travel across half of the London Underground network on a freezing Friday night to reach some East End Badlands, when the bright lights of the swinging big city and promises of debauchery with wild women and wanton West End girls are vying for my attention and wallet.
Lee Valley it is then.
'What do you want for Christmas?' asked Mrs onionbagblogger. 'Um, a Racers win would be nice' I replied as she gave me one of those puzzled 'shit, he REALLY does believe in Father Christmas' looks. We'll win by... Whoops.
Boasting the worst ever record in British pro-hockey may have been character building but it was unlikely to bring Wayne Gretzky out of retirement. Or Greg Burke for that matter. New Racers, New Rink, New... Coach.
Jason Robinson stepped up to the blue line raising both team morale and the standard of play. It proved to be third time lucky for the Racers when on January 30, the winless wonders turned over a Cardiff team (Maxwell, Vez, Boy Ware et al) 3-0 and left onionbagblogger on a week long high, grinning insanely like a granddad who has just guzzled an entire bottle of Viagra and then found Gwyneth Paltrow battering down the door. Get down boy! Oscar that is...
With mission accomplished and that elusive first franchise win under their jock straps (I must have got my calendar confused – Christmas clearly means Easter), Racers resisted the temptation to simply skate off into the sunset clutching their pay cheques and form an orderly queue to sign up for Steelers / Panthers / Weightwatchers next season.
The Pussies from Nottingham were rubbed up the wrong way in a 3-2 OT win; Bison were beaten in a 4-0 home shut out and Laughing Boy Boniface was given a warm East End welcome when he mistakenly turned up to ref a match when he was expecting to strut his 'I'm too sexy for my helmet' routine at the Bike Shed as Phoenix put seven past the Big Red Machine.
And so we come full circle to Last Man Standing at the Nottingham Play-Offs. Except that the Racers were well and truly skittled over by, ooh, mid-October and so we can all look forward to a stress free Nottingham weekend spent Steeler sniggering. Just don’t be too surprised to walk into the NIC and see a flash billboard proclaiming 'London Knights – the RETURN.'
Yeah right, if they have a league to play in, can get any ice time, fans etc.
As for the Racers? Stability would be nice with a few returning faces for the new season. High on onionbagblogger's wish list would be Ice Maiden Joy Tottman, the Shots on Target Behind the Net Babe (she can mark my card ANY day) and of course the Walthamstow Bag Lady.
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Piss Poor
Not so much taking the piss, more like pissing in the water yet again down at South London's finest cess pool, aka Brixton Rec. Which marketing douche bag had the bright idea of a bladder emptying Lucozade Sport sampler session BEFORE the piss happy armband wearing brats take to the public pool and mistake it for a giant sized potty?
That's right – to relieve the boredom of queuing up at Brixton Rec (average waiting time: double the duration of your swim), kiddies are offered a free dose of the devil's drink, served up by some sharp suited Donny Osmond smiling schmuck.
Minutes later (or possibly hours, depends if the lovely Teresa is working on the till or not) the bladder bursting bairns have the option of either wading bare-footed across the vast lakes leading up to the urinals formed out of over-pouring piddle, or cross their little legs, wait until they hit the shallow end and then make their own personal contribution in raising the temperature of the water.
Brings a whole new meaning to the term Water Sports.
Personally I wouldn't want to waste my limited body capacity to process piss in one end and then wait for it to siphon out in the other. Have you ever taken the Lucozade Challenge? In tests, Nine out of ten Brixton winos chose a pint of piss over a bottle of Lucozade Sport. But I think they just wanted to avoid any contact with the suited schmuck to be honest.
If you really were in need of a drink before a swim then isn't that what the sinks with the label DRINKING WATER are for? You would think so, but these also double up as urinals, leaving a sour taste in the mouth, quite literally.
| Tuesday 16 March, 2004 |
Not so much taking the piss, more like pissing in the water yet again down at South London's finest cess pool, aka Brixton Rec. Which marketing douche bag had the bright idea of a bladder emptying Lucozade Sport sampler session BEFORE the piss happy armband wearing brats take to the public pool and mistake it for a giant sized potty?
That's right – to relieve the boredom of queuing up at Brixton Rec (average waiting time: double the duration of your swim), kiddies are offered a free dose of the devil's drink, served up by some sharp suited Donny Osmond smiling schmuck.
Brings a new meaning to the term Water Sports |
Brings a whole new meaning to the term Water Sports.
Personally I wouldn't want to waste my limited body capacity to process piss in one end and then wait for it to siphon out in the other. Have you ever taken the Lucozade Challenge? In tests, Nine out of ten Brixton winos chose a pint of piss over a bottle of Lucozade Sport. But I think they just wanted to avoid any contact with the suited schmuck to be honest.
If you really were in need of a drink before a swim then isn't that what the sinks with the label DRINKING WATER are for? You would think so, but these also double up as urinals, leaving a sour taste in the mouth, quite literally.
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Teenage Kicks
Yet more joined up thinking from Mr Tony: The minimum wage (as in minimum liability for employers) is to raise to a whopping 'the Milky Bars are on me' THREE fucking pounds an hour for our younger citizens, you know, those tug happy teenagers we deem so valuable to our democracy that we give them the vote yet view them not worthy of earning a decent living wage.
The parallel policy pushed out on the very same day is the government's plans to put an end to binge drinking. Simple: Pay the poor sods a pittance that won't even cover their monthly mobile phone bill leaving them high and dry with not even enough spare change for a bottle of a Hooch.
After a forty hour week spent serving dickheads buying Dido DVDs / laying down one brick, ...and then laying down another / having your hand up the arse of a cow, then surly you're entitled to chuck up enough cherry brandy and cider to give the local bus stop a psychedelic face lift. There could even be a crap reality / makeover TV show potential here: Pubescents: Painting, Puking and on the Piss.
Back in the day, etc, you could go to your local Costcutter, buy twenty Benno & Hedgehogs, a bottle of White Lightening, a packet of three Extra Ribbed (cos girls LOVE a finger of fudge followed by a featherlite flop) and still have enough loose change rattling around to be foolish enough to fork out for the NME.
'Something for the Weekend' now means a bottle of meths to swig, sending you slowly into a comatose so that you can forget about the banality of tossing burgers on a Saturday night when you should really be tossing each other off. Either that or knocking on OAPs doors, knocking over bins and knocking up fifteen years old girls.
I do pity the poor hooded yoof of today.
| Monday 15 March, 2004 |
Yet more joined up thinking from Mr Tony: The minimum wage (as in minimum liability for employers) is to raise to a whopping 'the Milky Bars are on me' THREE fucking pounds an hour for our younger citizens, you know, those tug happy teenagers we deem so valuable to our democracy that we give them the vote yet view them not worthy of earning a decent living wage.
Girls LOVE a finger of fudge followed by a featherlite flop |
After a forty hour week spent serving dickheads buying Dido DVDs / laying down one brick, ...and then laying down another / having your hand up the arse of a cow, then surly you're entitled to chuck up enough cherry brandy and cider to give the local bus stop a psychedelic face lift. There could even be a crap reality / makeover TV show potential here: Pubescents: Painting, Puking and on the Piss.
Back in the day, etc, you could go to your local Costcutter, buy twenty Benno & Hedgehogs, a bottle of White Lightening, a packet of three Extra Ribbed (cos girls LOVE a finger of fudge followed by a featherlite flop) and still have enough loose change rattling around to be foolish enough to fork out for the NME.
'Something for the Weekend' now means a bottle of meths to swig, sending you slowly into a comatose so that you can forget about the banality of tossing burgers on a Saturday night when you should really be tossing each other off. Either that or knocking on OAPs doors, knocking over bins and knocking up fifteen years old girls.
I do pity the poor hooded yoof of today.
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Crap Match Report
| Sunday 14 March, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 4 Ashford Town 0, 13/03/04
Not a great start; after an energy sapping Saturday morning spent polishing the beast between my legs as fast, as hard and as often as possible, the mid-March weather pissed all over my parade as soon as I left the not very Sunny Stockwell. That will teach me to clean my Marin with the Ides of March lurking on the horizon.
It's countdown to Cup Final Day down at Champion Hill with the players positioning themselves for a place in the end of season finale. Not the FA Cup of course (although I would love to see a pink 'n blue boy sticking one right up Dirty Dennis) but the 'it means sweet FA' London Senior Cup.
If diarrhoea erupts in the Tooting changing room, are they even shitter? |
It's a shame that the throbbing masses of Ashford Town FC couldn't get as motivated for this final promotion pushing league tussle; official count for away supporters behind the goal in the first half: ZERO, meaning that I managed to fulfil my lifelong ambition, doubling up the bike locking routine with being a ball boy. I actually got to touch the sacred sack of leather (nothing to do with Stan Collymore), meaning that I won't wash my hands for the next month or so. No change there then.
Hamlet are hitting top form just at the right time of the season. Confidence can be seen throughout the whole team with healthy competition for places within the squad. It will be difficult to displace Omari Coleman though who unleashed possibly the Goal of the Season in the sixteenth minute, drifting further and further out wide on the edge of the area before picking out the top corner, Le Tissier style.
It wasn't quite the signal for Ashford to dial 999 but this didn't stop the Saturday Afternoon Skive Watch form Southwark Fire Station demanding the gates to be opened so that they could catch a freebie. 40% wage demand you say? No smoke without fire, but to be fair, the hose wielding hunks were giving it some of their best bucket shaking charideee routine.
Back on the pitch and Dulwich were on fire; on the half hour Hamlet launched their own three-pronged attack up front. Not quite the same penetrating Leicester City variation, but with Omari Coleman, Craig Dundas and Charley Side all firing on full cylinders, there's no danger of Dulwich shooting blanks at the moment.
Ashford were soon reduced to chasing rainbows and with the timely appearance of a seven coloured spectrum stretching from Streatham to Sydenham just before half time, an away win looked as likely as Bungle, George and Zippy replacing Dyke, Davies and Gillingham at the BBC.
The half time tape loop was a 110% footballer’s honest work rate improvement; Massive Attack, Radiohead and Dubstar – the perfect soundtrack for the hump happy pigeons above my head whose feather splattering antics mirrored all the style, passion and grace of the failed Ashford Town offside trap.
Then the gates opened - not for yet more public sector sympathy seeking freeloaders, but for the Dulwich goal-fest. Charley Side slotted home in the 54th minute after some attacking play down the wing, and then three minutes later, a replica goal killed off the contest with Omari Coleman silencing the non-existent away support (a bit of a philosophical conundrum this one; if no one sits down on it, is it still a chair? If there are no witnesses to a tree falling down then is it still standing? If a mass outbreak of diarrhoea erupts in the Tooting and Mitcham changing room, does this mean that they are shitter than they already are?)
With Dulwich cruising at 3-0 and with play stopped to treat an injured player, Alex O'Brien reminded us all VERY LOULDY that:
'DULWICH ARE FUCKING WINNERS.'
That they may well be, but family friendly? The statement of intent was met with a mixture of girly giggles and mild embarrassment from the tweenagers sitting in front of me. Try that one out in the school assembly girls.
David Moore then added a fourth goal straight from a corner with twenty minutes remaining. A fine effort it was, and O'Brien clearly agreed, celebrating with:
'FUCKING ‘ELL – GET IN THERE!!!!'
I don't think he was referring to the tweenagers. Or the pigeons.
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Crap Match Report| Saturday 13 March, 2004 |
London Racers 3 Sheffield Steelers 6, 12/03/04
A hat trick of Friday night feasts at the Corrugated Chicken Shack; nope, not the THREE Win London Racers (has a nice feel to it, dontcha think?) winning THREE games on the bounce, but THREE consecutive Weekend Welcoming Ginsters Cheese and Onion Slices savoured from the comfort of my tea stained bucket seat in the Lee Valley Bike Shed. BYGOF at Sainsburys, penny pinching puck fans, plus with a hockey game as a minor distraction threatening to break out on the ice, my personal philosophy of pasties, puck and punani was close to perfection. Two out of three ain't bad. Must look harder for a hockey game next time.
I’d rather be a stirrer than a Steeler |
The last home game of a challenging campaign and imagine my shock and awe to find out that the Racers have a pre-game entrance routine; we have a pumping up of the volume; we have a dimming of the lights; we even have a receding hairline belonging to the team owner taking to centre ice to deliver an end of season speech worthy of Oscar winning proportions. But who would want to take home a stumpy little four legged friend who has a habit of relieving himself up against the nearest hockey stick he can find?
If I'd known all of this back in those balmy September evenings then I might have made the effort to have my shit, shower and shave at 6pm instead of waiting for the end of Emmerdale. You can take the puck bunny out of the Woolpack but you can't take the Woolpack out of the puck bunny.
There's nothing quite like a random encounter when you are least expecting it. Just ask Stan Collymore. It was with great joy then that Racers too an unexpected lead ten minutes into the first period when Onion Musil found himself on a breakaway and coolly slotted underneath the pads of Christian Bronsard in the Steelers net.
1-0 up against the league winners and onionbagblogger was close to orgasm. Which is just as well as nine seconds later (a time lapse that is marginally longer than my own bedroom gymnastics 'hitting the rubber' highlights) Steelers screwed over the Racers with a quickie as Mark Dutiaume found the net. I had to double check that the assits weren't from Bliss, Darling. Still, at least Rocket Ron Shudra was firing blanks.
Joel Irving put Steelers 2-1 up at 17:09, selling a dummy to Evan Lindsay, reducing the Racers net minder to the splits before firing into the corner of the net. A bit of rough and tumble then followed behind the Racers net in the closing seconds of the first period.
Racers rode the pressure from a very solid Steelers side until 32:09 in the second when Dion Darling delivered a slap shot staring down the face of Lindsay after Gerad Adams had won the puck in the neutral zone.
Just as the zombiefied Steelers fans were forming an orderly queue to dance like a dork, Mike Peron made it 4-1 leaving the Rockin All Over the World riffraff frozen mid motion like an extra from Michael Jackson's Thriller video. Gosh, I’m looking forward to the play-offs...
The home team took to the ice for the third period and final time this season with The Voice of the Bike Shed reminding us all:
'No smoking, no flashing.'
I was half expecting 'no dogging' to be read out, but then that would be unfair on Oscar.
A puck turnover in neutral ice at 43:47 gave Steelers a 5-1 lead with Joel Irving finding the net. Steve Ellis added a sixth five minutes later with Lindsay unlucky as the puck just crept through his five hole.
Capitan Mon Capitan stepped forward for the Racers with seven minutes left on the clock as Erik Zachrisson restored some respect with a power play effort. Player / Coach JR also led by example, scoring a third for the home team at 57:13.
Highlight: Seasons end and as Tom Petty played out a parting shot as the Bike Shed emptied, Racers were Running Down a Dream.
Live the dream. See you next season.
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Friday Free For All
Dennis the Menace eyeballing Laughing Boy Keane – perhaps not the showpiece FA Cup Final that the Blazer Boys at Soho Square had been hoping for, but Cup glory still remains a distinct possibility down at The Den. The draw for the semis on Monday was perfect for Millwall; stay away from the Big Boys (Ronaldo, Solskjaer, Ashley Cole – oooh stop, you're scaring me already...), scrap it out with some fellow Nationwide cloggers in the semis (that will be Mick McCarthy's Black Pussycats then), setting up a David Vs Goliath Cardiff clash. All metaphorical of course – we don't want 40,000 South London boys (and girls) turning up at the Millennium Stadium armed with slingshots now do we? When the Lions ROAR on Cup Final morning (you'll be bored of the cliche come mid-May), first blow will be landed by Pretty Boy Denny and his South London lads. I somehow can't see the Lions getting in the mood for Abide With Me draped up in some designer dahlia mauve Dolce and Gabbana. A donkey jacket will do. Just the small matter of Tranmere away to settle first; 'A fiver to mind yer car mister?' A bunch of fives to mind your own business?
A sure sign that summer is on its way use to be the annual managerial merry-go-round down at Selhurst. Summer must have arrived early this year as not only did Dowie take up the hot seat before the daffs got a chance to brighten up SE25, but the silly season is also upon us already. How else can you explain the endless 'aving a larf guv' mailshots that I keep on receiving inviting me to part with the best part of thirty quid to watch freaks, cheats and Steve Backley, aka the Norwich Union London Grand Prix at Crystal Palace in July? Here's the legal loophole disclaimer: it may well be that the lycra luvvies are fuelled by nothing more than a heavy dosage of Lucozade Sport. Then again... Why should we cough up to see a circus curiosity show that is hyper-charged up on something a little stronger than cough mixture? Athletics is about as squeaky clean as Ibiza Uncovered and you'd get more sense out of watching the Sydenham Snail Race with Roadrunner as the guest racer.
Talking of Crystal Palace, the London Towers held a Retro Kit night last Saturday during the home court clash with Leicester Riders. Basketball aside, it wasn't a pretty evening; the Towers forgot to supply deodorant to all the thirty something males who turned up in odour stained vests that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since 1992. Yes, you may be a star point guard in waiting but don't forget the Right Guard eh fella?
| Friday 12 March, 2004 |
Dennis the Menace eyeballing Laughing Boy Keane – perhaps not the showpiece FA Cup Final that the Blazer Boys at Soho Square had been hoping for, but Cup glory still remains a distinct possibility down at The Den. The draw for the semis on Monday was perfect for Millwall; stay away from the Big Boys (Ronaldo, Solskjaer, Ashley Cole – oooh stop, you're scaring me already...), scrap it out with some fellow Nationwide cloggers in the semis (that will be Mick McCarthy's Black Pussycats then), setting up a David Vs Goliath Cardiff clash. All metaphorical of course – we don't want 40,000 South London boys (and girls) turning up at the Millennium Stadium armed with slingshots now do we? When the Lions ROAR on Cup Final morning (you'll be bored of the cliche come mid-May), first blow will be landed by Pretty Boy Denny and his South London lads. I somehow can't see the Lions getting in the mood for Abide With Me draped up in some designer dahlia mauve Dolce and Gabbana. A donkey jacket will do. Just the small matter of Tranmere away to settle first; 'A fiver to mind yer car mister?' A bunch of fives to mind your own business?
You’d get more sense watching the Sydenham Snail Race |
Talking of Crystal Palace, the London Towers held a Retro Kit night last Saturday during the home court clash with Leicester Riders. Basketball aside, it wasn't a pretty evening; the Towers forgot to supply deodorant to all the thirty something males who turned up in odour stained vests that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since 1992. Yes, you may be a star point guard in waiting but don't forget the Right Guard eh fella?
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I'm Your Spam
So George Michael has decided that his forthcoming Patience album will be his last 12 inch, so to speak, and that all further releases (musical variety) will be downloadable from his flashturbation friendly website. Won't be the first time that he has dangled his goods out in the great wide open and waited to see what the response is.
Having been passed around the major labels (Sony, Virgin, BMG, back to Sony) more times than a bottle of poppers at a party publicising the pitfalls of posterior pet care, the truth is probably that the big boys won’t touch him, even with yours. Which is a relief.
Either that or Gorgeous George has a new album to plug. Rumours of a collaboration with the Butthole Surfers are unconfirmed.
Yes Georgie Peorgie is easy game but good luck to the fella. He's nothing but a piece of boned meat to the majors and at least there is some charideee element to his future plans. Now, we just need to convince guzzling Elton to go down the same gizmo friendly route.
| Thursday 11 March, 2004 |
So George Michael has decided that his forthcoming Patience album will be his last 12 inch, so to speak, and that all further releases (musical variety) will be downloadable from his flashturbation friendly website. Won't be the first time that he has dangled his goods out in the great wide open and waited to see what the response is.
Having been passed around the major labels (Sony, Virgin, BMG, back to Sony) more times than a bottle of poppers at a party publicising the pitfalls of posterior pet care, the truth is probably that the big boys won’t touch him, even with yours. Which is a relief.
Either that or Gorgeous George has a new album to plug. Rumours of a collaboration with the Butthole Surfers are unconfirmed.
Yes Georgie Peorgie is easy game but good luck to the fella. He's nothing but a piece of boned meat to the majors and at least there is some charideee element to his future plans. Now, we just need to convince guzzling Elton to go down the same gizmo friendly route.
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Currying Favour
The River Thames serves as containment field keeping all the North London knbbers out of the Beautiful South. Sadly there are certain circumstances when even a blogging Pearly King has to place a peg over his nose, talk like a twat and wear a pair of girlie trainers (to fit in with the locals) and cross the Great Grey Watery divide.
Making the switch from Lovely Lambeth to Shitty Southwark is bad enough (being the work commute doesn't exactly help), but when you exit yet another faceless North London tube station and try and work out why the facades are lined with pointless product placements (Naughty North = Arabian Mocha Java, Sexy South = Keith the Key Cutting bloke) then you need to find some familiar faces. Fast.
If it's a Friday night then it's Hockey Night up at the East End badlands of Lee Valley. If it's bodily pleasures that I'm seeking (and who isn't?) and even the ticket touts outside the tube are giving me lergy looks then I know it's time for a monthly detox at the Turkish Baths up at Ironmonger Row.
The only other reason that any self-respecting Brixton bloke should need to make the trip up north to see out chattering cousins ('that’s enough about me dahling, now, let me tell you more about MEEEEE') is of course to have a cheapo vegetarian curry. Preferably on your own and DEFINITELY without an Islington idiot sitting next to you to spoil your satay.
Finding a friendly place to eat in London requires the bullshit detector batteries to be fully charged up; MASH - if I wanted a plate full of potato mix then I would whip out my spatchelor (not for the first time this week); YO! SUSHI – just what you need to un-wind at the end of a factory conveyor belt shitty day, watching factory processed shitty food whiz by you on a conveyor belt; and then there’s Quo Vadis which sadly isn't a cheap 'n cheerful chicken 'n chips joint with a Status Quo tribute band as the entertainment.
Any restaurant that trades under the name of Vegetarian Curry gets the onionbagblog vote. Fancy a curry? Want it to be relatively healthy to boot? Stuff yer face and eat as much as you fucking want until even your farts catch up on each other leading to a strange echo chamber sensation radiating around your rectum?
That will be a table for one then please.
The only drawback to the Veggie Curry house is that it is in Islington. Thankfully not the fickle Upper Street incarnation of Islington where every iPod posing tosser is 'an artist working on a new multi-media concept' (that will be a blog then), but the cheap as chips Chapel Market enclave of N1. You have to briefly pass over Upper Street once you exit Angel but on a good day, and if the traffic isn't too bad, then you should just about be able to hold your nose for long enough.
A short stretch past McDonalds, the Army Surplus and the saucy knickers stall (no Eat as Much as You Like sign there) and you simply can't miss Veggie Curry. There's a big green board outside (reading Veggie Curry...) and with less shame than Christine Hamilton auditioning for Celebrity Prostitute Swap, your perseverance in making it this far is rewarded with the onionbagblog endorsing sign reading: Buffet: 2.95.
Even writing about this is inducing a Pavlovian Dog effect causing my ring piece to resonate louder than a Lee Perry remix.
Fellow clientele (tight arses – quite literally) include students and foreign chaps who can probably empathise with the torture that Phil Collins was going through when he penned the Genesis classic, Illegal Alien.
The first trip to the buffet needs to be carefully thought out; form a ring of rice (three varieties) around the rim of your plate to maximise curry volume, don't overdose on the bargies, and freshen the taste up with some chopped up salad. That's right – salad is a Veggie Curry speciality and serves as a surprising comedown condiment for the peppers that will soon be pebble-dashing your toilet.
With the first plate providing a layer of lining inside, you're now ready to make a meal of it, so to speak, and gorge out as though you have such just changed your surname to Feltz. The skill here is to think with your arse and not your eyes; even at 2.95, you'll feel a right ungrateful, greedy sod if you pile up the piala and have to leave an unfinished plate behind.
Post-meal ambience can be found in observing the many varied posters and signs that adorn the interior of Veggie Curry. Taking up a prominent position overlooking the Gents is a wonderful picture of the 'Indian Vegetarian Bengali Woman of the Year.' You really hope that this honour has been bestowed on some chapatti chick who has furthered the cause of vege curry. Sadly it does what it said on the tin with some semi-naked Bengali babe leaving you with further need for a hot towel.
There’s no point in doing a Google search for:
'cheap+Islington+curry+no+north+London+knobbers'
as it only throws up some Tarquin and Tamara friendly minimalist eating emporium on Upper Street where they probably provide you with a couple of grains of rice and an undercooked chilli, all served up on an Alan Partridge style twelve inch plate. I skim read the first paragraph and the phrase 'average cost per person: twenty pounds' required me to have a long lie down.
The only scenario where onionbagblogger would ever consider parting with twenty quid in North London would be for the cab fare back down South.
Hungry? Starving? Tempted to eat like a twat, bypassing the Veggie Curry house and head for Upper Street instead? onionbagblogger feels morally obliged to remind you of:
World Vision
Oxfam
Christian Aid
| Wednesday 10 March, 2004 |
The River Thames serves as containment field keeping all the North London knbbers out of the Beautiful South. Sadly there are certain circumstances when even a blogging Pearly King has to place a peg over his nose, talk like a twat and wear a pair of girlie trainers (to fit in with the locals) and cross the Great Grey Watery divide.
Making the switch from Lovely Lambeth to Shitty Southwark is bad enough (being the work commute doesn't exactly help), but when you exit yet another faceless North London tube station and try and work out why the facades are lined with pointless product placements (Naughty North = Arabian Mocha Java, Sexy South = Keith the Key Cutting bloke) then you need to find some familiar faces. Fast.
My ring piece is resonating louder than a Lee Perry remix |
The only other reason that any self-respecting Brixton bloke should need to make the trip up north to see out chattering cousins ('that’s enough about me dahling, now, let me tell you more about MEEEEE') is of course to have a cheapo vegetarian curry. Preferably on your own and DEFINITELY without an Islington idiot sitting next to you to spoil your satay.
Finding a friendly place to eat in London requires the bullshit detector batteries to be fully charged up; MASH - if I wanted a plate full of potato mix then I would whip out my spatchelor (not for the first time this week); YO! SUSHI – just what you need to un-wind at the end of a factory conveyor belt shitty day, watching factory processed shitty food whiz by you on a conveyor belt; and then there’s Quo Vadis which sadly isn't a cheap 'n cheerful chicken 'n chips joint with a Status Quo tribute band as the entertainment.
Any restaurant that trades under the name of Vegetarian Curry gets the onionbagblog vote. Fancy a curry? Want it to be relatively healthy to boot? Stuff yer face and eat as much as you fucking want until even your farts catch up on each other leading to a strange echo chamber sensation radiating around your rectum?
That will be a table for one then please.
The only drawback to the Veggie Curry house is that it is in Islington. Thankfully not the fickle Upper Street incarnation of Islington where every iPod posing tosser is 'an artist working on a new multi-media concept' (that will be a blog then), but the cheap as chips Chapel Market enclave of N1. You have to briefly pass over Upper Street once you exit Angel but on a good day, and if the traffic isn't too bad, then you should just about be able to hold your nose for long enough.
A short stretch past McDonalds, the Army Surplus and the saucy knickers stall (no Eat as Much as You Like sign there) and you simply can't miss Veggie Curry. There's a big green board outside (reading Veggie Curry...) and with less shame than Christine Hamilton auditioning for Celebrity Prostitute Swap, your perseverance in making it this far is rewarded with the onionbagblog endorsing sign reading: Buffet: 2.95.
Even writing about this is inducing a Pavlovian Dog effect causing my ring piece to resonate louder than a Lee Perry remix.
Fellow clientele (tight arses – quite literally) include students and foreign chaps who can probably empathise with the torture that Phil Collins was going through when he penned the Genesis classic, Illegal Alien.
The first trip to the buffet needs to be carefully thought out; form a ring of rice (three varieties) around the rim of your plate to maximise curry volume, don't overdose on the bargies, and freshen the taste up with some chopped up salad. That's right – salad is a Veggie Curry speciality and serves as a surprising comedown condiment for the peppers that will soon be pebble-dashing your toilet.
With the first plate providing a layer of lining inside, you're now ready to make a meal of it, so to speak, and gorge out as though you have such just changed your surname to Feltz. The skill here is to think with your arse and not your eyes; even at 2.95, you'll feel a right ungrateful, greedy sod if you pile up the piala and have to leave an unfinished plate behind.
Post-meal ambience can be found in observing the many varied posters and signs that adorn the interior of Veggie Curry. Taking up a prominent position overlooking the Gents is a wonderful picture of the 'Indian Vegetarian Bengali Woman of the Year.' You really hope that this honour has been bestowed on some chapatti chick who has furthered the cause of vege curry. Sadly it does what it said on the tin with some semi-naked Bengali babe leaving you with further need for a hot towel.
There’s no point in doing a Google search for:
'cheap+Islington+curry+no+north+London+knobbers'
as it only throws up some Tarquin and Tamara friendly minimalist eating emporium on Upper Street where they probably provide you with a couple of grains of rice and an undercooked chilli, all served up on an Alan Partridge style twelve inch plate. I skim read the first paragraph and the phrase 'average cost per person: twenty pounds' required me to have a long lie down.
The only scenario where onionbagblogger would ever consider parting with twenty quid in North London would be for the cab fare back down South.
Hungry? Starving? Tempted to eat like a twat, bypassing the Veggie Curry house and head for Upper Street instead? onionbagblogger feels morally obliged to remind you of:
World Vision
Oxfam
Christian Aid
| #permalink |
Tuesday Two Line Poetry
Dulwich promoted, Tooting not.
Oh woe, my sniffling cold – keep me off work another day.
GM crops decision? Two heads are better than one.
Washing machine woe – eighty pounds to stop the flow? Don’t think so...
Westlife spilt. Don’t give a shit.
Pizza, Playstation and pissflaps.com – post-work pleasure.
Squeaky clean jump jockeys? Wouldn't bet on it.
Ladyboys – they do Ron Ron Ronaldo.
| Tuesday 9 March, 2004 |
Dulwich promoted, Tooting not.
Oh woe, my sniffling cold – keep me off work another day.
GM crops decision? Two heads are better than one.
Washing machine woe – eighty pounds to stop the flow? Don’t think so...
Westlife spilt. Don’t give a shit.
Pizza, Playstation and pissflaps.com – post-work pleasure.
Squeaky clean jump jockeys? Wouldn't bet on it.
Ladyboys – they do Ron Ron Ronaldo.
| #permalink |
Mondays Musings
Counting Crows - Hanging Around
Like a bad smell. Mr Jones may have been the blueprint for oooh, a little bit edgy, ahhh, there's a dreadlock, mmm smell the Americana corporate radio friendly starbucks.alt generation, but any group that is responsible for Dave Matthews Band, Grant Lee Buffalo and Hootie and his Bloody Blowfish should take off their belts and try some Hangingaround Michael Hutchence style.
Cypress Hill - What's Your Number
Exactly how have the Hill managed to be still making records after smoking enough Camberwell Carrots to fill Clapham Common? Insane in the... etc. Still, B-Real seems to be, well, for real. Shame he didn't get it on with Laughing Boy Morello and Rage Against The Machine, rather than that codpiece cunt Chris Cornell.
Fountain's of Wayne - Stacy's Mom
I once had the misfortune to work with some slapper called Stacy; if Stacy's Mom is even half the paranoid, coked up, bitching twisted old witch that Stacy was, I really can't see the point in recording a song eulogising the silly cow.
Counting Crows, Cypress Hill, Fountains... jeez – what is this? 1992? You’ll be telling me next that Carter are still gigging, Boy Lamacq is still broadcasting and Sunderland are on the verge of the FA Cup final.
Gomez - Catch Me Up
There doesn't really seem to be much point to Gomez in 2004. 78 Stone Wobble, Get Myself Arrested and Whippin' Piccadilly brought a much needed fresh approach during the fag end of Britpop, but like all post-grad students, Gomez have now grown up, got rid of the zits and listened to too much Ry Cooder . Nice unofficial website though.
Graham Coxon - Freakin' Out
Gotta love Graham. An album a month (almost) and each one containing ever thinly veiled comments addressing his current relationship with Dan Abnormal. You almost expect the title track to be called 'Damon You're Grade A Knobber With a Silly Bint of an Ex-Girlfriend Who I Shagged Anyway Back in '95 While You Were on the Brown and Too Busy Thinking About Your Cheekbones in the Parklife Vid.' Sounds like a winner. Look forward to hearing it on TOTP.
Jamie Cullam - These Are The Days
How can you take any 'artist' seriously whose whole rapid rise of a career to date can be explained as nothing more than a Middle England endorsement from King Prick Parkie on a Saturday night? Do you think Gang of Four forged their cultural post-punk legacy by making small talk with the fuckspud Barnsley Boy as Parkie looked nervously in the wings and waited for Nicole Kidman to make her entrance? About as dangerous as a cold cup of tea.
The Vines - Ride
You can almost hear the collective sigh coming from the IPC Tower in Waterloo down here in Sunny Stockwell when this dropped in the post for the boys at the NME. Jet, Keane and the laughable Franz Ferdinand just about managed to keep the 'Nu Rock Revolution' on track (all together now – YOU STUPID FUCKING WANKERS – a musical scene is not a cut and paste project that you put together as publication day approaches). And here comes the return of the Big Mac munching flag wavers of the whole sorry scene. Grunge had Nirvana; Madchester had the Roses and the Mondays; punk had the Pistols. The Vines? Any band with a jumped a squirt of a lead singer that throws more tantrums than Cartman in South Park (and is less good looking) and has all the musical ability of a trapped elevator is only worthy of a backwards self-centred generation whose concept of rebellion is nothing more than sending a flirty txt message.
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?
All singles are released today.
Mass Mondays Musings
| Monday 8 March, 2004 |
Counting Crows - Hanging Around
Like a bad smell. Mr Jones may have been the blueprint for oooh, a little bit edgy, ahhh, there's a dreadlock, mmm smell the Americana corporate radio friendly starbucks.alt generation, but any group that is responsible for Dave Matthews Band, Grant Lee Buffalo and Hootie and his Bloody Blowfish should take off their belts and try some Hangingaround Michael Hutchence style.
Cypress Hill - What's Your Number
Exactly how have the Hill managed to be still making records after smoking enough Camberwell Carrots to fill Clapham Common? Insane in the... etc. Still, B-Real seems to be, well, for real. Shame he didn't get it on with Laughing Boy Morello and Rage Against The Machine, rather than that codpiece cunt Chris Cornell.
Fountain's of Wayne - Stacy's Mom
I once had the misfortune to work with some slapper called Stacy; if Stacy's Mom is even half the paranoid, coked up, bitching twisted old witch that Stacy was, I really can't see the point in recording a song eulogising the silly cow.
Counting Crows, Cypress Hill, Fountains... jeez – what is this? 1992? You’ll be telling me next that Carter are still gigging, Boy Lamacq is still broadcasting and Sunderland are on the verge of the FA Cup final.
Gomez - Catch Me Up
There doesn't really seem to be much point to Gomez in 2004. 78 Stone Wobble, Get Myself Arrested and Whippin' Piccadilly brought a much needed fresh approach during the fag end of Britpop, but like all post-grad students, Gomez have now grown up, got rid of the zits and listened to too much Ry Cooder . Nice unofficial website though.
Graham Coxon - Freakin' Out
Gotta love Graham. An album a month (almost) and each one containing ever thinly veiled comments addressing his current relationship with Dan Abnormal. You almost expect the title track to be called 'Damon You're Grade A Knobber With a Silly Bint of an Ex-Girlfriend Who I Shagged Anyway Back in '95 While You Were on the Brown and Too Busy Thinking About Your Cheekbones in the Parklife Vid.' Sounds like a winner. Look forward to hearing it on TOTP.
Jamie Cullam - These Are The Days
How can you take any 'artist' seriously whose whole rapid rise of a career to date can be explained as nothing more than a Middle England endorsement from King Prick Parkie on a Saturday night? Do you think Gang of Four forged their cultural post-punk legacy by making small talk with the fuckspud Barnsley Boy as Parkie looked nervously in the wings and waited for Nicole Kidman to make her entrance? About as dangerous as a cold cup of tea.
The Vines - Ride
You can almost hear the collective sigh coming from the IPC Tower in Waterloo down here in Sunny Stockwell when this dropped in the post for the boys at the NME. Jet, Keane and the laughable Franz Ferdinand just about managed to keep the 'Nu Rock Revolution' on track (all together now – YOU STUPID FUCKING WANKERS – a musical scene is not a cut and paste project that you put together as publication day approaches). And here comes the return of the Big Mac munching flag wavers of the whole sorry scene. Grunge had Nirvana; Madchester had the Roses and the Mondays; punk had the Pistols. The Vines? Any band with a jumped a squirt of a lead singer that throws more tantrums than Cartman in South Park (and is less good looking) and has all the musical ability of a trapped elevator is only worthy of a backwards self-centred generation whose concept of rebellion is nothing more than sending a flirty txt message.
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?
All singles are released today.
Mass Mondays Musings
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Sunday 7 March, 2004 |
London Racers 2 Manchester Phoenix 7, 05/03/04
As a school kid I use to think that my name was 'Get Lost' as this is what the other children called me in the playground. Twenty five years later and it wouldn’t surprise me to wake up one morning and find that the Victoria Line has been re-named 'Severe Delays'; no need to tread over old track – all you need to know is that you would probably get more reliability out of an antique Ally Pally scoreboard.
The Big Red Machine has been undergoing its own re-branding exercise recently; long gone are the days when the official Ice Hockey Elite League table listed the 'No Win London Racers' as propping up the pile. Three wins notched up and they ought to re-name the entire league after the East End Winged Wonders.
A contender for Goal of the Season - not that we've seen that many |
Arriving fifteen seconds after face off (a new personal best that I will be hard pressed to beat), the Corrugated Chicken Shack was heaving. Who were all these new people? Lost tourists looking for Starlight Express? A gathering of local Freemasons? (There was a strange selection of secretive hand gestures taking place, mostly directed at Referee Boniface which involved shuffling a cupped hand violently backwards and forwards and spurting out (steady) a rich vocabulary that was new to me – more of that later).
Or perhaps they were simply hockey fans that have finally decided to come on board the Big Red Racers Fun Bus after the recent triumphs. Even with only one game remaining this season, the more the merrier.
Given the bumper crowd, you would have thought though that Racers DJ Central may have learnt a few lessons from our Lord Saviour; many a Sunday Service has seen a mass exodus over the years with the sound of a church emptying organ. The pulpit pianists may not perform The Adams / Bracknell Family routine during Evening Mass, but hockey needs Devil worshipping kick ass Rock 'n Roll (or even Nickelback) as opposed to an old time hockey organ grinding it out and emptying the building.
I managed to blag my usual seat, one of the very few that remained empty. My little mishap with the unfortunate staining incident last Tuesday (an over-excitable flask) probably put people off.
Making possibly his last appearance on London ice ahead of his impending retirement was Phoenix Player / Coach Tricky Ricky Brebant. The ex-Wasps, Devils, Panthers, Cobras, Storm, Knights, Steeler (so many friends, so few enemies) sharp shooter set up the first goal; with 14:19 remaining in the period, Ricky Boy played a perfect pass on a five on three power play that was put home by Mike Morin. George Awada added a second goal two minutes later.
Racers replied in the best way possible with a net buster straight from a face off when 'Taiters' Tait proved he was no spud face, netting with the clock on 6:49, leaving a 2-1 score line at the first period break.
Five minutes into the second period and I was taking tips from Mike Morin of the Phoenix on how to melt the heart of ice maiden / sometime stripey Joy Tottman; words were exchanged, the scoreboard was pointed up at and there was a faint flicker of an innocent smile to be seen across the face of the luring lineswoman. I'm no skilled lip-reader but I could have sworn that Morin said: 'one period and fifteen seconds to go Joy before you can ask onionbagblogger to accompany you to the Racers end of season party.'
Tottman’s fellow ruler of the line, the fresh faced Young, was having his own eyeball to eyeball contact with Racers Player / Coach Jason Robinson; JR was giving the barcode boy the hair dryer treatment, a bollocking so severe that even behind the safety of the plexi, I could sample the pre-game meal eaten by the team.
Five minutes into the second period and ex-Knight Mark Bultje scored on the power play for Phoenix with Racers net minder Lindsey unhappy with an unhinged goal net. Mike Morin grabbed a fourth goal at 28:59, pulling Lindsey left, and then right before finding the space between the pipes. 'The Glove' kept Racers in the game with a series of pad saves mid-period until Awada hit high upstairs to find a fifth for Phoenix at 37:14.
Racers switched net minders at the start of the third giving Van Der Velden some practise between the pipes.
With just under fifteen minutes remaining in the game, the big question buzzing around the Bike Shed was: Who shot? JR? Which is a round about way of saying that Jason Robinson put the Racers back into the game with a power play blue liner.
Chad Brandimore (dontcha just love the BRITISH Elite League?) killed off the game at 49:09 taking advantage of mass confusion in the Racers defence.
Mike Morin capped his hat-trick (and no doubt a cheeky wink from ice maiden Tottman) with seven minutes left on the clock; Brebant became tangled up behind his own net, and just as onionbagblogger was about to shout out 'bet that's not the first time you’ve given yourself carpet burn in public Brebant', the #93 delivered the perfect pass down centre ice to pick out Morin at the far post. A genuine contender for Goal of the Season. Not that we’ve seen that many, mind.
And so on to Referee Boniface; swashbuckling Nigel was clearly treating the game as an audition for the End of Pier Summer Season that he no doubt stars in post-play offs. Have you ever seen a more camper, arrogant show stopper than the Great Orange Arm Banded One? Arms flapping, chest pouted out and with a smile somewhere between Larry Grayson and Goofy, Referee Boniface baffled fans of both teams, and no doubt the five finger shuffling Freemasons as well.
Calls went the wrong way; the game flowed with about as much grace as a factory conveyor belt on the blink, and then come the final thirty seconds and with Racers dead and buried at 7-2 down, ten minute misconducts were dished out to Marc Long and Mark Scott. Come back Clouty, all is forgiven.
'That was a very INTERESTING' game, concluded The Voice of the Bike Shed over the PA system come the final buzzer.
onionbagblogger interpretation:
'If I wanted to see a One Man Show where an egotistical pantomime dame hams it up to the gallery and fails to see the reality of what is going off all round him then I would have gone to Prime Minister's Questions in the Commons.'
Can my honourable friend confirm the suggestion that Boniface is a cockney Banker during the day?
I refer the honourable gentleman to the answer I gave in the fourth paragraph.
|
Crap Picture Gallery
Crap Match Report Compendium
london racers official site
london racers vid clips
| #permalink |
Stumped for Words
Quiet Media Week for The Guardian then; Monday's supplement (still catching up – onionbagblog bog reading material) carried an 'objective and highly informative piece of original journalism' explaining how those nice folk at Vodafone (Voda-bloody-PHONE thank you very much – do we want to breed a nation of retards?) are assisting the England cricket team to achieve their first Test tour victory in the Windies for thirty six years.
Aside from a piss poor headline ('They Think it’s all Overs...'), the slap happy four hundred word wrap was kindly penned by Nigel (irrational I know, but alarm bells start to ring at this stage) Currie, Vice-President, Europe (woo hoo, get you) of some funky new 'convergence' company trading under the name of the the GEM Group (I wouldn't bother clicking through - they have a nasty flasturbation of a site).
Oh, did onionbagblogger mention that the GEM Group just happen to work with Vodafone? The Guardian at least has the decency to namecheck this, which kinda devalues the whole cut and paste press release of a story.
At least onionbagblogger has the integrity to write ORIGINAL crap.
We're bowling slightly off stump here; back to the run chase. Exactly how will the merging of the most unlikely of minds (the egg and bacon tie wearing old boy brigade of the MCC and the corporate sharks at Vodafone) benefit Butch, Batty and all our other brave boys whose surname doesn't begin with a B and who will probably be bowling the maidens over (they started this cliche crap) in the Caribbean?
By investing heavily in grass roots cricket? By developing an academy for our promising young players? By using a Vodafone to call up Botham and beg him to have one last bash?
Nope, by giving the flannel wearing chaps the latest txting, WAP enabled, video streaming hand held gizmo. Just what you need out in the field when Brian Lara is stroking the ball through the slips and heading for another 500 plus turkey shoot:
'I know, I think I’ll log on to The Guardian website back in good 'ol Blightly and read the latest press release that they have posted masquerading as a news story.'
'CATCH!!!!'
'Whoops sorry guys, just had an incoming txt from the missus.'
The Sony Ericcson T610 (the 'preferred model' of the touring party) apparently features Bluetooth wireless technology. This means Jack Shit to me and you can bet that it probably isn't going to feature high in Michael Vaughan's team talks (unless of course as a variation of 'is that a Vodafone in your pocket or just an update on the Athers ball tampering routine?')
Delivering some cutting edge journalism, The Guardian then elaborates how: 'the Vodafone Rapide (nope, me neither) will keep players up to date with practise times (as much and as often as possible one would hope), transport arrangements, dress codes (jock straps or thongs today boys?), team meetings, functions, hotel bookings, meal times and anything else that needs to be communicated urgently.'
In short then, everything apart form wiping the arses of the England XI, something that will need to be done frequently when squaring up to the West Indies attack.
Cricket and crap mobiles of course have a bit of history; Beefy Botham famously handed his brick sized beast over to Dickie Bird (we're talking phones remember) in the late '80s for a bit of classic English slapstick that is forever drudged up in those endless 'no characters left in sport' debates that 5Live runs on a quiet news day.
The dastardly mobile was at least being used as a comedy prop then. Vodafone is now officially the 'preferred mobile technology for the touring English party.' Which of course means that they stumped up the most dosh. All major touring parties set sail nowadays with a shipload of 'preferred suppliers' to help them get through the harsh realities of a West Indies summer: Budweiser, Rizla (back to Beefy), Durex etc.
You would think that at least the Blazer Brigade up at Lords could have come up with a more appropriate major tour sponsor. With the expected whitewash of our boys, onionbagblog would like to continue Mr Tony's love of bringing together business and government policy:
England’s Tour of the West Indies, 2004 – brought to you in association with The Hutton Report.
| Friday 5 March, 2004 |
Quiet Media Week for The Guardian then; Monday's supplement (still catching up – onionbagblog bog reading material) carried an 'objective and highly informative piece of original journalism' explaining how those nice folk at Vodafone (Voda-bloody-PHONE thank you very much – do we want to breed a nation of retards?) are assisting the England cricket team to achieve their first Test tour victory in the Windies for thirty six years.
Aside from a piss poor headline ('They Think it’s all Overs...'), the slap happy four hundred word wrap was kindly penned by Nigel (irrational I know, but alarm bells start to ring at this stage) Currie, Vice-President, Europe (woo hoo, get you) of some funky new 'convergence' company trading under the name of the the GEM Group (I wouldn't bother clicking through - they have a nasty flasturbation of a site).
The Ericcson T610 does everything apart form wipe the arses of the England XI |
At least onionbagblogger has the integrity to write ORIGINAL crap.
We're bowling slightly off stump here; back to the run chase. Exactly how will the merging of the most unlikely of minds (the egg and bacon tie wearing old boy brigade of the MCC and the corporate sharks at Vodafone) benefit Butch, Batty and all our other brave boys whose surname doesn't begin with a B and who will probably be bowling the maidens over (they started this cliche crap) in the Caribbean?
By investing heavily in grass roots cricket? By developing an academy for our promising young players? By using a Vodafone to call up Botham and beg him to have one last bash?
Nope, by giving the flannel wearing chaps the latest txting, WAP enabled, video streaming hand held gizmo. Just what you need out in the field when Brian Lara is stroking the ball through the slips and heading for another 500 plus turkey shoot:
'I know, I think I’ll log on to The Guardian website back in good 'ol Blightly and read the latest press release that they have posted masquerading as a news story.'
'CATCH!!!!'
'Whoops sorry guys, just had an incoming txt from the missus.'
The Sony Ericcson T610 (the 'preferred model' of the touring party) apparently features Bluetooth wireless technology. This means Jack Shit to me and you can bet that it probably isn't going to feature high in Michael Vaughan's team talks (unless of course as a variation of 'is that a Vodafone in your pocket or just an update on the Athers ball tampering routine?')
Delivering some cutting edge journalism, The Guardian then elaborates how: 'the Vodafone Rapide (nope, me neither) will keep players up to date with practise times (as much and as often as possible one would hope), transport arrangements, dress codes (jock straps or thongs today boys?), team meetings, functions, hotel bookings, meal times and anything else that needs to be communicated urgently.'
In short then, everything apart form wiping the arses of the England XI, something that will need to be done frequently when squaring up to the West Indies attack.
Cricket and crap mobiles of course have a bit of history; Beefy Botham famously handed his brick sized beast over to Dickie Bird (we're talking phones remember) in the late '80s for a bit of classic English slapstick that is forever drudged up in those endless 'no characters left in sport' debates that 5Live runs on a quiet news day.
The dastardly mobile was at least being used as a comedy prop then. Vodafone is now officially the 'preferred mobile technology for the touring English party.' Which of course means that they stumped up the most dosh. All major touring parties set sail nowadays with a shipload of 'preferred suppliers' to help them get through the harsh realities of a West Indies summer: Budweiser, Rizla (back to Beefy), Durex etc.
You would think that at least the Blazer Brigade up at Lords could have come up with a more appropriate major tour sponsor. With the expected whitewash of our boys, onionbagblog would like to continue Mr Tony's love of bringing together business and government policy:
England’s Tour of the West Indies, 2004 – brought to you in association with The Hutton Report.
| #permalink |
Leicester City Official Statement:
| Friday 5 March, 2004 |
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Thursday 4 March, 2004 |
London Racers 4 Basingstoke Bison NOTHING!!!!, 02/03/04
Here's one for you: HERD the one about the free-scoring, short-handed, slap shot happy, home shut out London Racers beating the Basingstoke Bison? (Bison, Herd – want me to draw pictures?). Happy hunting...
No Mans Land between Finsbury Park and Seven Sisters hasn't got a great deal going for it; even less so when you are trapped one hundred feet underground on a Victoria Line train that's making about as much progress up the track as a Zamboni attempting to ice over Lake Ontario. Just under two hours from Sunny Stockwell to the East End Corrugated Chicken Shack with only a Rizla rolling rasta for company.
SMELL The Glove |
Bumper crowds weren't expected for this midweek clash, although it was nice to see rink management playing the hostess with the mostest, even going to such great lengths as doing a quick Shake 'n Vac with a Dyson on the ice before the second period (bizarre picture evidence below).
My concentration was momentarily distracted at the start of the second period (VERY momentarily) as a conversation with a couple of hooded yoofs ('it’s like, 'ockey's wicked, innit, bro?') meant that I failed to see the 'buff'-seeking puck (notice the influence of yoofs at work here) that made a bee line for onionbagblogger's handsome head. Much like the debating skills of Dumb and Dumber, thankfully the shot was weak. I did get to take home a regulation six ounce, three and one quarter inches diameter piece of vulcanised rubber though. Bet that will come in handy.
Racers March '04 are a transformed team form the many incarnations that have iced throughout this first franchise season; always starting off with a low skills base, it's heartening to see the current roster attempt to play a passing game and not resort to a worthless dump and chase up the ice.
This intelligent style of play was rewarded with 2:22 left in the second when Nick Burton broke down the wing drawing in his defender, and then delivering a clinical pass to find Noel Burkitt lurking at the back post pipe. Here comes that Pogues Fiesta goal celebrating song...
Just over a minute later and dear old Shane was stumbling about all over the Bike Shed sound system once again as Mojmir Musil was credited with Racers third. The game sheet rather kindly adds 'no assits'; a more accurate record would be to name Bison net minder Chris Cruickshank, who attempted to clear the puck, only to see it rebound off 'Onion' Musil (please come back next year, if only so onionbagblog can endorse you with a lucrative sock sponsorship deal).
Eleven seconds later and The Onion was peeling back the Bison defence and making them weep yet again (ouch). A goal mouth scramble led to the goal lamp being lit, and even onionbagblogger found it difficult to resist dancing like a dad (elbows tucked firmly into your chest, alternate them being raised ninety degrees and watch all women under the age of thirty run a mile).
As I pondered buying up fifty Win a Trip to Canada raffle tickets during the second period break (a crowd of 300ish, half of which won't buy a ticket – do the math), Tom Petty's wonderful Free Falling blasted out around the Chicken Shack. I trust the Bison players got the message loud and clear.
Racers survived a five on three power play in the third period and came close to a fifth when Jani Tuominem rattled the pipes in the final two minutes. A 4-0 shut out was sweet, but as evidence of the growing confidence around the whole club, the celebrations were slightly subdued – Racers are a WINNING team and home expectations are high now.
Highlight: SMELL the anticipation of three WINNING games on the bounce. SMELL that Pizza heading for the home locker room on the way out. SMELL (Evan) 'The Glove' (Lindsay). Um, the pizza will be fine, thank you.
Lowlight: Handing over the head hitting puck to Mrs onionbagblogger when I arrived home, only to find that she was already safely tucked up in bed:
'Look, I've got a puck for you sweetheart', I declared as I attempted to awake her, still buzzing after a 4-0 victory.
Mrs onionbagblogger's hearing has suffered over the years and when I presented her with the three inches of cold rubber, the moment was something of an anti-climax.
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Master Bates Comes Clean
I want to spend time 'walking the dog...'
| Wednesday 3 March, 2004 |
I want to spend time 'walking the dog...'
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Crap Journo
Sniffin’ out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
People in Glass Houses...
'How Tower Block Living Became Fashionable Again' – bleats out the BBC website as it continues the shift from Tell it Like it is journalism to Middle England friendly Daily Mail meets The Mirror in the post-Hutton climate.
I somehow don't think it's a conscious lifestyle choice for millions of people packed into piss stained rabbit hutches to wake up each morning, feast on their croissants and coffee, open the Venetians and then ponder how the most pressing appointment in their Psion organiser is a 11pm work out with their two hundred quid an hour piss poor personal trainer.
High rise living is SHIT, a fact borne out by the swathes of fuckspud lifestyle journos who eulogise about 'urban living' and Sex in the City lifestyles from the safety of their ring-fenced W11 Portobello postcodes.
The only Sex in the City you'll find in a high rise is teenage pregnancy or worst still, assaults and rapes.
And if I see one more Evening Sub-Standard article celebrating the 'Pram Springs / Nappy Valley' gentrification of Lavender Hill (they mean Battersea), whilst on the next page failing to join up the dots by printing a 'So Solid Mean Streets of Battersea' scare story, well, I might just have to jump from my tower block.
Talk and talk until my head explodes – Going Underground...
Perhaps the only saving grace in having to suffer a sweaty summer journey on the Circle Line is that the heat seeking carriage is a mobile phone free sanctum. The last thing you want when you are stuck sweltering away in a tunnel just outside Victoria with a twenty stone lard arse giving you a face wash with his armpit is some knobber gibbering away about how they’re going to be late for the opera.
To quote from perhaps the shittest Depeche Mode song ever (and that's saying something given the freshly laid turds they've managed to consistently release over the past twenty years): Enjoy the Silence.
The latest development in London Underground's commitment to neglect the creaking tube network in favour of rampant commercialism is a partnership with the four big mobile phone operators to introduce technology that will allows signals to penetrate deep down under Oxford Circus.
And you wonder exactly how the 'four big mobile phone operators' got so BIG?
By franchising out their technology of course to useless tosser private companies such as Jarvis, the plc run by Tory Mayoral candidate Shagger Norris, after Mr Tony decided that an organisation who by its own admission was a bit crap at managing a transport infrastructure should be let loose on the Underground.
onionbagblog likes to believe that the Blitz Spirit is still alive and well in London; as soon as one of those ear piercing sirens (or a Depeche Mode ringtone) hits my personal radius, I head underground seeking sanctuary.
Anyone caught gossiping, txting (an experience almost as un-rewarding as buying a Depeche Mode single) or worse still, 'WAPPING' whilst onionbagblogger is trying to stir up at least some enthusiasm for the shitness of the impending working day, can expect to find their Nokia being road-tested to see if the vibrating function can stimulate a long lost erogenous zone located in the heart of my dripping armpit.
Returned Delivery
Mr Tony's vision of e-government (empty government?) looks like it has gone offline in Southwark. A persistent complainer (good on yer fella) has been using that interweb information superhighway thingy to tell his local council that they are crap.
Southwark Council has responded by pulling the plug and telling the poor chap to revert back to pen and paper.
In the interests of fairness onionbagblogger would like to declare an interest here and state that said crap Southwark Council pay me a paltry sum at the end of each month which they call a living salary. I can only assume that the routine lateness of this pocket money is due to answering irate emails from blokes in Borough who have just discovered broadband and want to tell Southwark Council that they are shit.
| Tuesday 2 March, 2004 |
Sniffin’ out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
People in Glass Houses...
'How Tower Block Living Became Fashionable Again' – bleats out the BBC website as it continues the shift from Tell it Like it is journalism to Middle England friendly Daily Mail meets The Mirror in the post-Hutton climate.
I somehow don't think it's a conscious lifestyle choice for millions of people packed into piss stained rabbit hutches to wake up each morning, feast on their croissants and coffee, open the Venetians and then ponder how the most pressing appointment in their Psion organiser is a 11pm work out with their two hundred quid an hour piss poor personal trainer.
The only Sex in the City you’ll find in tower blocks is teenage pregnancy |
The only Sex in the City you'll find in a high rise is teenage pregnancy or worst still, assaults and rapes.
And if I see one more Evening Sub-Standard article celebrating the 'Pram Springs / Nappy Valley' gentrification of Lavender Hill (they mean Battersea), whilst on the next page failing to join up the dots by printing a 'So Solid Mean Streets of Battersea' scare story, well, I might just have to jump from my tower block.
Talk and talk until my head explodes – Going Underground...
Perhaps the only saving grace in having to suffer a sweaty summer journey on the Circle Line is that the heat seeking carriage is a mobile phone free sanctum. The last thing you want when you are stuck sweltering away in a tunnel just outside Victoria with a twenty stone lard arse giving you a face wash with his armpit is some knobber gibbering away about how they’re going to be late for the opera.
To quote from perhaps the shittest Depeche Mode song ever (and that's saying something given the freshly laid turds they've managed to consistently release over the past twenty years): Enjoy the Silence.
The latest development in London Underground's commitment to neglect the creaking tube network in favour of rampant commercialism is a partnership with the four big mobile phone operators to introduce technology that will allows signals to penetrate deep down under Oxford Circus.
And you wonder exactly how the 'four big mobile phone operators' got so BIG?
By franchising out their technology of course to useless tosser private companies such as Jarvis, the plc run by Tory Mayoral candidate Shagger Norris, after Mr Tony decided that an organisation who by its own admission was a bit crap at managing a transport infrastructure should be let loose on the Underground.
onionbagblog likes to believe that the Blitz Spirit is still alive and well in London; as soon as one of those ear piercing sirens (or a Depeche Mode ringtone) hits my personal radius, I head underground seeking sanctuary.
Anyone caught gossiping, txting (an experience almost as un-rewarding as buying a Depeche Mode single) or worse still, 'WAPPING' whilst onionbagblogger is trying to stir up at least some enthusiasm for the shitness of the impending working day, can expect to find their Nokia being road-tested to see if the vibrating function can stimulate a long lost erogenous zone located in the heart of my dripping armpit.
Returned Delivery
Mr Tony's vision of e-government (empty government?) looks like it has gone offline in Southwark. A persistent complainer (good on yer fella) has been using that interweb information superhighway thingy to tell his local council that they are crap.
Southwark Council has responded by pulling the plug and telling the poor chap to revert back to pen and paper.
In the interests of fairness onionbagblogger would like to declare an interest here and state that said crap Southwark Council pay me a paltry sum at the end of each month which they call a living salary. I can only assume that the routine lateness of this pocket money is due to answering irate emails from blokes in Borough who have just discovered broadband and want to tell Southwark Council that they are shit.
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