onionbagblog
Need to Know Basis
Things you (probably don't really) need to know:
With the first Big Weekend of the 'summer' (yeah, right) almost upon us, here's the scores on the doors.
Dulwich Hamlet go into the final game of the season on Saturday at home to Walton & Hersham with the South London side lying seventh in the table. The top six get promoted (don't ask) with the seventh place team playing a one off play off decider at home on Bank Holiday Monday against the corresponding team in the Northern Division.
I really can't be arsed to explain all the possible scenarios (more HERE), suffice to say that even a win on Saturday doesn't guarantee Hamlet automatic promotion.
The Supporters Team then have a prestige match (no, honestly) on the Champion Hill pitch straight after the game on Saturday. If promotion hasn't been achieved, I think we can expect a 'physical' contest.
Slotting into all of this of course is the London Towers basketball team, flying the flag for South London in the BBL play offs up in Birmingham on Saturday evening. Coverage on 5Live Sports Extra, my first genuine justification for forking out 100 quid for the Pure Evoke box of joy.
Assuming Dulwich are in a Do or Die play off match on Monday, not only is my tea bag buying budget going to go into overdrive over the next 72 hours, but I'll also miss out Surrey at The Oval taking on Hampshire and big fat Shane Warne in the Totesport League. With the likes of Warne around I'm surprised it wasn't named the Tosspot League.
Still, might just pop into The Oval for the freebie Seats of Shame on the way home from The Hamlet. Win or lose for Dulwich, either way I'll either be sky high on a PG Tips overdose or rather angry and ready to strike out the first overweight Aussie cricketer that I see with a shit haircut.
All of the above is of course subject to the posting of an invite in the comment box below whereupon verification of a legitimate email address from Cameron Diaz, I may just give up football, basketball and cricket this weekend and show her my collection of Non-League programmes from the past season.
Either that or shoot my load all over her face.
| Friday 29 April, 2004 |
Things you (probably don't really) need to know:
With the first Big Weekend of the 'summer' (yeah, right) almost upon us, here's the scores on the doors.
Dulwich Hamlet go into the final game of the season on Saturday at home to Walton & Hersham with the South London side lying seventh in the table. The top six get promoted (don't ask) with the seventh place team playing a one off play off decider at home on Bank Holiday Monday against the corresponding team in the Northern Division.
I really can't be arsed to explain all the possible scenarios (more HERE), suffice to say that even a win on Saturday doesn't guarantee Hamlet automatic promotion.
 I think we can expect a ‘physical’ contest |
Slotting into all of this of course is the London Towers basketball team, flying the flag for South London in the BBL play offs up in Birmingham on Saturday evening. Coverage on 5Live Sports Extra, my first genuine justification for forking out 100 quid for the Pure Evoke box of joy.
Assuming Dulwich are in a Do or Die play off match on Monday, not only is my tea bag buying budget going to go into overdrive over the next 72 hours, but I'll also miss out Surrey at The Oval taking on Hampshire and big fat Shane Warne in the Totesport League. With the likes of Warne around I'm surprised it wasn't named the Tosspot League.
Still, might just pop into The Oval for the freebie Seats of Shame on the way home from The Hamlet. Win or lose for Dulwich, either way I'll either be sky high on a PG Tips overdose or rather angry and ready to strike out the first overweight Aussie cricketer that I see with a shit haircut.
All of the above is of course subject to the posting of an invite in the comment box below whereupon verification of a legitimate email address from Cameron Diaz, I may just give up football, basketball and cricket this weekend and show her my collection of Non-League programmes from the past season.
Either that or shoot my load all over her face.
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Friday Fruit Cake
I love local eccentrics. Some would call them 'nutters', a term I prefer to reserve for past the point of no return top of the bus deck ding-a-lings.
Eccentrics add some colour to an otherwise dull day; a typically rain sodden Southwark morning was brightened up on Thursday with a local loon turning heads during the rush hour commute. Nope, it wasn't local Twat on a Stick Jamie Oliver, but a middle aged bike bird, peddling away and bellowing out some Bernstein at full blast as she cycled past a building site.
That's one hellava stylish gal. Especially so as she was riding an old Butcher's boneshaker bike and was sporting a pair of headphones that wouldn't have looked out of place on the head of a Cyberman in Doctor Who.
I used to stand (yes, that's STAND) on the terraces of an old First Division club behind some bloke who was one player short of a full team. Each time the opposition had the ball, he would shout out at tremendous volume:
'PIPES!!!!!!!!'
No explanation. You didn't really need one. Young kids used to stare up at him in awe, whilst the more weary of us just learnt to accept that he was a loon and let him go about his business.
You can't beat a good old fashioned Bag Lady and for a period of a year or so I use to 'look out' for one particular old hag. She took to wearing a cycling helmet at all times, 'for safety on the streets' purposes, of course.
The high regard that I placed on the dignified profession of being a Bag Lady was shattered however when one day I saw her pissing inside a red phone box in a full on squat style. Needs must and all that, but she could have chosen a more classy condominium such as perched up behind a post box.
An old favourite in my Nottingham days was Axe Man, an alarming figure straight out of the a scene from The Stones at Altamont. Clocking in at around twenty stone, denim clad from head to feet with the legendary 'Live to Ride, Ride to Live' embroidered on his jacket (probably by his dear old mum), Axe Man terrified anyone under the age of fifteen by demanding to know if they were a 'Rocker or a Smoothie.'
I think I was just about convincing during my own Market Square inquisition, opting for the Easy Rider option, despite my Patrick cagoule, Tacchini trackies and a copy of Crucial Electro 2 in my hand.
The ultimate Face Off for Nottingham nutters would have to be between Axe Man and Friar Tuck. The Good Friar was assumed to be employed by the local Tourist Board as he was seen most days walking around the city, fully robed and making conversation with local children.
The last I heard of him however was when he was up in court on charges relating to the carrying of a Machete underneath his brotherly robe.
In these days of broadsheet baloney in trying to define 'Englishness,' perhaps it is best explained as eccentricity; Morrissey, Darcus Howe, Mr Peel – all as mad as a wet hen, but role models all the same.
Footnote: Just returned from a swim at Brixton Rec where eccentricity was exemplified; a fat bloke wearing a pair of flip flops on his hands as he was doing the doggy paddle.
GENIUS.
| Friday 29 April, 2004 |
I love local eccentrics. Some would call them 'nutters', a term I prefer to reserve for past the point of no return top of the bus deck ding-a-lings.
Eccentrics add some colour to an otherwise dull day; a typically rain sodden Southwark morning was brightened up on Thursday with a local loon turning heads during the rush hour commute. Nope, it wasn't local Twat on a Stick Jamie Oliver, but a middle aged bike bird, peddling away and bellowing out some Bernstein at full blast as she cycled past a building site.
Live to Ride, Ride to Live |
I used to stand (yes, that's STAND) on the terraces of an old First Division club behind some bloke who was one player short of a full team. Each time the opposition had the ball, he would shout out at tremendous volume:
'PIPES!!!!!!!!'
No explanation. You didn't really need one. Young kids used to stare up at him in awe, whilst the more weary of us just learnt to accept that he was a loon and let him go about his business.
You can't beat a good old fashioned Bag Lady and for a period of a year or so I use to 'look out' for one particular old hag. She took to wearing a cycling helmet at all times, 'for safety on the streets' purposes, of course.
The high regard that I placed on the dignified profession of being a Bag Lady was shattered however when one day I saw her pissing inside a red phone box in a full on squat style. Needs must and all that, but she could have chosen a more classy condominium such as perched up behind a post box.
An old favourite in my Nottingham days was Axe Man, an alarming figure straight out of the a scene from The Stones at Altamont. Clocking in at around twenty stone, denim clad from head to feet with the legendary 'Live to Ride, Ride to Live' embroidered on his jacket (probably by his dear old mum), Axe Man terrified anyone under the age of fifteen by demanding to know if they were a 'Rocker or a Smoothie.'
I think I was just about convincing during my own Market Square inquisition, opting for the Easy Rider option, despite my Patrick cagoule, Tacchini trackies and a copy of Crucial Electro 2 in my hand.
The ultimate Face Off for Nottingham nutters would have to be between Axe Man and Friar Tuck. The Good Friar was assumed to be employed by the local Tourist Board as he was seen most days walking around the city, fully robed and making conversation with local children.
The last I heard of him however was when he was up in court on charges relating to the carrying of a Machete underneath his brotherly robe.
In these days of broadsheet baloney in trying to define 'Englishness,' perhaps it is best explained as eccentricity; Morrissey, Darcus Howe, Mr Peel – all as mad as a wet hen, but role models all the same.
Footnote: Just returned from a swim at Brixton Rec where eccentricity was exemplified; a fat bloke wearing a pair of flip flops on his hands as he was doing the doggy paddle.
GENIUS.
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Wonderful Walworth & Beautiful Burgess
The Aylesbury Estate in Walworth is a contradiction of style and sorrow. There is beauty to be found in the thirty year old blocks, and then with the disappearance of the sun behind a cloud, the old estate emerges as a much murkier proposition.
Covering the size of a small town, the Aylesbury is symbolic for giving Blair a bloody nose with local democracy standing up to grandiose Whitehall planning. Mr Tony chose the Aylesbury as a platform to launch his Social Exclusion speech shortly after the '97 election. Seven years later and the estate is still standing, even looking liking to outlast Tony, Tony, Tony.
Back in '99 the proposal was to completely demolish the 2,700 homes on the estate and build new private sector managed accommodation, 1,300 of which would be sold off for profit. That's a bit like the landlord in your local pushing past you and causing you to smash your pint glass on the floor, and then he has the cheek to charge you for a new one.
The residents were given the choice of allowing the private sector to rip up their protected local authority contracts (and allow big business to provide half the service at twice the cost), or carry on building their own community without fat cat interference.
The 70% NO vote back in 2002 proudly told the private sector to piss off back to the City - a euphoric rejection of New Labour's flagship 'Third Way' regeneration programme.
Housing 10,000 people on a site that is only half a mile from the pinstripes of the City of London, the Aylesbury remains the largest estate in Europe. Bolted together by a series of bridges and walkways, the landscape around Walworth is forever changing and provides you with a new perspective with every turn.
Famous local faces include Charlie Chaplin who lived on East Street and Michael caine, a regular at the many street theatres as a young boy.
To the East of the Aylesbury lies Burgess Park, 460, 000 square metres of inner city sanctum boasting a café, cricket pitches and Chumleigh Gardens - a wonderful inner circle cottage garden with old Almshouses still standing, a reminder of the industrial past of the nineteenth century before the area was landscaped.
Despite the recent upsurge in celebrating the local community, Walworth is ripe for gentrification. With the bulldozers now not moving in, it is only a matter of time before the Bright Young Things from the City enclave around SE17. Old school buildings are already being converted into loft space. Google Aylesbury and a page of poxy Estate Agents are thrown up.
Transport may stave off the takeover though; without a tube connection from some shitty Soho lifestyle bar, the upwardly mobile remain ironically stranded. You may be able to read a tube map Tallulah, but I bet you’d be lost trying to get your pretty little airhead around the fine art of planning a South London bus journey across town.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 29 April, 2004 |
The Aylesbury Estate in Walworth is a contradiction of style and sorrow. There is beauty to be found in the thirty year old blocks, and then with the disappearance of the sun behind a cloud, the old estate emerges as a much murkier proposition.
Covering the size of a small town, the Aylesbury is symbolic for giving Blair a bloody nose with local democracy standing up to grandiose Whitehall planning. Mr Tony chose the Aylesbury as a platform to launch his Social Exclusion speech shortly after the '97 election. Seven years later and the estate is still standing, even looking liking to outlast Tony, Tony, Tony.
The 70% NO vote proudly told the private sector to piss off |
The residents were given the choice of allowing the private sector to rip up their protected local authority contracts (and allow big business to provide half the service at twice the cost), or carry on building their own community without fat cat interference.
The 70% NO vote back in 2002 proudly told the private sector to piss off back to the City - a euphoric rejection of New Labour's flagship 'Third Way' regeneration programme.
Housing 10,000 people on a site that is only half a mile from the pinstripes of the City of London, the Aylesbury remains the largest estate in Europe. Bolted together by a series of bridges and walkways, the landscape around Walworth is forever changing and provides you with a new perspective with every turn.
Famous local faces include Charlie Chaplin who lived on East Street and Michael caine, a regular at the many street theatres as a young boy.
To the East of the Aylesbury lies Burgess Park, 460, 000 square metres of inner city sanctum boasting a café, cricket pitches and Chumleigh Gardens - a wonderful inner circle cottage garden with old Almshouses still standing, a reminder of the industrial past of the nineteenth century before the area was landscaped.
Despite the recent upsurge in celebrating the local community, Walworth is ripe for gentrification. With the bulldozers now not moving in, it is only a matter of time before the Bright Young Things from the City enclave around SE17. Old school buildings are already being converted into loft space. Google Aylesbury and a page of poxy Estate Agents are thrown up.
Transport may stave off the takeover though; without a tube connection from some shitty Soho lifestyle bar, the upwardly mobile remain ironically stranded. You may be able to read a tube map Tallulah, but I bet you’d be lost trying to get your pretty little airhead around the fine art of planning a South London bus journey across town.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Thank You For The Music
A man is defined by his music. LibDem leader Charlie Kennedy lists his all time favourite album as Let It Be. He gets my vote then. Prince Charles likes The Three Degrees which makes him a knobber. And a right royal one at that.
I've been struggling of late to define my musical tastes, and by extension, myself as well. That may sound as though it has been lifted straight out of sixth form philosophy essay, but you try finding some inspiration in a dull as ditchwater day with the needle permanently stuck sometime around '98.
Old enough to boast of The Beatles, Pistols and Mondays, TOO old to even give a shit about Sean Paul.
My internal jukebox (big nod to Smaked Face) has been fucked of late. I'm not sure if this is because I can't find anything worth playing or because my mind is more occupied with promotion woe for Dulwich Hamlet, a long hot summer without any ice hockey and a near on addiction rise in my tea drinking habits.
I think I've stumbled across the next great crap TV phenomenon though to replace all the endless Reality Celebrity Makeover nonsense. It's a take on Through the Keyhole; a confused 30something bloke allows some self-appointed music maestro (Anthony Wilson will do) to thumb through their CD collection and then define the man by his music.
It's not exactly Monkey Tennis but I'm sure ITV2 could accommodate it somewhere in their current steaming turd of a schedule.
This week I have mostly been listening to...
Brockie & Ed Solo – System Check, Ronnie Size – Strictly Social; that's the Drum n Bass boy in me.
A tape of Andy Kershaw's Radio 3 show from Sunday; never could say no to a Bolivian panpipe player puffing out a P-Diddy cover.
The Streets new album. It's a South London thing.
Late Junction nightly on Radio 3 – sod the music, Verity Sharp has the most seductive voice on late night radio. Well, you can't really knock off the wrist listening to Mr Peel now can you?
Asian Dub Foundation – Enemy of the Enemy; bet that's not on David Blunkett's playlist.
Hunky Dory; too many early evenings spent watching TOTP2.
The Police (that's ear shattering repetitive South London street sirens, and not ear shattering repetitive white boy piss poor third rate reggae wank sung by some egotistical Tosser who can't stop bangin' on about his sex life in public).
Richard Thompson – Old Kit Bag; never trust a hippy.
Trojan Rocksteady; the sound of South London in the summer.
Big Black – Songs About Fucking; kinda goes hand in hand, so to speak, with some of the videos I have been watching recently.
Like any of the above? You may also like...
Go on any music marketing fuckspuds – put me in a pigeon hole and try and sell me something based on the above choices. Not possible my friend, which is why music is so self-defining. Just because you like an apple doesn't mean that you want a pear. You might fancy a banana instead. Just ask Sting who would probably find somewhere interesting to stick his banana, and then no doubt write a self-centred song all about the life changing, orifice stretching experience.
I could quite happily pass away an hour or so sitting on the No 37 bus listening to Hall and Oates. According to Amazon's recommendation service I should also be listening to bloody Bruce Hornsby and his bloody Range. I'd rather trap myself in a lift all day and slowly go deaf with the sound of piped in elevator muzak. Chances are it will be the piss poor piano prat anyway.
Who needs the all consuming 50 Quid Man lifestyle (and its inherent doctrine of spend, spend and then spend some sodding more) when you can lead a tight arse onionbagblog thrift of a lifestyle instead. Albeit a tuneless, musical wilderness one of late.
| Tuesday 27 April, 2004 |
A man is defined by his music. LibDem leader Charlie Kennedy lists his all time favourite album as Let It Be. He gets my vote then. Prince Charles likes The Three Degrees which makes him a knobber. And a right royal one at that.
I've been struggling of late to define my musical tastes, and by extension, myself as well. That may sound as though it has been lifted straight out of sixth form philosophy essay, but you try finding some inspiration in a dull as ditchwater day with the needle permanently stuck sometime around '98.
Old enough to boast of The Beatles, Pistols and Mondays, TOO old to even give a shit about Sean Paul.
I never could say no to a Bolivian panpipe player |
I think I've stumbled across the next great crap TV phenomenon though to replace all the endless Reality Celebrity Makeover nonsense. It's a take on Through the Keyhole; a confused 30something bloke allows some self-appointed music maestro (Anthony Wilson will do) to thumb through their CD collection and then define the man by his music.
It's not exactly Monkey Tennis but I'm sure ITV2 could accommodate it somewhere in their current steaming turd of a schedule.
This week I have mostly been listening to...
Brockie & Ed Solo – System Check, Ronnie Size – Strictly Social; that's the Drum n Bass boy in me.
A tape of Andy Kershaw's Radio 3 show from Sunday; never could say no to a Bolivian panpipe player puffing out a P-Diddy cover.
The Streets new album. It's a South London thing.
Late Junction nightly on Radio 3 – sod the music, Verity Sharp has the most seductive voice on late night radio. Well, you can't really knock off the wrist listening to Mr Peel now can you?
Asian Dub Foundation – Enemy of the Enemy; bet that's not on David Blunkett's playlist.
Hunky Dory; too many early evenings spent watching TOTP2.
The Police (that's ear shattering repetitive South London street sirens, and not ear shattering repetitive white boy piss poor third rate reggae wank sung by some egotistical Tosser who can't stop bangin' on about his sex life in public).
Richard Thompson – Old Kit Bag; never trust a hippy.
Trojan Rocksteady; the sound of South London in the summer.
Big Black – Songs About Fucking; kinda goes hand in hand, so to speak, with some of the videos I have been watching recently.
Like any of the above? You may also like...
Go on any music marketing fuckspuds – put me in a pigeon hole and try and sell me something based on the above choices. Not possible my friend, which is why music is so self-defining. Just because you like an apple doesn't mean that you want a pear. You might fancy a banana instead. Just ask Sting who would probably find somewhere interesting to stick his banana, and then no doubt write a self-centred song all about the life changing, orifice stretching experience.
I could quite happily pass away an hour or so sitting on the No 37 bus listening to Hall and Oates. According to Amazon's recommendation service I should also be listening to bloody Bruce Hornsby and his bloody Range. I'd rather trap myself in a lift all day and slowly go deaf with the sound of piped in elevator muzak. Chances are it will be the piss poor piano prat anyway.
Who needs the all consuming 50 Quid Man lifestyle (and its inherent doctrine of spend, spend and then spend some sodding more) when you can lead a tight arse onionbagblog thrift of a lifestyle instead. Albeit a tuneless, musical wilderness one of late.
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Crap Match Report| Monday 26 April, 2004 |
Surrey all out (42.3 overs) lost to Glamorgan 147-3 (22.3 overs) by seven wickets, 25/04/04
Sunday League may be played in pyjamas but that's still no excuse for Surrey looking like they were ready for bed with a nightmare opening first few overs. My Sunday roast (OK, beans on toast) hadn't had time to settle by the time Surrey were 36-7 with less than an hour of play. 36-7 would not only be laughed off as a crap 20/20 score, but also pub cricket and probably even beach cricket as well.
It was a hot and sticky afternoon down at the (semi) Oval and Surrey were in a sticky situation. They weren't exactly hot though. Good to see that the Day of Rest was not only being observed by the Surrey openers but also the bulldozers at the back of the Vauxhall End which were silent. A bit like the sizeable Sunday afternoon Surrey crowd.
Put your top back on you tubby Taff |
Looking around the section where I was seated and the collection of dodgy 'tasches, ginger hair and cries of 'go on Lovely Boy' confirmed that I was amongst the Taffies. One such Lovely Boy was Robert Croft who stepped up to the wicket and removed Mushtaq with his first delivery.
Ormond soon followed for a cheap dismissal, playing a poor stroke and being caught behind by Maynard for two. 103-9 and Surrey would be lucky to make Nelson. The home team were now a beast with two heads (and we're not talking Gladstone Small here) with only one offering any bite as Salisbury strived to be on strike.
Salisbury caught an edge to the boundary to bring up his first limited overs half century, giving the scorecard a semi-respectable 134-9. With three over remaining, Murtagh was bowled by Dale for thirteen, leaving Glamorgan a 147 slog of a run chase.
Hopes of a great escape from Surrey were raised when Mahmood trapped Lovely Boy Croft lbw with his first ball for a lowly three. Wharf soon followed for five when Mahmood added a second wicket, leaving the Lovely Boys looking a little lily-livered at 11-2.
Powell and Aussie Elliot started to find the boundary though, just as the red faced Lovely Boys in the stands found their alcohol intake capacity reaching saturation point; sun-burnt, bare chested (Lovely BOYS, not GIRLS) and all with the swagger and grace of Tom Jones after he has drunk the Valleys dry. Welcome to an English Sunday afternoon of cricket.
With seventy five runs required and only two wickets down, Surrey signalled that they had more or less given up the ghost by giving Adam Hollioake a run at the crease. As Elliot hit home his half century with a six, unlike the love life of the torso tattooed Taffs, singles clearly weren’t on the agenda.
Powell promptly added fifty to his name but was stopped short from striking the match winning runs when Murtagh removed his middle stump with twelve runs required. Before you can say: 'put your top back on you tubby Taff,' Elliot edged home the winning runs.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
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