onionbagblog
Never Trust a Hippie
How refreshing to find a Green Festival fenced in amongst the Bank Holiday Kingston consumer-thon town centre nightmare. Spend, spend and then spend some fucking more.
The short walk from the train station to the Thameside Canbury Gardens site signified all that is wrong with shite new towns and their shallow approach to forming an identity. Identikit chain stores (all the usual worthless knobcheese names – I ain't gonna give the fuckers any more publicity here), identikit lost souls seeking some personality in their bland little world of designer labels and rubbish ringtones; and identikit buildings that look like they were built for the set of a trashy TV soap with all the aesthetic value of onionbagblogger wiping his arse with the News of the World.
Arriving at the annual Kingston Green Fair seemed like a scene from a science fiction film where all the renegades, misfits and jugglers (yes, sadly they were there – never trust a fucking hippie) decide to mount their resistance against the evil empire and push through.
Think Pulp's excellent Mis-Shapes and you get the idea.
A bit odd though for such an idealistic event to be charging a fiver for entry, although someone's got to pay for all those portaloos to be cleaned. I thought of taking up the cause and arguing how the accumulation of currency in the hands of one central fiscal figure betrays the very notion of a one world model of an economy that rejects previous exploitation from the multi-nationals and their pervasive brand hegemony.
But even the cheese faced dreadlocked geezer behind me was getting a bit impatient.
Grubby fiver handed over. Save the Whale, love.
Early signs weren't exactly value for money and as the mid-afternoon strains of some sub-sixth form Nirvana circa '92 drifted out from a marquee, a corporate coffee back in Starbucks seemed tempting.
And then I spotted the hammock; I’ve always had a thing about hammocks, much in the same way that some people have a thing about Cameron Diaz. I just want to lie down on top of one all summer long, gently rocking backwards and forwards and see what happens. Given that we haven't got a garden and mrs onionbagblogger doesn't trust me with a drill, let alone Cameron Diaz, looks like it's back to the back breaking bed then.
With the great grunge revival lost at the gates, the Kingston Green Festival turned out to be a little cutie. Imagine a Glasto without the drugs but still the fluffy smiley faces. Well, actually without the Class A's as there was a beautiful heavy haze hanging over the entire park.
The highlight had to be the anarchist Punch and Judy show. A brief synopsis:
Punk Punch is kicked around the head by Mrs Punk with Baby Punk also landing the odd boot in on his mohican.
Makes a magnificent change from the usual misogamist end of pier poppycock. The jokes about crusties in Bath went right over the heads of the kiddies at the front but managed to raise a smile from the genuine Mr and Mrs Punks at the back.
Best of all for the front seat kids was the end of show song that required them to sing 'POOH!' rather loudly which they loved. I'm not ashamed to say that I joined in as well.
After a bit of leg shaking over at the World Stage, a sit down in the Chill Out area listening to a classical ensemble and then gorging on a some carrot cake, it was time to head back through the Kingston hell hole.
I was bemused to be broached by someone near the gates telling me how to 'Stop the BNP' and handing over a leaflet with the masterplan contained:
Vote Labour.
Ha! What the fuck! So, right, if I vote LibDeb, Green or even Respect in a couple of week's time then my vote WON'T be stopping the BNP? That's like saying come to a Green Festival in a new town urban shit hole and the world's environmental problems will be abolished. Try and see the bigger picture please Mr Tony.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 31 May, 2004 |
How refreshing to find a Green Festival fenced in amongst the Bank Holiday Kingston consumer-thon town centre nightmare. Spend, spend and then spend some fucking more.
The short walk from the train station to the Thameside Canbury Gardens site signified all that is wrong with shite new towns and their shallow approach to forming an identity. Identikit chain stores (all the usual worthless knobcheese names – I ain't gonna give the fuckers any more publicity here), identikit lost souls seeking some personality in their bland little world of designer labels and rubbish ringtones; and identikit buildings that look like they were built for the set of a trashy TV soap with all the aesthetic value of onionbagblogger wiping his arse with the News of the World.
 Save the Whale, love |
Think Pulp's excellent Mis-Shapes and you get the idea.
A bit odd though for such an idealistic event to be charging a fiver for entry, although someone's got to pay for all those portaloos to be cleaned. I thought of taking up the cause and arguing how the accumulation of currency in the hands of one central fiscal figure betrays the very notion of a one world model of an economy that rejects previous exploitation from the multi-nationals and their pervasive brand hegemony.
But even the cheese faced dreadlocked geezer behind me was getting a bit impatient.
Grubby fiver handed over. Save the Whale, love.
Early signs weren't exactly value for money and as the mid-afternoon strains of some sub-sixth form Nirvana circa '92 drifted out from a marquee, a corporate coffee back in Starbucks seemed tempting.
And then I spotted the hammock; I’ve always had a thing about hammocks, much in the same way that some people have a thing about Cameron Diaz. I just want to lie down on top of one all summer long, gently rocking backwards and forwards and see what happens. Given that we haven't got a garden and mrs onionbagblogger doesn't trust me with a drill, let alone Cameron Diaz, looks like it's back to the back breaking bed then.
With the great grunge revival lost at the gates, the Kingston Green Festival turned out to be a little cutie. Imagine a Glasto without the drugs but still the fluffy smiley faces. Well, actually without the Class A's as there was a beautiful heavy haze hanging over the entire park.
The highlight had to be the anarchist Punch and Judy show. A brief synopsis:
Punk Punch is kicked around the head by Mrs Punk with Baby Punk also landing the odd boot in on his mohican.
Makes a magnificent change from the usual misogamist end of pier poppycock. The jokes about crusties in Bath went right over the heads of the kiddies at the front but managed to raise a smile from the genuine Mr and Mrs Punks at the back.
Best of all for the front seat kids was the end of show song that required them to sing 'POOH!' rather loudly which they loved. I'm not ashamed to say that I joined in as well.
After a bit of leg shaking over at the World Stage, a sit down in the Chill Out area listening to a classical ensemble and then gorging on a some carrot cake, it was time to head back through the Kingston hell hole.
I was bemused to be broached by someone near the gates telling me how to 'Stop the BNP' and handing over a leaflet with the masterplan contained:
Vote Labour.
Ha! What the fuck! So, right, if I vote LibDeb, Green or even Respect in a couple of week's time then my vote WON'T be stopping the BNP? That's like saying come to a Green Festival in a new town urban shit hole and the world's environmental problems will be abolished. Try and see the bigger picture please Mr Tony.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Talk of War
The very name IMPERIAL WAR MUSEUM conjures up carnage and destruction but don't dissuaded by the rhetoric; the South London landmark doesn't 'celebrate the trophies of war (unlike US soldiers at Abu Ghraib prison), it highlights the horrors of war and serves as a reminder of mistakes made in the past.
Historically world leaders have failed to learn from past conflicts which is why in the current climate, the Imperial War Museum makes for a fascinating up close and personal account of what the reality of war means to the soldiers and citizens who are on the front line.
The sheer size and brutality experienced by standing next to a tank seems like a lost world, far removed from an everyday London life in the twenty first century; rationing, the Blitz and the re-building of the city – all seem from a different age and it may seem difficult to understand the relevance today.
Think again.
This weekend the Imperial War Museum was remembering, reflecting and learning about the D-Day experiences which took place exactly sixty years ago. With the passing of each anniversary sadly leaving fewer survivors, a personal perspective of one of the most significant events in twentieth century history is to be treasured.
Sunday saw a Q & A session; three veterans from Normandy addressed a sizable crowd who were keen to separate the Hollywood myth of Saving Private Ryan from the first hand horrific memoirs of men who actually witnessed and survived the slaughter.
With Dubya making a clumsy comparison to D-Day and US soldiers in Iraq in a radio broadcast the night before, the importance of actually listening to the people who have suffered and take on board their knowledge is all the more imperative.
All three spoke of the fear they felt when upon receiving their calling up orders. They described the confusion on the front line, not knowing exactly what they were fighting for. And of D-Day itself, a feeling of resignation was relayed; we're not going to survive this and so there's no point in worrying about it.
Sixty years on and they're still standing, looking extremely proud and elegant in with their war medals. One of the gents was close to tears, telling of how it is only now that he is able to speak openly about what he witnessed.
With time not on their side, now is when we should listen and learn.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 30 May, 2004 |
The very name IMPERIAL WAR MUSEUM conjures up carnage and destruction but don't dissuaded by the rhetoric; the South London landmark doesn't 'celebrate the trophies of war (unlike US soldiers at Abu Ghraib prison), it highlights the horrors of war and serves as a reminder of mistakes made in the past.
Historically world leaders have failed to learn from past conflicts which is why in the current climate, the Imperial War Museum makes for a fascinating up close and personal account of what the reality of war means to the soldiers and citizens who are on the front line.
With time not on their side, now is the time to listen |
Think again.
This weekend the Imperial War Museum was remembering, reflecting and learning about the D-Day experiences which took place exactly sixty years ago. With the passing of each anniversary sadly leaving fewer survivors, a personal perspective of one of the most significant events in twentieth century history is to be treasured.
Sunday saw a Q & A session; three veterans from Normandy addressed a sizable crowd who were keen to separate the Hollywood myth of Saving Private Ryan from the first hand horrific memoirs of men who actually witnessed and survived the slaughter.
With Dubya making a clumsy comparison to D-Day and US soldiers in Iraq in a radio broadcast the night before, the importance of actually listening to the people who have suffered and take on board their knowledge is all the more imperative.
All three spoke of the fear they felt when upon receiving their calling up orders. They described the confusion on the front line, not knowing exactly what they were fighting for. And of D-Day itself, a feeling of resignation was relayed; we're not going to survive this and so there's no point in worrying about it.
Sixty years on and they're still standing, looking extremely proud and elegant in with their war medals. One of the gents was close to tears, telling of how it is only now that he is able to speak openly about what he witnessed.
With time not on their side, now is when we should listen and learn.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Mass Memorial
Critical Mass has no central cause to rally around; the monthly Friday night meet under Waterloo Bridge is a random gathering (yeah, right...) of cyclists in the capital bringing their own individual agenda to the leisurely London bike ride.
From the macro to the micro to the dogmatic: Global environmental concerns, better cycling provision in London or simply a ride home with a group of like minded cyclists.
Dip yer bread.
Except that this month Critical Mass found a cause.
London cyclist Vicki McCreery was killed on Blackfriars Bridge earlier this month after being struck down by a five ton bus. Vicki was the victim of a hellish new cycle lane on the Blackfriars and tragically she had predicted only weeks before that the increased danger to cyclists would eventually claim a life.
The absurdity of the new lane sandwiches cyclists in the centre of the bridge with busses squeezing ever closer north and southbound. It has taken a death to question the legality of the lane and TfL has temporarily closed down the new path.
I didn't know Vicki although I did know what she had to experience on the daily London commute; Vauxhall Cross in particular is another accident waiting to happen with cyclists being force to jump five lanes following a set of traffic lights if they wish to cross the river.
It was therefore a mournful Critical Mass for May after the tenth anniversary celebrations last month. Around 500 cyclists made the slow procession from Waterloo to Blackfriars, joining up for a poignant reflection with Vicki's family and friends.
With the bridge closed down by the Mass, the silence was both sorrowful and triumphant for a Friday night rush hour period
The rest of the ride was always going to be a more restrained affair, although Critical Mass wouldn't feel the same without some feeling of celebration.
Off to St Pauls, back round to Holborn and then down to Trafalgar Square, The Mall and Westminster. 10.9 miles clocked up on my gizmo, although sadly it seemed that ten of these were taken up with an assortment of twatstick cabbies and knobber motorbike riders scrawling up their ugly little faces and not showing much love for the two wheel massive.
One such leather boy ploughed his beast straight into the Mass, leading to an appearance at a Magistrates Court near you very soon. Knobber. Which is exactly why scooters are not welcome on the Mass, as queried on the CM email list by someone who was either extremely naive or just a twat of a troll.
It was a shame that with so much sentiment spread out across this particular Mass, the London Petrol Heads seemed to be up for a ruck. Have we ever had to face this amount of confrontation before?
The Bobbies on Bikes are proving to be our real friends; cycle friendly, able to diffuse a difficult situation and rather decent chaps as well. Maybe it's something to do with the inner calm and healing power of the pedal? Or perhaps it's just that they understand all too well the perils of pedalling around the capital.
Especially so when even cycle lanes are luring you into ever more danger, and sadly death.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 29 May, 2004 |
Critical Mass has no central cause to rally around; the monthly Friday night meet under Waterloo Bridge is a random gathering (yeah, right...) of cyclists in the capital bringing their own individual agenda to the leisurely London bike ride.
From the macro to the micro to the dogmatic: Global environmental concerns, better cycling provision in London or simply a ride home with a group of like minded cyclists.
Dip yer bread.
Except that this month Critical Mass found a cause.
London cyclist Vicki McCreery was killed on Blackfriars Bridge earlier this month after being struck down by a five ton bus. Vicki was the victim of a hellish new cycle lane on the Blackfriars and tragically she had predicted only weeks before that the increased danger to cyclists would eventually claim a life.
The silence was both sorrowful and triumphant |
I didn't know Vicki although I did know what she had to experience on the daily London commute; Vauxhall Cross in particular is another accident waiting to happen with cyclists being force to jump five lanes following a set of traffic lights if they wish to cross the river.
It was therefore a mournful Critical Mass for May after the tenth anniversary celebrations last month. Around 500 cyclists made the slow procession from Waterloo to Blackfriars, joining up for a poignant reflection with Vicki's family and friends.
With the bridge closed down by the Mass, the silence was both sorrowful and triumphant for a Friday night rush hour period
The rest of the ride was always going to be a more restrained affair, although Critical Mass wouldn't feel the same without some feeling of celebration.
Off to St Pauls, back round to Holborn and then down to Trafalgar Square, The Mall and Westminster. 10.9 miles clocked up on my gizmo, although sadly it seemed that ten of these were taken up with an assortment of twatstick cabbies and knobber motorbike riders scrawling up their ugly little faces and not showing much love for the two wheel massive.
One such leather boy ploughed his beast straight into the Mass, leading to an appearance at a Magistrates Court near you very soon. Knobber. Which is exactly why scooters are not welcome on the Mass, as queried on the CM email list by someone who was either extremely naive or just a twat of a troll.
It was a shame that with so much sentiment spread out across this particular Mass, the London Petrol Heads seemed to be up for a ruck. Have we ever had to face this amount of confrontation before?
The Bobbies on Bikes are proving to be our real friends; cycle friendly, able to diffuse a difficult situation and rather decent chaps as well. Maybe it's something to do with the inner calm and healing power of the pedal? Or perhaps it's just that they understand all too well the perils of pedalling around the capital.
Especially so when even cycle lanes are luring you into ever more danger, and sadly death.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Isn't She Lovely...
My wonderful Window Box, two weeks in bloom.
Bloomin' marvelous.
Makes me want to go and put on the Flowered Up CD. It is the weekend after all and so you can stick yer... yeah yeah yeah.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 29 May, 2004 |
My wonderful Window Box, two weeks in bloom.
Bloomin' marvelous.
Makes me want to go and put on the Flowered Up CD. It is the weekend after all and so you can stick yer... yeah yeah yeah.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Less Than Cake*
*(that's FRUIT cake obviously, as in a sultana short of a fruit cake'; mad as a wet hen; madder than a mime artist with a megaphone).
What motivates moshers to queue up outside Brixton Academy at three in the fucking afternoon for a Less Than Jake evening gig? I've just been down Piss Alley SW9 and perched outside like some Dickensian bin dippers, a full FOUR hours before the doors were due to open were about 100 or so raggle taggle little ruffians.
Less than Jake. LESS THAN FUCKING JAKE!
Massive Attack maybe, Dylan definitely, Diesel Park West definitely maybe (although the stadium days are well behind the Leicester boys now - not that they were ever there in the first place to be honest).
I know it's probably a Smells Like Teen Spirit thing, and being some years since I was last lucky enough to actually smell some teen spirit, I'll have to just accept the My Generation myth.
I truly believed that The Stone Roses would change the world back in '89; hip hop five years earlier (and there's a damn good argument that this is actually the case) plus 2 Tone as well.
But Less Than Fucking Jake? It doesn't exactly inspire you to go out and brick a chain store now does it? Unless that chain store is a High Street record shop with a loathsome Less Than Jake window display.
And where's the soul? Where's the seediness? Where's the fucking sex? I wear baggy arse jeans cos I've got a baggy arse - the 46" waste papers over the crack, so to speak. The Skinny boys and girls at Brixton were wearing the regulatory jeans that double up as road sweepers (wtf?) as a fashion statement.
Funny fashion; any hormone humping spotty sixteen year old who gets the horn during the gig (unlikely, I know) hasn't exactly got the best shop window in which to display his goods to potential punters:
'Look! I've got a stonking nine inch boner breaking through my baggies!'
Um... looks like the cage is open but the beast is asleep to me.
And let's not even get into the ladies and their lack of 'lip reading' laid bare in their loons (although to be honest lip reading of the more traditional variety is perhaps the best way to listen to Less Than Jake).
Plus there were the tour T-shirts that wouldn't look out of place on a Rolling Stones roadie, and hairstyles that are Half Man Half Jaffa Cake Biscuit with blobs of orange shit sliding down the side.
'Fancy smelling a bit of my teen spirit?'
Um, not tonight love, I'm washing my hair. Just like you should be doing really.
Get to the back of the queue. That's the Less Than Cake queue of course and not the onionbagblogger orifice exploratory queue.
| Friday 28 May, 2004 |
*(that's FRUIT cake obviously, as in a sultana short of a fruit cake'; mad as a wet hen; madder than a mime artist with a megaphone).
What motivates moshers to queue up outside Brixton Academy at three in the fucking afternoon for a Less Than Jake evening gig? I've just been down Piss Alley SW9 and perched outside like some Dickensian bin dippers, a full FOUR hours before the doors were due to open were about 100 or so raggle taggle little ruffians.
Less than Jake. LESS THAN FUCKING JAKE!
Massive Attack maybe, Dylan definitely, Diesel Park West definitely maybe (although the stadium days are well behind the Leicester boys now - not that they were ever there in the first place to be honest).
I've got a stonking nine inch boner |
I truly believed that The Stone Roses would change the world back in '89; hip hop five years earlier (and there's a damn good argument that this is actually the case) plus 2 Tone as well.
But Less Than Fucking Jake? It doesn't exactly inspire you to go out and brick a chain store now does it? Unless that chain store is a High Street record shop with a loathsome Less Than Jake window display.
And where's the soul? Where's the seediness? Where's the fucking sex? I wear baggy arse jeans cos I've got a baggy arse - the 46" waste papers over the crack, so to speak. The Skinny boys and girls at Brixton were wearing the regulatory jeans that double up as road sweepers (wtf?) as a fashion statement.
Funny fashion; any hormone humping spotty sixteen year old who gets the horn during the gig (unlikely, I know) hasn't exactly got the best shop window in which to display his goods to potential punters:
'Look! I've got a stonking nine inch boner breaking through my baggies!'
Um... looks like the cage is open but the beast is asleep to me.
And let's not even get into the ladies and their lack of 'lip reading' laid bare in their loons (although to be honest lip reading of the more traditional variety is perhaps the best way to listen to Less Than Jake).
Plus there were the tour T-shirts that wouldn't look out of place on a Rolling Stones roadie, and hairstyles that are Half Man Half Jaffa Cake Biscuit with blobs of orange shit sliding down the side.
'Fancy smelling a bit of my teen spirit?'
Um, not tonight love, I'm washing my hair. Just like you should be doing really.
Get to the back of the queue. That's the Less Than Cake queue of course and not the onionbagblogger orifice exploratory queue.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Friday 28 May, 2004 |
Surrey 479 Kent 239 & 254-4 (f-o), day three, stumps, 27/05/04
I took up my freebie Seat of No Shame at 5.30 with Carberry and Key at the crease – which is more or less where I left the game yesterday. Small detail of course of Kent being skittled out for 239 in their first innings and batting to avoid an innings defeat.
Even at this late hour of the day there was still work to be done; not for onionbagblogger you understand (the little rascals were returned back to their respective ranches, bored rigid after a day in the classroom being coached on the wonders of willow and leather) but it was a case of make hay while the sun shines for the (semi) Oval builders still putting up the new stand.
Give 'em a grand Bickers!!!! |
'Give 'em a grand Bickers!!!!’ bellowed out one of the Surrey faithful, signalling the return of Bicknell (you don't say) to the crease. My cricketing vocabulary covers Chinamen, Googlies and Flippers but I've no idea what the sunburnt boy was bangin on about.
Something to do with The Streets and the Grand Don't Come For Free masterpiece? I'm struggling though to make the connection between county cricket and pill popping, garage geezers and their chav chicks. Five Live however has been rinsing a marvellous mash up of Ur Fit and U Know It Vs Henry Blofeld from Test Match Special; when two worlds collide – Streets Vs the summer game. My life, right here, right now. And very lovely it is too.
Carberry survived a school boy error with Clarke causing the Kent batsman to dive for cover, lying face down with his tongue on the turf and Umpire Gould gazing down from above. The finger wasn't raised this time, but who's to say that this seedy little scene won't be repeated with a more pleasurable outcome later in the pavilion?
The Surrey team soon followed; all lying down legs apart on the wicket like a cricketing compendium of the Karma Sutra. Oh hang on, my mistake – toilet stop for a fielder. Damn these modern day athletes and their sissy stretching routines.
Surrey made the breakthrough with seven overs remaining in the day when Carberry was caught by Brown for six off bowling by Ormond.
Hopefully more of the same late afternoon on Friday.
*Heads off to search for cricket+karma+sutra – please prey that it's a googlewhack.*
|
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
| #permalink |
Any Porto in a Storm
Porto win the European Cup (ALWAYS the European Cup, none of this Champions League crap) and London's Little Portugal (Sunny Stockwell) celebrates:
Click here to watch onionbagblogger not sleeping
I might just peddle at full pelt and scream out like a prat if Surrey beat Kent within three days tomorrow.
It's gonna be a long night...
| Thursday 27 May, 2004 |
Porto win the European Cup (ALWAYS the European Cup, none of this Champions League crap) and London's Little Portugal (Sunny Stockwell) celebrates:
Click here to watch onionbagblogger not sleeping
I might just peddle at full pelt and scream out like a prat if Surrey beat Kent within three days tomorrow.
It's gonna be a long night...
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Thursday 27 May, 2004 |
Surrey 479 Kent 181-5, day two, stumps, 26/05/04
Watching cricket in the 5 'O clock freebie Seats of No Shame at The (semi) Oval leaves you in a state of ignorant bliss as you speculate at what has taken place during the day. It's a bit like going to the cinema to see a blockbuster like Troy for the final ten minutes, being blown away by the ending and then pondering what a phenomenal movie it must have been.
Like I said, what you don't know won't harm you.
Maybe Shahid smacked six sixes in an over. Or how about Hollioake hitting the ball over the pavilion? Then again it was probably a passionless affair, only livened up when one of the stewards had to politely ask one of the coffin dodgers to refrain from snoring as it was putting the off the batsmen.
Put yer knickers back on Freddie Flintoff fans |
How do they do that? Not sure, but a word in the shell of the Athens 2004 Olympic Committee wouldn't go amiss, or Wembley plc come to think of it.
Also on show for the first time this summer was a giant, lumbering ugly beast of a brute on the boundary. Put yer knickers back on Freddie Flintoff fans (female and male alike) – positioned somewhere deep at Third Man was a crane.
I took up my Seat of No Shame shortly after 5 O’clock to find Kent stuck on 99-2 with 18 overs remaining in the day. Costing exactly 0p per over, multiplied by 18 = not bad vfm, even for a tightarse onionbagblogger. I may invoice Surrey County Cricket Club for the wear and tear incurred to my Marin during my five minute cycle to the ground.
Ormond (or 'Jimmy O' as the team like to call him – makes him sound like he should be in some 70s Philadelphia phunk outfit) and Bicknell were both bowling decent lengths at Walker and Key, although with the wicket positioned over at the far side of The (semi) Oval, the sightlines were more favourable to the builders than the onionbagblogger. Still, you get what you don't pay for I suppose.
Key picked up the pace and unlocked the outfield (boom boom), sending the Surrey fielders back and forth to the Vauxhall Building Site with his boundaries. Walker was soon... walking, after he was caught behind by Batty, bowled by Mahmood for 20.
With the light failing, Carberry survived an appeal that had half the Surrey team celebrating long after Umpire Gould failed to raise his finger. I thought it only fair and proper to raise my finger instead.
Must have done the trick as the fickle finger of Gould was lifted a few overs later with Carberry caught by Batty, bowled by Mahmood again. Saggers survived for only a few balls, before being bowled by Clarke (RICKYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!) for 1 with Batty once again doing the business from behind. Steady...
Thanks but no thanks for coming etc, Saggers obviously, not onionbagblogger, but I do come a damn sight cheaper.
|
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
| #permalink |
Dancing in The Streets
I love a good summer album, something that you rinse to death from June through until the first puck being dropped once again in September. Our Favourite Shop saw me through the summer of '85, From Langley Park to Memphis in '88; Don't Try This at Home did it for me in '91 and only last summer my life was soundtracked to Soul Journey.
This summer it looks like A Grand Don't Come For Free is going to be hard to dislodge from my D Drive.
w@ a fkng sht ht cd, as Mr Skinner might txt his m8.
Coming up with some wank of a conventional album review just wouldn't feel right for what is far from a wank of a conventional album. Words, phrases, random ideas - all glued together with an urban plot that Eastenders would die for.
Where else can you find a Tippa Irie inspired ode to spliffing up on the sofa with your girl, observations of queuing at the cashpoint and lager fuelled fights in KFC? Plus a plot put together around a broken TV. It's not the kind of album you expect from Eric Clapton now is it?
I'm not ashamed to say that I was close to tears when I reached the end of A Grand Don't Come For Free for the first time. I had to sit back, make a milky brew, take stock and then listen to it all over again, each time finding something new in the story, much like watching Tarantino at the top of his game.
'It's hard enough remembering my opinions, let alone my reasons,' pleads Skinner during a bust up with his bird. And in one sentence he articulates modern living more than any mainstream media could possibly hope for.
Keith West had his Excerpt From a Teenage Opera way back in '69, mindful that making a three minute pop gem of a teenage opera was tricky enough; to try and complete the work and maintain the high standard is a nigh on impossible task.
Fuck me then. Mickey Skinner has only gone and delivered.
What the fuck will anyone outside of chav UK make of it? Doesn’t really matter. Skinner writes for and about what he understands. A true Tell It Like It Is diamond.
Do Not Disturb for the next three months. By which time hopefully a remix album will have dropped.
| Wednesday 26 May, 2004 |
I love a good summer album, something that you rinse to death from June through until the first puck being dropped once again in September. Our Favourite Shop saw me through the summer of '85, From Langley Park to Memphis in '88; Don't Try This at Home did it for me in '91 and only last summer my life was soundtracked to Soul Journey.
This summer it looks like A Grand Don't Come For Free is going to be hard to dislodge from my D Drive.
w@ a fkng sht ht cd, as Mr Skinner might txt his m8.
Coming up with some wank of a conventional album review just wouldn't feel right for what is far from a wank of a conventional album. Words, phrases, random ideas - all glued together with an urban plot that Eastenders would die for.
Mickey Skinner has delivered |
I'm not ashamed to say that I was close to tears when I reached the end of A Grand Don't Come For Free for the first time. I had to sit back, make a milky brew, take stock and then listen to it all over again, each time finding something new in the story, much like watching Tarantino at the top of his game.
'It's hard enough remembering my opinions, let alone my reasons,' pleads Skinner during a bust up with his bird. And in one sentence he articulates modern living more than any mainstream media could possibly hope for.
Keith West had his Excerpt From a Teenage Opera way back in '69, mindful that making a three minute pop gem of a teenage opera was tricky enough; to try and complete the work and maintain the high standard is a nigh on impossible task.
Fuck me then. Mickey Skinner has only gone and delivered.
What the fuck will anyone outside of chav UK make of it? Doesn’t really matter. Skinner writes for and about what he understands. A true Tell It Like It Is diamond.
Do Not Disturb for the next three months. By which time hopefully a remix album will have dropped.
| #permalink |
Crap Journo
Sniffing out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich
Mumbo Jumbo
We get the statues we deserve. Which is why a full blown bust of Leicester's most famous son would suit the City of Death down to the ground. Nope, not Golden Wonder boy Gary Lineker; not even OAP knicker wetter Engelbert Humperdinck.
The East Midlands City That ISN'T Nottingham (whoh, way to go, great claim to fame you fox hunting fuckers) is going to eulogise the The Elephant Man. Um, yep, I hear what you're saying: In a city where such a description could actually apply to the vast majority of the male population, perhaps we need to clarify that THE Elephant Man is one John Merrick.
Death provides us with many opportunities. One of them is of course to Tell It Like It Is and not tip toe around any questions of decency and simply declare that:
MERRICK WAS ONE UGLY FUCKER.
He had the kind of face that resembled the contents of an out of date tin of spam. It's gonna be a lovely statue we understand, on par with the ball of clay sculptured into a pile of horse shit that was used in the video for Lionel Ritchie's Hello (an uncanny portrayal of the Great Moustached One actually).
The Elephant Man was a tremendously powerful film of course. It was only recently that I realised that the opening sequence involving a herd of wild African elephants stampeding through the plains wasn't an integral part of the plot; I genuinely believed that Merrick as a handsome young sap was tragically trapped underneath the horde, hence his frightful freak features.
Apologies of course for the lack of a Leicester love in. It is ultimately a football thing and the word Leicester could easily be substituted for the shit that is Derby. On my frequent journeys from Sunny Stockwell up to the Fair City of Nottingham, I try and encourage as many people sitting in my train carriage as possible to hold their nose as we pass through Leicester.
Either that or suggest that it would be a good time to drop their diarrhoea while the train is standing at Leicester station.
An Elephant Man For The Modern Leicester Man
I'm not on a Leicester witch hunt or anything but, whoops, watch which url you link to; the Elephant Man picture could equally apply to THIS Leicester story as well.
Stupid fucker – drink driving is for dickheads. If you're privileged to hold public office and are too dumbfuck to deny an open and closed case then you deserve public ridicule. Even on a blog that has about as much influence as Shagger Norris will have in London come June 11.
Do you think the photo was taken whilst the knobber was still pissed out of his pig ugly head on G&T's?
Telling Porkies
Ah, sod it. I've got this far and so I might as well complete the City of Death hat trick (something that the team of useless tossers running around at the Crisp Bowl have failed to do all season long). Anyone would think that my homepage is set to thisisshitleicester.com or something….
Pork pies. Not Mr Tony and anything that moves coming out of Iraq right now but the mutha of all meat wars coming out of Melton Mowbray. Where else?
Maybe it's cos I just can't resist a Pie Campaigners Face Legal Battle headline.
I had high expectations clicking through, envisaging a crappy local news story about how a pie pressure group was being taken to court after force feeding their little darlings a diet of condensed pigs bollocks covered in a layer of jelly and then encased in a pastry that tastes like hardened shit.
I love me pork pies me.
Sadly what we get is a story examining a pork pie exclusion zone (around any football ground would be a start) with the Daily Mail mesmerised Middle England mongers of Melton Mowbray wanting to stop any other manufacturers of pigs knob in jelly from using the pork pie name.
Where does that leave the next ska revival (estimated arrival time early 2005)? Will all the rude boys and rude girls stomp their feet wearing meat pastry hats? What about the pork pie euphemism?
Besides, there's nowt wrong with Sainsbury's cheapo pork pies in my opinion (apart from the rotting corpse stench of course).
A quick Google of Pie+East Midlands brings up all you need to know about the area and its relationship with pies; the excellent Notts County fanzine The Pie (Magpies – get it?) comes in at number seven on the Googleometer. One of the original and still the best of a dying breed, The Pie regularly contains well reasoned 1000 plus words articles articulating why Leicester, its pig-faced citizens, fuckspud politicians and ghastly gourmet should be considered as the public lavatory of the East Midlands.
'Contributions welcome. Contact The Pie at...'
Hits sends button.
| Tuesday 25 May, 2004 |
Sniffing out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich
Mumbo Jumbo
We get the statues we deserve. Which is why a full blown bust of Leicester's most famous son would suit the City of Death down to the ground. Nope, not Golden Wonder boy Gary Lineker; not even OAP knicker wetter Engelbert Humperdinck.
The East Midlands City That ISN'T Nottingham (whoh, way to go, great claim to fame you fox hunting fuckers) is going to eulogise the The Elephant Man. Um, yep, I hear what you're saying: In a city where such a description could actually apply to the vast majority of the male population, perhaps we need to clarify that THE Elephant Man is one John Merrick.
I love me pork pies me |
MERRICK WAS ONE UGLY FUCKER.
He had the kind of face that resembled the contents of an out of date tin of spam. It's gonna be a lovely statue we understand, on par with the ball of clay sculptured into a pile of horse shit that was used in the video for Lionel Ritchie's Hello (an uncanny portrayal of the Great Moustached One actually).
The Elephant Man was a tremendously powerful film of course. It was only recently that I realised that the opening sequence involving a herd of wild African elephants stampeding through the plains wasn't an integral part of the plot; I genuinely believed that Merrick as a handsome young sap was tragically trapped underneath the horde, hence his frightful freak features.
Apologies of course for the lack of a Leicester love in. It is ultimately a football thing and the word Leicester could easily be substituted for the shit that is Derby. On my frequent journeys from Sunny Stockwell up to the Fair City of Nottingham, I try and encourage as many people sitting in my train carriage as possible to hold their nose as we pass through Leicester.
Either that or suggest that it would be a good time to drop their diarrhoea while the train is standing at Leicester station.
An Elephant Man For The Modern Leicester Man
I'm not on a Leicester witch hunt or anything but, whoops, watch which url you link to; the Elephant Man picture could equally apply to THIS Leicester story as well.
Stupid fucker – drink driving is for dickheads. If you're privileged to hold public office and are too dumbfuck to deny an open and closed case then you deserve public ridicule. Even on a blog that has about as much influence as Shagger Norris will have in London come June 11.
Do you think the photo was taken whilst the knobber was still pissed out of his pig ugly head on G&T's?
Telling Porkies
Ah, sod it. I've got this far and so I might as well complete the City of Death hat trick (something that the team of useless tossers running around at the Crisp Bowl have failed to do all season long). Anyone would think that my homepage is set to thisisshitleicester.com or something….
Pork pies. Not Mr Tony and anything that moves coming out of Iraq right now but the mutha of all meat wars coming out of Melton Mowbray. Where else?
Maybe it's cos I just can't resist a Pie Campaigners Face Legal Battle headline.
I had high expectations clicking through, envisaging a crappy local news story about how a pie pressure group was being taken to court after force feeding their little darlings a diet of condensed pigs bollocks covered in a layer of jelly and then encased in a pastry that tastes like hardened shit.
I love me pork pies me.
Sadly what we get is a story examining a pork pie exclusion zone (around any football ground would be a start) with the Daily Mail mesmerised Middle England mongers of Melton Mowbray wanting to stop any other manufacturers of pigs knob in jelly from using the pork pie name.
Where does that leave the next ska revival (estimated arrival time early 2005)? Will all the rude boys and rude girls stomp their feet wearing meat pastry hats? What about the pork pie euphemism?
Besides, there's nowt wrong with Sainsbury's cheapo pork pies in my opinion (apart from the rotting corpse stench of course).
A quick Google of Pie+East Midlands brings up all you need to know about the area and its relationship with pies; the excellent Notts County fanzine The Pie (Magpies – get it?) comes in at number seven on the Googleometer. One of the original and still the best of a dying breed, The Pie regularly contains well reasoned 1000 plus words articles articulating why Leicester, its pig-faced citizens, fuckspud politicians and ghastly gourmet should be considered as the public lavatory of the East Midlands.
'Contributions welcome. Contact The Pie at...'
Hits sends button.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Monday 24 May, 2004 |
Surrey 268 all out beat Essex 237 all out by 31 runs
A sunshine day to signal the official start of the onionbagblog summer season; out goes the PG Tips in the flask and in comes the smoothie. Although thanks to a not very rigorous washing up routine (her, not me), the stains of Dulwich's last home defeat (not that kind, although they were brown) were mixed in with the banana shake.
The dirty dog.
Speaking of incoming smoothies, stepping up to The (semi) Oval wicket to open the bowling for Essex was The Dazzler. New County, same old Goughy; farewell Yorkshire Pudding, hello Jellied Eels. Expect supplies of the East End delicacy to be decimated by the end of the summer.
Farewell Yorkshire Pudding, hello Jellied Eels |
It's always difficult to know down at The (semi) Oval who the home fans are; Essex may play Sunday League pyjama cricket in one of the most gut wrenching of designs (think chicken Korma yellow meets tampon red) but the South London siesta summer fashion is for naked flesh. And pounds, rolls and cushions of it. Women and men alike.
I had to look at the bling to see who was King. Essex Man loves his gold rings and chains and the rattling of the Ratner jewellery a few overs later heralded the dismissal of Ramprakash for a duck, lbw to Napier.
Newman soon racked his 50 with a series of boundaries and a little help from his quick succession of batting partners. All this partner swapping must have seemed like home from home for the Essex gals in the crowd.
Batty survived an outrageous drop from behind whilst still on nought before slogging Napier for six with the next delivery. The Surrey captain went on to steady the South London ship and helped Newman towards his maiden limited overs century.
Batty followed with 50 before he too got a taste of the promiscuous partner swapping as Newman was bowled for 106 by Clarke. Hollioake was bowled 100 short of Nelson with captain Batty bowing out with a career best clickety click.
With wickets running out and still seven overs remaining, Bicknell played a lazy stroke behind, caught by Foster for four. Murtagh managed 15 and then Gough clean bowled Ormond's middle wicket for a duck. Roast duck, Mmmm, lovely as Dazzler licked his lips ahead of the Stuff Yer Neck With as Much Cake as is Feasibly Possible tea break.
As Napier wrapped up the Surrey innings taking new boy Khan for a duck, Gough was first in the queue for the gateau.
I'm pleased to report that construction of The (semi) Oval continues apace. So sad then that the Essex bowlers couldn't pick up some tips with their pedestrian pace pie chuckers. A costly twelve run penalty at the end of the Surrey innings for not being able to get their finger out.
Either SE11 has a heavy new pirate station broadcasting to the Oval on a Sunday afternoon or Test Match Special was the choice of the headphone massive in the crowd. The lack of whistles being blown, pills being popped and dancing on the seats in the members' enclosure suggests the latter.
First ball, first blood to Surrey after the break; Jefferson headed back to the pavilion after Khan clean bowled the big man with his first ever delivery for Surrey. Cook was trapped a few balls later by Khan leaving Essex looking washed up (team, not girls).
Fowler and Pettini staged a recovery hitting the ball to the boundary with ease.
'Ramprakash – you don't play for England no more do you, you SLAGGGGG!' remarked an observant Essex Man, fake gold oozing from every fingertip. Neither do you mate, not with a belly to match the size of your mouth.
With Essex chasing a six run an over run rate and with over 20 overs remaining, attention turned towards the sleazy South London equivalent of the Mexican Wave: Will the randy pigeon on the pitch preside in getting it's leg over? Minutes of titillating fun as a baying crowd cheered on the puffed up pigeon as he chased a feathered female across the wicket.
He'd probably get more joy with one of the Essex Girls to be honest.
'C'mon Surrey – give us a song!' cried out an Essex Boy, barely able to stand after an afternoon on the alcopops.
C'mon Essex, give us a game, as the visitors required an optimistic 88 off 14 overs.
It didn't happen of course and come stumps, I made a swift exit as a spot of local trouble looked likely with the Essex Men taking a swing (and missing) with anything that moved. Much like their batsmen then.
|
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
| #permalink |
Life Changing Moment
Not The Lions losing the Cup Final (but that has rekindled my interest in forming a pathological hatred of red headed dwarves whose surname ends in Scholes); not the unlucky Lords punter whose late afternoon lager was ambushed by a cricket ball (Probably the Best Shot in the World). Not even the local LibDem candidate canvassing earlier inviting me to 'build a new and exciting community' (guess who's just got back from Legoland then...)
Nope, my possible life changing moment may be waiting to be discovered, buried away beneath this collection of freshly burned CDRs, all downloaded in less time than it took Dennis Wise to ask Paul Scholes for a dance. And I know which one is Arthur and which one is Martha.
Then again the CDRs may be as un-rewarding as an aborted trip to the shitter when the buttock clenching painful reality hits you that you have nothing left to dump in the dumper; all out of gas; so much anticipation, and all blown away, so to speak, with an unapologetic and apathetic arsehole.
That will probably be the Franz Ferdinand album then.
Music may not be the food of love, but it certainly is one of the main motivators in making me limp out of bed on a midweek morning, scratch my bollocks (my own personal morning work out), find a clean (ish) pair of pants and then agree to make a twat of myself in public whilst being humiliated and under-valued for the sake of a minimum wage. And all for the pleasure of being able to buy more CDs.
Well, technically CDRs, plus a broadband connection of course. I'd rather stick knitting needles in my ears and hum along the theme to Rentaghost for the remainder of my years rather than be ripped off by record chains again.
'If your mansion house needs haunting just call...'
Much like my appreciation of the female form, I’m a 'little behind' with my listening habits. With apologies to any 10gigs a day download junkies (actually that does include me, although I tend to fawn over the flickering images. The evil mpeg has usually served it's 'purpose' before I need to think long and hard about the merits of the music), but you probably know in advance of me if my mound of mp3s for the next month is going to mean a life changing moment, or simply more scrotum scratching in the mornings.
I am no longer the target audience for Observer Music Monthly (which given their shite music quiz is probably no bad thing) and gave up on the nauseating NME when they replaced the Office Listening chart with a Must Have Ringdrones chart. Plus having a fuckspud Editor who wouldn't know a Next Big Thing even if gatecrashed an editorial meeting wearing a six foot rubber dildo costume flying a flag saying NEXT BIG THING and then made a forced entry up his hairy back passage put me off buying the publication as well.
Life Changer or Scrotum Scratcher? You decide:
Courtney Love – America's Sweetheart. Celebrity Skin remains one of the few tracks that can motivate me out of a morning of testicle tickling beneath the sheets to climbing the greasy pole. Although sometimes ones leads to the other if I'm on a promise.
Dangermouse – Grey Album. Always thought that Paul McCartney should record with Penfold. What's that you say? Jay what? Mmm. Means nothing to me…
David Byrne – Grown Backwards. I plumped for this album in the great Soulseek Child in a Sweet Shop scenario cos it reminded me of my in-growing toenail and should provide a thoughtful excursion as I pick away at the puss on a nightly basis.
Graham Coxon – Happiness in Magazines - something I often find, although not so much the NME (you don't say); I aim a tad higher towards the top shelf for my inspiration. I thought I already knew all there was to know about being a wanker, but I live in hope that this particular album may offer a fresh new Life Changing Moment.
Morrissey - You Are the Quarry, or You Are IN the Quarry as the philanthropic file sharer I pilfered this one labelled his folder.
Prince – Musicology. Yeah yeah, so he lost it at Graffiti Bridge and has churned out 789 crap albums since, all of which have been 'not available in the shops, that number again...' Which is beautifully ironic seeing as though I downloaded Prince's first legit album in years.
Message to the majors: You provide a marketing service for music. Nothing more, nothing less. I use to think that you were responsible for a million life changing moments being the credible make or break listening ear for what we get to hear.
Now I have come to realise that the majority of 'music' that I actually bought under the misguided influence of your crap marketing campaigns turned out to be a testicle tickler.
You scratch mine, I'll scratch yours. You never know, it may just change your life.
| Sunday 23 May, 2004 |
Not The Lions losing the Cup Final (but that has rekindled my interest in forming a pathological hatred of red headed dwarves whose surname ends in Scholes); not the unlucky Lords punter whose late afternoon lager was ambushed by a cricket ball (Probably the Best Shot in the World). Not even the local LibDem candidate canvassing earlier inviting me to 'build a new and exciting community' (guess who's just got back from Legoland then...)
Nope, my possible life changing moment may be waiting to be discovered, buried away beneath this collection of freshly burned CDRs, all downloaded in less time than it took Dennis Wise to ask Paul Scholes for a dance. And I know which one is Arthur and which one is Martha.
I thought I knew all there was to know about being a wanker |
That will probably be the Franz Ferdinand album then.
Music may not be the food of love, but it certainly is one of the main motivators in making me limp out of bed on a midweek morning, scratch my bollocks (my own personal morning work out), find a clean (ish) pair of pants and then agree to make a twat of myself in public whilst being humiliated and under-valued for the sake of a minimum wage. And all for the pleasure of being able to buy more CDs.
Well, technically CDRs, plus a broadband connection of course. I'd rather stick knitting needles in my ears and hum along the theme to Rentaghost for the remainder of my years rather than be ripped off by record chains again.
'If your mansion house needs haunting just call...'
Much like my appreciation of the female form, I’m a 'little behind' with my listening habits. With apologies to any 10gigs a day download junkies (actually that does include me, although I tend to fawn over the flickering images. The evil mpeg has usually served it's 'purpose' before I need to think long and hard about the merits of the music), but you probably know in advance of me if my mound of mp3s for the next month is going to mean a life changing moment, or simply more scrotum scratching in the mornings.
I am no longer the target audience for Observer Music Monthly (which given their shite music quiz is probably no bad thing) and gave up on the nauseating NME when they replaced the Office Listening chart with a Must Have Ringdrones chart. Plus having a fuckspud Editor who wouldn't know a Next Big Thing even if gatecrashed an editorial meeting wearing a six foot rubber dildo costume flying a flag saying NEXT BIG THING and then made a forced entry up his hairy back passage put me off buying the publication as well.
Life Changer or Scrotum Scratcher? You decide:
Courtney Love – America's Sweetheart. Celebrity Skin remains one of the few tracks that can motivate me out of a morning of testicle tickling beneath the sheets to climbing the greasy pole. Although sometimes ones leads to the other if I'm on a promise.
Dangermouse – Grey Album. Always thought that Paul McCartney should record with Penfold. What's that you say? Jay what? Mmm. Means nothing to me…
David Byrne – Grown Backwards. I plumped for this album in the great Soulseek Child in a Sweet Shop scenario cos it reminded me of my in-growing toenail and should provide a thoughtful excursion as I pick away at the puss on a nightly basis.
Graham Coxon – Happiness in Magazines - something I often find, although not so much the NME (you don't say); I aim a tad higher towards the top shelf for my inspiration. I thought I already knew all there was to know about being a wanker, but I live in hope that this particular album may offer a fresh new Life Changing Moment.
Morrissey - You Are the Quarry, or You Are IN the Quarry as the philanthropic file sharer I pilfered this one labelled his folder.
Prince – Musicology. Yeah yeah, so he lost it at Graffiti Bridge and has churned out 789 crap albums since, all of which have been 'not available in the shops, that number again...' Which is beautifully ironic seeing as though I downloaded Prince's first legit album in years.
Message to the majors: You provide a marketing service for music. Nothing more, nothing less. I use to think that you were responsible for a million life changing moments being the credible make or break listening ear for what we get to hear.
Now I have come to realise that the majority of 'music' that I actually bought under the misguided influence of your crap marketing campaigns turned out to be a testicle tickler.
You scratch mine, I'll scratch yours. You never know, it may just change your life.
| #permalink |
Howzat!!!!
I've always been bowled over by The Oval tube station. Boom Boom. I don't know if it’s the recently renovated canopy as you approach the entrance; it could be the oval design of the ticket hall, mirroring the larger Oval open space just up the Harleyford Road; or perhaps it's to do with The Oval being the only London tube station that pays homage in mosaics to celebrity tea drinker (and occasional wicket keeper) Jack Russell.
Knocks me for six, every time.
Originally opened in 1890 (probably with delays on the Northern Line) as one of the six stations on The City and South London Railway, The Oval combines traditional Victorian tube station design down below with the recently renovated ticket hall up above.
All we need now is for the (semi) Oval cricket ground to sort out the building site mess that will disrupt most of this summer, and the area should be in fine form for the arrival of the Aussies and The Ashes in 2005.
Truth is though that there's not much else going for the Oval as a community once you take cricket out of the run rate. The Oval IS cricket; a cricket themed tube station that you pass through on the way to the hallowed wicket.
If you're not a fan of willow on leather (then first of all piss off), the Oval is a nothing more than a nightmare road junction, especially so for cyclists. There's a comedy club that always seems closed; there's a street full of shark like estate agents trying to sell the area as 'West Chelsea' (yeah, right...) and there's that funny looking old chap who sits outside the tube stattion all day long wearing a skin tight white T-shirt and sporting a Jimmy Saville 70s style feather haircut.
Howzat!!!! ....about that then, guys and gals. Er er er er er...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 22 May, 2004 |
I've always been bowled over by The Oval tube station. Boom Boom. I don't know if it’s the recently renovated canopy as you approach the entrance; it could be the oval design of the ticket hall, mirroring the larger Oval open space just up the Harleyford Road; or perhaps it's to do with The Oval being the only London tube station that pays homage in mosaics to celebrity tea drinker (and occasional wicket keeper) Jack Russell.
Knocks me for six, every time.
Originally opened in 1890 (probably with delays on the Northern Line) as one of the six stations on The City and South London Railway, The Oval combines traditional Victorian tube station design down below with the recently renovated ticket hall up above.
Estate agents sell the area as 'West Chelsea' |
Truth is though that there's not much else going for the Oval as a community once you take cricket out of the run rate. The Oval IS cricket; a cricket themed tube station that you pass through on the way to the hallowed wicket.
If you're not a fan of willow on leather (then first of all piss off), the Oval is a nothing more than a nightmare road junction, especially so for cyclists. There's a comedy club that always seems closed; there's a street full of shark like estate agents trying to sell the area as 'West Chelsea' (yeah, right...) and there's that funny looking old chap who sits outside the tube stattion all day long wearing a skin tight white T-shirt and sporting a Jimmy Saville 70s style feather haircut.
Howzat!!!! ....about that then, guys and gals. Er er er er er...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Garden of Delight
With a name like Chumleigh Gardens, you'd think that the botanical bliss is situated somewhere like Kensington rather than at the heart of Burgess Park, just down the road form Camberwell.
The Aylesbury Estate may be an aesthetically pleasing form of urban architecture, but a step into a tropical garden it 'aint.
Which is where Chumleigh Gardens comes in.
Boasting banana plants, bamboo shoots and fig trees, Chumleigh Gardens is the setting for many a lost South London summer afternoon. Or just a skive out of the classroom.
The morning trip was marvellous, although a visit again in the afternoon may have been a touch too much; the perils of working with two classes. Still, beats double algebra I suppose.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 21 May, 2004 |
With a name like Chumleigh Gardens, you'd think that the botanical bliss is situated somewhere like Kensington rather than at the heart of Burgess Park, just down the road form Camberwell.
The Aylesbury Estate may be an aesthetically pleasing form of urban architecture, but a step into a tropical garden it 'aint.
Which is where Chumleigh Gardens comes in.
Boasting banana plants, bamboo shoots and fig trees, Chumleigh Gardens is the setting for many a lost South London summer afternoon. Or just a skive out of the classroom.
The morning trip was marvellous, although a visit again in the afternoon may have been a touch too much; the perils of working with two classes. Still, beats double algebra I suppose.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Thursday 20 May, 2004 |
Surrey 359 Middlesex 23-0, day one, stumps, 19/05/04
With 'work' done and dusted (more dusted than done to be honest) and the daily drudge of drinking kiddie piss complete (aka swimming at Brixton Rec), I decided to head down to The (semi) Oval, just in time for the 5 'O clock freebie Surrey Seats of no Shame scam. An open door policy you understand; if your name's not down, PLEASE come in.
You read granny porn |
Internal memo: Wednesdays would be a wonderful day for a trip to the Post Office; the (semi) Oval was buzzing with coffin dodgers which must mean that midweek is definitely NOT Pension Day in the South London area. Either that or free Viagra was being handed out at the turnstiles.
I took up my Seat of no Shame just as the bell was being rung to signal the end of afternoon tea. Shame that the workmen at the Vauxhall End weren't on their tea break as their bulldozers were spoiling my enjoyment of a thirst quenching freshly made flask.
It was good to see the new stands starting to take shape though. And that shape is...? The same as the old shape that stood before. There best be some Seats of no Shame provision in those plans.
Hopefully Surrey were being kept off the cream doughnuts during the break as with the home side at 322-9, chances are that some late afternoon overs were in order for the Surrey boys.
With local London bragging rites at stake and only three weeks separating the last showdown between these two teams, this match had more needle than Cleopatra sticking pins into a pin cushion. And that was just the supporters:
'My pension is bigger than yours.'
'You read granny porn.'
'Go back to dribbling all down your sunburnt naked wrinkly torso, Granddad.'
Murtagh and Ormond mounted a fine final wicket stand of 106, frustrating the Middlesex attack with some good old fashioned slogging (looks away to see if slogblog.com is registered. Nope. Watch this space).
All good slogs must come to pass, and so Surrey headed back to the Pavilion just before 6 'O clock after Ormond was caught at the boundary, giving the home team a first innings of 359 all out.
Middlesex batted out the remaining fifteen overs of the day for 23-0, happy to see off stumps with all their wickets in place.
Now then, does anyone know of a decent dodge that will get me into a freebie Seats of no Shame for the first Lords Test of the summer tomorrow?
|
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
| #permalink |
If You Can't Stand the Heat
A boiling bus breaking down on Brixton Road; tube trains with temperatures touching thirty degrees; petrol heads acting like prats playing road rage with each other as their pressure cooker cars choke and splutter all over the City.
And still the site of a lycra lovely legging it on his two wheel wonder through the capital on a sizzling hot summer afternoon (that will be onionbagblogger then) raises a smile from the Johnnies at the Bus Stop.
They're all laughing with me of course, not at, as I peddle past at pace, safe in the knowledge that my extra half hour will be well spent; a pot of PG Tips on the go, window box in bloom the new Streets album blasting out.
Enjoy your commute.
| Thursday 20 May, 2004 |
A boiling bus breaking down on Brixton Road; tube trains with temperatures touching thirty degrees; petrol heads acting like prats playing road rage with each other as their pressure cooker cars choke and splutter all over the City.
And still the site of a lycra lovely legging it on his two wheel wonder through the capital on a sizzling hot summer afternoon (that will be onionbagblogger then) raises a smile from the Johnnies at the Bus Stop.
They're all laughing with me of course, not at, as I peddle past at pace, safe in the knowledge that my extra half hour will be well spent; a pot of PG Tips on the go, window box in bloom the new Streets album blasting out.
Enjoy your commute.
| #permalink |
Mutiny on the Thames
Every Londoner should be forced to take an annual Thames boat trip. Every Londoner should also be forced to mail some excrement to the Evening Sub-Standard once a year, seeing as though they specialise in printing shit. But that's for a different day.
I drag along mrs onionbagblogger every year and then demand that she answers 100 questions on the history of the river before serving up her next ration of a cup of water and a seaman's biscuit. A salty meal if there ever was one.
Actually she's coerced into the cruise as it's one of the few opportunities she gets to spend some quality time with me on a Saturday afternoon that doesn't involve watching non-league football, meaningless ice hockey matches or trips to the Crystal Palace Computer Fair.
Such a lucky lady indeed.
A trip along the Thames allows you to see the city from a different perspective. Old Father Thames IS London and the shores and surrounding sites are in a state of continual change; since our trek on the Thames last summer, the Swiss RE Tower is complete, the Hungerford Bridge is back in use and dickhead David Blaine has buggered off from Bankside.
A man who is bored of London is bored with life. Still, if the Thameside treats don't turn you on, there's always the same shitty jokes from MC Mein Host at the helm, the lovable cockney cruiser. And we're not talking Dagenham Dave here.
'See LWT over there? That stands for Last Week’s TV...'
And so it was that we blagged the best seats on the boat (favours from Dagenham Dave who must have been licking his lips at the thought of my salty sea biscuit) and sat back for an afternoon of peace, calm and tranquillity on the old river.
I tried my best to rest my sea weary legs but the trip hit rocky waters when Tory Boy, Mum and Dad plonked their blue rinse hairy arses sitting right behind me. Bugger - just what I needed - a true blue bigot bangin' on about the benefits of the free markets as I'm sitting back with a flask of my finest.
I knew I would form an irrational hatred of them the moment the Starbucks were slurped and the twat on a stick designer shades were lifted to rest on their Portillista quiffs. That's Tory Mum as well by the way. Why the fuck do you bother to wear them in the first place?
Tory Boy was a fine example for arguing the cause for outlawing the Public School system. Not along any rational lines of a meritocracy you understand, but simply going along with his Twickenham Set appearance.
The little shit was freshly shaven for a Saturday morning. What the fuck is that all about? That's like washing your hands BEFORE you have a wank. Utterly pointless.
Pre-voyage banter focussed on how 'Michael Howard is doing a splendid job and the Poll Tax was a spiffing idea actually.'
A fine sense of timing seeing as though our able seaman Dagenham Dave was navigating us past Embankment, you know, just up the road from Trafalgar Square, scene of 100,000 people having the mutha of all parties to sink the Poll Tax and eventually forcing out Thatcher back in '89.
Happy memories.
I poured another cup from my flask as mrs onionbagblogger tried to restrain me from lamping the cunt.
The cruise continued with crappy commentary from the camp cruiser, interspersed with a monetarist interpretation from Tory Boy:
'To your right is the South Bank Centre, one of London's cultural landmarks.'
'No it's not. It's a hotbed of Marxist activity that promotes homosexual promiscuity using public funds.'
Pass me the flask dear. Quickly.
His London. My London. His London. My London.
Except my London is better than his London and besides, I'm a bit tidy when it comes to twatting Tory tosspots in the testicles.
As we sailed past the Saatchi Gallery on the starboard side, the camp cruiser clarified how this use to be the home of the old GLC until the London authority was pulled apart by the Tories.
Not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to host my own pelagic political hustings, just as we were being informed of the run in that Red Ken had with Margaret Thatcher in the 80s, I interjected my own opinion to add some political balance to the boat trip:
DIE EVIL WITCH!!!! FUCKING TORY BITCH!!!!
The on-board banter between Tory Boy and onionbagblogger never really recovered after this point of order.
Later in the evening and mrs onionbagblogger was given a thorough seeing to, so to speak:
What is the only legitimate course of action on encountering a Tory twat on a boat?
Punch the fucker.
Correct.
Salty seaman biscuit time, darling.
Same again next year.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 19 May, 2004 |
Every Londoner should be forced to take an annual Thames boat trip. Every Londoner should also be forced to mail some excrement to the Evening Sub-Standard once a year, seeing as though they specialise in printing shit. But that's for a different day.
I drag along mrs onionbagblogger every year and then demand that she answers 100 questions on the history of the river before serving up her next ration of a cup of water and a seaman's biscuit. A salty meal if there ever was one.
That’s like washing your hands BEFORE you have a wank - pointless |
Such a lucky lady indeed.
A trip along the Thames allows you to see the city from a different perspective. Old Father Thames IS London and the shores and surrounding sites are in a state of continual change; since our trek on the Thames last summer, the Swiss RE Tower is complete, the Hungerford Bridge is back in use and dickhead David Blaine has buggered off from Bankside.
A man who is bored of London is bored with life. Still, if the Thameside treats don't turn you on, there's always the same shitty jokes from MC Mein Host at the helm, the lovable cockney cruiser. And we're not talking Dagenham Dave here.
'See LWT over there? That stands for Last Week’s TV...'
And so it was that we blagged the best seats on the boat (favours from Dagenham Dave who must have been licking his lips at the thought of my salty sea biscuit) and sat back for an afternoon of peace, calm and tranquillity on the old river.
I tried my best to rest my sea weary legs but the trip hit rocky waters when Tory Boy, Mum and Dad plonked their blue rinse hairy arses sitting right behind me. Bugger - just what I needed - a true blue bigot bangin' on about the benefits of the free markets as I'm sitting back with a flask of my finest.
I knew I would form an irrational hatred of them the moment the Starbucks were slurped and the twat on a stick designer shades were lifted to rest on their Portillista quiffs. That's Tory Mum as well by the way. Why the fuck do you bother to wear them in the first place?
Tory Boy was a fine example for arguing the cause for outlawing the Public School system. Not along any rational lines of a meritocracy you understand, but simply going along with his Twickenham Set appearance.
The little shit was freshly shaven for a Saturday morning. What the fuck is that all about? That's like washing your hands BEFORE you have a wank. Utterly pointless.
Pre-voyage banter focussed on how 'Michael Howard is doing a splendid job and the Poll Tax was a spiffing idea actually.'
A fine sense of timing seeing as though our able seaman Dagenham Dave was navigating us past Embankment, you know, just up the road from Trafalgar Square, scene of 100,000 people having the mutha of all parties to sink the Poll Tax and eventually forcing out Thatcher back in '89.
Happy memories.
I poured another cup from my flask as mrs onionbagblogger tried to restrain me from lamping the cunt.
The cruise continued with crappy commentary from the camp cruiser, interspersed with a monetarist interpretation from Tory Boy:
'To your right is the South Bank Centre, one of London's cultural landmarks.'
'No it's not. It's a hotbed of Marxist activity that promotes homosexual promiscuity using public funds.'
Pass me the flask dear. Quickly.
His London. My London. His London. My London.
Except my London is better than his London and besides, I'm a bit tidy when it comes to twatting Tory tosspots in the testicles.
As we sailed past the Saatchi Gallery on the starboard side, the camp cruiser clarified how this use to be the home of the old GLC until the London authority was pulled apart by the Tories.
Not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to host my own pelagic political hustings, just as we were being informed of the run in that Red Ken had with Margaret Thatcher in the 80s, I interjected my own opinion to add some political balance to the boat trip:
DIE EVIL WITCH!!!! FUCKING TORY BITCH!!!!
The on-board banter between Tory Boy and onionbagblogger never really recovered after this point of order.
Later in the evening and mrs onionbagblogger was given a thorough seeing to, so to speak:
What is the only legitimate course of action on encountering a Tory twat on a boat?
Punch the fucker.
Correct.
Salty seaman biscuit time, darling.
Same again next year.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Boxing Clever
My wonderful window box, potted and sitting pretty for hopefully a long hot summer ahead. Expect more random updates, i.e. whenever I can be arsed.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 18 May, 2004 |
My wonderful window box, potted and sitting pretty for hopefully a long hot summer ahead. Expect more random updates, i.e. whenever I can be arsed.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Useless Tory Tosser
One of my favourite hobbies is forming irrational hatreds. It takes a supremely skilled and slightly slanted soul to hate someone or something with a passion but for no particular purpose. Golfers, moustaches, men with buckles on the front of their shoes (get back to pantomime you twat) - I loathe them all without any logic.
It is therefore with great pleasure that I can announce a new irrational hatred in the onionbagblog Fuckspud Gallery: Step forward one James Bethell (sadly not related to Barry), you fucking useless Tory tosser.
Bethell ticks all the boxes in the onionbagblog Bastard Bingo game. Given the knobber' background in the Misery of Sound, I think I'm supposed to shout out 'Cheesy Housey House' as I cross the scorecard off.
If I was recruiting for the job of King Fuckspud at Fuckspud Inc and Bethell's CV landed on my desk, I would know instantly that I've got my man.
Bethell was the 'brains' behind Ministry of Sound at the start of the '90s. Marketing turns everything to shit and the downturn in dance culture came when some Public School Boy buffoons decided that there was serious cash to be made in hijacking the first genuine youth scene since punk, and then market it to the masses.
Mick Jagger cordoned off in the VIP room at Ministry, schmoozing up to Bethell and his money men does not make for a cutting edge movement.
Bethell's current 'day job' (jeez, these Tory types have their fingers in many pies, not to mention call girls) is as Head of Business Development (ooh, get you) at Capital Radio. Which probably means that he spends all day cold calling double glazing firms trying to flog shitty advertising for a poxy local commercial station. Come on, we've all done it...
You may remember that Capital fucked over independent radio station Xfm back in '98 and produced a playlist that is on par with making a home recording of your dear old gran struggling with her incontinence on the shitter as she pebble dashes out the remnants of that milky cup of Horlicks from the night before.
Indie-lite, Indie-shite.
Many an indie veteran trooper campaigned long and hard during the early '90s for a genuine independent radio station for London. The original Xfm was far from perfect but at least it was free of corporate clowns like Capital.
Bethell may not have been at Capital when the Phil Collins set took control, but onionbagblogger is Chief Irrational Hater No 1 and so Bethell can lick my pet poodle's sweaty bollocks. And he sweats more than a glassblower's backside on a blazing hot summers day.
Completing the hat trick that confirms Bethell as King Knobber comes with the news that he is the Conservative prospective parliamentary candidate for Tooting. I'm thinking of standing against him myself under the banner of the Tooting Popular Front (priority policy pledge: piss in the post box of Tooting Tory party HQ at least once a week - puerile but pleasurable all the same).
Power to the People.
| Monday 17 May, 2004 |
One of my favourite hobbies is forming irrational hatreds. It takes a supremely skilled and slightly slanted soul to hate someone or something with a passion but for no particular purpose. Golfers, moustaches, men with buckles on the front of their shoes (get back to pantomime you twat) - I loathe them all without any logic.
It is therefore with great pleasure that I can announce a new irrational hatred in the onionbagblog Fuckspud Gallery: Step forward one James Bethell (sadly not related to Barry), you fucking useless Tory tosser.
Indie-lite, Indie-shite |
If I was recruiting for the job of King Fuckspud at Fuckspud Inc and Bethell's CV landed on my desk, I would know instantly that I've got my man.
Bethell was the 'brains' behind Ministry of Sound at the start of the '90s. Marketing turns everything to shit and the downturn in dance culture came when some Public School Boy buffoons decided that there was serious cash to be made in hijacking the first genuine youth scene since punk, and then market it to the masses.
Mick Jagger cordoned off in the VIP room at Ministry, schmoozing up to Bethell and his money men does not make for a cutting edge movement.
Bethell's current 'day job' (jeez, these Tory types have their fingers in many pies, not to mention call girls) is as Head of Business Development (ooh, get you) at Capital Radio. Which probably means that he spends all day cold calling double glazing firms trying to flog shitty advertising for a poxy local commercial station. Come on, we've all done it...
You may remember that Capital fucked over independent radio station Xfm back in '98 and produced a playlist that is on par with making a home recording of your dear old gran struggling with her incontinence on the shitter as she pebble dashes out the remnants of that milky cup of Horlicks from the night before.
Indie-lite, Indie-shite.
Many an indie veteran trooper campaigned long and hard during the early '90s for a genuine independent radio station for London. The original Xfm was far from perfect but at least it was free of corporate clowns like Capital.
Bethell may not have been at Capital when the Phil Collins set took control, but onionbagblogger is Chief Irrational Hater No 1 and so Bethell can lick my pet poodle's sweaty bollocks. And he sweats more than a glassblower's backside on a blazing hot summers day.
Completing the hat trick that confirms Bethell as King Knobber comes with the news that he is the Conservative prospective parliamentary candidate for Tooting. I'm thinking of standing against him myself under the banner of the Tooting Popular Front (priority policy pledge: piss in the post box of Tooting Tory party HQ at least once a week - puerile but pleasurable all the same).
Power to the People.
| #permalink |
Five Star Cross’d Lovers
And so a return to The Globe on a glorious early summer evening at Bankside for the first production of the season, Romeo and Juliet.
Skipping the prologue (never could see the point in a play giving away the plot in the first five minutes), the traditional Globe pre-performance announcement of 'no mobiles (hurrah!) and no photography (boo!)' is built into the dialogue; the House of Capulet gatecrashes the House of Montague's message to turn off yer moby, leading to a full blown battle. Brilliant.
This is the first proper production of Romeo and Juliet at The Globe (trainspotters may recall an anarchic Brazilian interpretation in 2000), and so finally THAT Globe balcony gets to see some proper action. Shame poor old Romeo doesn't (if Kananu Kirimi's Juliet doesn't turn you on then you 'aint got no switches).
As per gigs in my yoof, so I'm fated in later life to suffer the scourge of the six foot six man mountain rocking and swaying in front of me. It's not even as though there was any proper bangin' choons to rock and sway in rhyme to. Not unless you include some gentle Jacobean lute lamentation, but that's hardly a cause to swing with my more vigour than Leslie Grantham let loose at a Vicar and Tarts tea party.
A plague on both your over-sized flat feet you fluctuating freak.
In-between anticipating the next wayward wandering of Left / Right Man, I managed to peak through at quite a spectacular performance; the 'original practises production' (i.e. Blackadder II) is delivered in a dandy display that would leave Desperate Dan dumbstruck; James Garnon's Mercutio is the bastard son of Blackadder's Lord Flasheart and Ruby (shut the fuck up, bitch) Wax – thigh slapping, cock posturing and camper than a tent department at Millets.
Mercutio meets his end in a magnificently staged sword fight with Tybalt, only before he has hammed it up further still, making sure that even in death his best side is captured.
Some knobber took a moby call towards the death pact climax (Fuckspud, O' Fucksoud, where for art thou? I'm at the fucking Globe) and I remembered why I stopped going to gigs (the 15 quid plus ticket price also played a part – a fiver gets you in at The Globe guv).
More to come with A Midsummer Night's Dream next month. Agitated arseholes who can't stand still (and I don't mean Bottom) keep away.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 16 May, 2004 |
And so a return to The Globe on a glorious early summer evening at Bankside for the first production of the season, Romeo and Juliet.
Skipping the prologue (never could see the point in a play giving away the plot in the first five minutes), the traditional Globe pre-performance announcement of 'no mobiles (hurrah!) and no photography (boo!)' is built into the dialogue; the House of Capulet gatecrashes the House of Montague's message to turn off yer moby, leading to a full blown battle. Brilliant.
Fuckspud, O' Fucksoud, where for art thou? |
As per gigs in my yoof, so I'm fated in later life to suffer the scourge of the six foot six man mountain rocking and swaying in front of me. It's not even as though there was any proper bangin' choons to rock and sway in rhyme to. Not unless you include some gentle Jacobean lute lamentation, but that's hardly a cause to swing with my more vigour than Leslie Grantham let loose at a Vicar and Tarts tea party.
A plague on both your over-sized flat feet you fluctuating freak.
In-between anticipating the next wayward wandering of Left / Right Man, I managed to peak through at quite a spectacular performance; the 'original practises production' (i.e. Blackadder II) is delivered in a dandy display that would leave Desperate Dan dumbstruck; James Garnon's Mercutio is the bastard son of Blackadder's Lord Flasheart and Ruby (shut the fuck up, bitch) Wax – thigh slapping, cock posturing and camper than a tent department at Millets.
Mercutio meets his end in a magnificently staged sword fight with Tybalt, only before he has hammed it up further still, making sure that even in death his best side is captured.
Some knobber took a moby call towards the death pact climax (Fuckspud, O' Fucksoud, where for art thou? I'm at the fucking Globe) and I remembered why I stopped going to gigs (the 15 quid plus ticket price also played a part – a fiver gets you in at The Globe guv).
More to come with A Midsummer Night's Dream next month. Agitated arseholes who can't stand still (and I don't mean Bottom) keep away.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Friday Free For All
Crystal Palace fans must be feeling Glad All Over right now – and no I don't mean because the end of the season should signal the return of Ade Akinbiyi to Selhurst from Stoke. Dead and buried at Christmas, and then along came the Divine Dowie. Ho ho ho, but please don't ask us to sit on your knee Ian. It may not be pretty (the training tactics of course), but never mind the methods, smell the stats: Four defeats in twenty one games with the Eagles flying high ahead of the play offs. Palace are sitting pretty with the ugly sister gatecrashers always going the distance in the end of season lottery. This certainly is dreamtime down in SE25. You'll be telling us next that a fantasy team of Wright, Bright and Lombardo will be putting on the stripes again. Cue Dave Clark 'And I’m feeling BOOM BOOM!'
Meanwhile down at The Den and Millwall may be feeling a little deflated at the end of the Division One campaign. Memo to Millwall fans: Open up your diaries, thumb through to 22 May and summon up a self-appointed smug smile, you know, the sort that Danny Baker use to greet us with on the doorstep whilst clutching a microphone in one hand and a big box of Daz in the other. The Lions may have lost out on promotion but it could be a lot worse; we can look forward to the likes of Leeds and Leicester next season (do you think Dennis will be fired up for the Foxes?), we have a great young managerial team (Arthur and Martha – but which one is Martha?), and did I mention Europe? Who knows where that particular journey will lead the Lions to? Villa Park probably, but that's not the point. Cardiff here we come.
And so onto Sorry. I mean Surrey. What a sad state of affairs across town at The (semi) Oval this season. Did you hear the one about the English team, the Irish team and the most humongous humiliation in the history of County Cricket? Surrey’s shock defeat to the part-timers of Ireland last week in the C&G Cup should serve as a reality wake up call for the South London side. New Captain, new coach, new calamity. It's a sorry state of affairs when Surrey have to resort to some Hollyjoke Hollioake 'pace' bowling to lead the attack. Adam is a useful all rounder and a fine servant to Surrey, but surely the club isn't expecting him to be the leading wicket taker come the end of the summer? There's more chance of Roy Keane returning to the fold for the Republic. Oh hang on...
| Friday 14 May, 2004 |
Crystal Palace fans must be feeling Glad All Over right now – and no I don't mean because the end of the season should signal the return of Ade Akinbiyi to Selhurst from Stoke. Dead and buried at Christmas, and then along came the Divine Dowie. Ho ho ho, but please don't ask us to sit on your knee Ian. It may not be pretty (the training tactics of course), but never mind the methods, smell the stats: Four defeats in twenty one games with the Eagles flying high ahead of the play offs. Palace are sitting pretty with the ugly sister gatecrashers always going the distance in the end of season lottery. This certainly is dreamtime down in SE25. You'll be telling us next that a fantasy team of Wright, Bright and Lombardo will be putting on the stripes again. Cue Dave Clark 'And I’m feeling BOOM BOOM!'
Never mind the methods, smell the stats |
And so onto Sorry. I mean Surrey. What a sad state of affairs across town at The (semi) Oval this season. Did you hear the one about the English team, the Irish team and the most humongous humiliation in the history of County Cricket? Surrey’s shock defeat to the part-timers of Ireland last week in the C&G Cup should serve as a reality wake up call for the South London side. New Captain, new coach, new calamity. It's a sorry state of affairs when Surrey have to resort to some Hollyjoke Hollioake 'pace' bowling to lead the attack. Adam is a useful all rounder and a fine servant to Surrey, but surely the club isn't expecting him to be the leading wicket taker come the end of the summer? There's more chance of Roy Keane returning to the fold for the Republic. Oh hang on...
| #permalink |
Rec-less
Brixton Rec is a beast of a red brick building that sits perfectly within the fiery frontline of SW9. That’s FRIENDLY fire of course; let’s stay clear of all the shooting, stabbing and syringe stereotypes and leave them to the Evening Sub-Standard and their ‘edgy’ reporting, live and direct from their South Kensington suburb.
Although the original design dates back to the ‘60s and the ‘skyscraper dream’ for the town centre, Brixton Rec was built in the aftermath of the ’81 riots. The Rec is a local landmark rising high above Brixton Station Road market (bootylicious DVDs from Jamaica, Nigerian fast food and some dodgy bloke bartering Gillette Sensor Excel blades – five for £2.50 – my new best mate).
Prince Charles, Nelson Mandela and even Mr Tony have turned up in recent years, although I doubt if they entered the place using Piss Alley, my own preferred route of access. THE Piss Alley of SW9 links Brixton Road to the back of the Academy. Brixton Rec though boasts Piss Alley Mk II, a baby brother running up the back of the Rec and the best option for cyclists. That's cyclists who want to cycle that is, and not piss their pants in public.
If you can stomach the stench of junkie piss (even stupid bastards need a wee wee) then you’re rewarded with some marvellous mosaics made by local kids adorning the walls, a recent feature that appeared last summer as part of the Destination Brixton expo.
The full onionbagblog picture guided tours stops at the gates of the Rec I’m afraid; something about public changing rooms and cameras that tells me best to keep away.
Once inside though and the facilities are fantastic; a couple of 5-a-side pitches which double up as basketball and badminton courts, a recently renovated gym, a 25m pool (watch out for the floaters and yellow warm water when the kiddies are about), cheap squash courts and a sauna that also serves as an unofficial makeshift KFC / nail bar / launderette.
There’s also the bizarre sight of a subbuteo style bowling green in the basement which as one would expect from Brixton, doesn’t quite provide the traditional backdrop of a Middle England bowling club. More Bring Your Own Grass then Keep Off the Grass.
All of which is still a touch too tranquil for one of the old boys I regularly chat to after a swim.
‘Fours more years boy and I will ‘ave made it’ he once boasted.
‘What, a daily swim at the ripe old age of 70?’ I asked.
‘You cheeky little bugger. I’m ‘undread in four years time. ‘Aven’t missed a day out of the water in the past sixty years.’
Blimey Charlie.
All of which leaves me feeling like the crock I am; hobbling about, body falling apart and with the very real possibility that I may have kicked my last ball in the Brixton 5-a-side hall.
Rec-less indeed.
I don't expect any sympathy but some tea would be nice.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 13 May, 2004 |
Brixton Rec is a beast of a red brick building that sits perfectly within the fiery frontline of SW9. That’s FRIENDLY fire of course; let’s stay clear of all the shooting, stabbing and syringe stereotypes and leave them to the Evening Sub-Standard and their ‘edgy’ reporting, live and direct from their South Kensington suburb.
Although the original design dates back to the ‘60s and the ‘skyscraper dream’ for the town centre, Brixton Rec was built in the aftermath of the ’81 riots. The Rec is a local landmark rising high above Brixton Station Road market (bootylicious DVDs from Jamaica, Nigerian fast food and some dodgy bloke bartering Gillette Sensor Excel blades – five for £2.50 – my new best mate).
Even stupid bastards need a wee wee |
If you can stomach the stench of junkie piss (even stupid bastards need a wee wee) then you’re rewarded with some marvellous mosaics made by local kids adorning the walls, a recent feature that appeared last summer as part of the Destination Brixton expo.
The full onionbagblog picture guided tours stops at the gates of the Rec I’m afraid; something about public changing rooms and cameras that tells me best to keep away.
Once inside though and the facilities are fantastic; a couple of 5-a-side pitches which double up as basketball and badminton courts, a recently renovated gym, a 25m pool (watch out for the floaters and yellow warm water when the kiddies are about), cheap squash courts and a sauna that also serves as an unofficial makeshift KFC / nail bar / launderette.
There’s also the bizarre sight of a subbuteo style bowling green in the basement which as one would expect from Brixton, doesn’t quite provide the traditional backdrop of a Middle England bowling club. More Bring Your Own Grass then Keep Off the Grass.
All of which is still a touch too tranquil for one of the old boys I regularly chat to after a swim.
‘Fours more years boy and I will ‘ave made it’ he once boasted.
‘What, a daily swim at the ripe old age of 70?’ I asked.
‘You cheeky little bugger. I’m ‘undread in four years time. ‘Aven’t missed a day out of the water in the past sixty years.’
Blimey Charlie.
All of which leaves me feeling like the crock I am; hobbling about, body falling apart and with the very real possibility that I may have kicked my last ball in the Brixton 5-a-side hall.
Rec-less indeed.
I don't expect any sympathy but some tea would be nice.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
It's for you
I’ve got this phone problem you see. Nothing to do with being 2004 and still not owning one of those portable telephone things that you see knobbers on the bus using and abusing (‘Curry or chips tonight? Ahhh, yeah, I agree, curry AND chips.’) Not owning a moby is not MY problem, but others see it as a problem though (employers, acquaintances I’m trying to avoid, random loose women on the street who are clearly aroused by the scent of Sainsburys cheapo 69p shampoo and want to swap numbers).
People who I want to contact me always know how get hold of me exactly where and when. As a general rule of thumb I’m never too far away from a kettle and a fresh stash of tea bags; just work out where the nearest phone will be. If you’re an early bird I’ll be in the kitchen; mid-morning then it’s the staff room (as is the case for most of the day actually); tea-time and it’s back to the kitchen. Phew, what a life of joviality I lead.
Ah, but what about if you are out and about with a flask I here you ask? Wouldn’t a mobile be of use? ‘Fraid not. Flask time is free time. Do not disturb.
My particular phone problem is that I am being stalked by some invisible tele-marketing twatstick of a company. And they’re Scottish and so I can’t understand a bleedin’ word they’re bangin’ on about.
It all started about a month ago with an innocent ring of my lovely 1970s old style GPO phone. I was brewing up at the time and so I let it go to 1571. Never get between an onionbagblogger and his brew.
The number left was an 08700 prefix and so thinking that it might be someone offering me money or tea bags, I returned the call.
What I got was a recorded message from some Scottish bird (think Begbie on barbiturates whilst being buggered up the back passage) trying her worst to read a script that would put the writers of Sex Life of the Potato Men to shame.
Gist of it was: ‘We’re tele-marketing fuckspuds. We called you, you weren’t in (you don’t say). Don’t contact us. We’ll pester you again. Bye bye. Oh yeah, and do you want curry or chips tonight?’
No option to leave a polite message (my lovely 1970s old style GPO phone, your arse. See what that does to your quaint little lull of a McMarketing accent). I spend all day listening to people who I’d rather punch in the face thank you very much.
The same thing happened the next day. And the next. And then on the third day of the Battle of the Dog & Bone, twice in one evening. We’re now up to around five calls on average per day.
The scenario is the same each time. Phone rings, and then after about two seconds of me picking it up, the Glasgow gal hangs up.
It’s good to talk etc (shame that BT fed me their usual corporate crap when I reported the abuse trying to rip me off even more for a call blocking service), and so I decided to confront my stalker.
Ring ring, ring ring.
I pick up.
One second of silence.
FUCK OFF YOU FILTHY CUNT!!!!!!!!
Slam the phone down.
Thirty seconds later…
Ring ring, ring ring.
Oh. They’ve never called in such quick succession. Must be a genuine call. And it was.
It was my mum.
‘Who taught you such foul language? Is there something you want to talk about? Your father and I are most concerned about your sudden outburst.’
Tele-marketing is so fucking rude. It’s the audio equivalent of a stranger just prodding you in the street and shouting ‘Oi you, listen to me, I’ve got something really crap that I think you may enhance your tea slurping shite life of an existence.
Chances are that it will be an all singing, dancing, tea making mobile as well.
| Wednesday 12 May, 2004 |
I’ve got this phone problem you see. Nothing to do with being 2004 and still not owning one of those portable telephone things that you see knobbers on the bus using and abusing (‘Curry or chips tonight? Ahhh, yeah, I agree, curry AND chips.’) Not owning a moby is not MY problem, but others see it as a problem though (employers, acquaintances I’m trying to avoid, random loose women on the street who are clearly aroused by the scent of Sainsburys cheapo 69p shampoo and want to swap numbers).
People who I want to contact me always know how get hold of me exactly where and when. As a general rule of thumb I’m never too far away from a kettle and a fresh stash of tea bags; just work out where the nearest phone will be. If you’re an early bird I’ll be in the kitchen; mid-morning then it’s the staff room (as is the case for most of the day actually); tea-time and it’s back to the kitchen. Phew, what a life of joviality I lead.
FUCK OFF YOU FILTHY CUNT!!!!!!!! |
My particular phone problem is that I am being stalked by some invisible tele-marketing twatstick of a company. And they’re Scottish and so I can’t understand a bleedin’ word they’re bangin’ on about.
It all started about a month ago with an innocent ring of my lovely 1970s old style GPO phone. I was brewing up at the time and so I let it go to 1571. Never get between an onionbagblogger and his brew.
The number left was an 08700 prefix and so thinking that it might be someone offering me money or tea bags, I returned the call.
What I got was a recorded message from some Scottish bird (think Begbie on barbiturates whilst being buggered up the back passage) trying her worst to read a script that would put the writers of Sex Life of the Potato Men to shame.
Gist of it was: ‘We’re tele-marketing fuckspuds. We called you, you weren’t in (you don’t say). Don’t contact us. We’ll pester you again. Bye bye. Oh yeah, and do you want curry or chips tonight?’
No option to leave a polite message (my lovely 1970s old style GPO phone, your arse. See what that does to your quaint little lull of a McMarketing accent). I spend all day listening to people who I’d rather punch in the face thank you very much.
The same thing happened the next day. And the next. And then on the third day of the Battle of the Dog & Bone, twice in one evening. We’re now up to around five calls on average per day.
The scenario is the same each time. Phone rings, and then after about two seconds of me picking it up, the Glasgow gal hangs up.
It’s good to talk etc (shame that BT fed me their usual corporate crap when I reported the abuse trying to rip me off even more for a call blocking service), and so I decided to confront my stalker.
Ring ring, ring ring.
I pick up.
One second of silence.
FUCK OFF YOU FILTHY CUNT!!!!!!!!
Slam the phone down.
Thirty seconds later…
Ring ring, ring ring.
Oh. They’ve never called in such quick succession. Must be a genuine call. And it was.
It was my mum.
‘Who taught you such foul language? Is there something you want to talk about? Your father and I are most concerned about your sudden outburst.’
Tele-marketing is so fucking rude. It’s the audio equivalent of a stranger just prodding you in the street and shouting ‘Oi you, listen to me, I’ve got something really crap that I think you may enhance your tea slurping shite life of an existence.
Chances are that it will be an all singing, dancing, tea making mobile as well.
| #permalink |
Greenwich Mean Time
With apologies to South East London local luminary Inspector Sands, I had a most mean time in Greenwich today; that's MEAN as in: Adjective, extremely unpleasant or disagreeable, doing my bloody head in, don’t come back, never again, ner ner ner ner ner.
Looking after forty plus little darlings over-dosing on Sunny Delight and sky high with a day out of the classroom may have been a factor. A bastard bus journey taking over an hour from Wonderful Walworth to Grim Greenwich certainly didn't help ('I spy with my little eye, something beginning with G. Yes, that's right, the gallows at Tower Bridge; please don't tempt me you little cherub and why don't we all play a game of who can fall asleep the quickest?’)
The true meaning of Greenwich Mean Time though was waiting for us at the Maritime Museum. Quite impressive actually if you like messing about on the water. Not so nice however if you like taking photos of people learning about messing about on the water.
The camera never lies but the onionbagblogger occasionally might. You'll just have to take my word then seeing as though a cross-breed between an orang utang and Ann Widdecombe wearing a security guard uniform almost rugby tackled me as soon as my seven inch wonder zoom raised its ugly head.
Don't worry luv, I wouldn’t ever dream of using it on you. The camera that it.
Like a guilty schoolboy (must be the daytime company I keep), I managed to sneak a couple of cheeky pics whilst inside the Museum. Nothing to shout home about – a spiral staircase which is so so, a lovely litter bin shaped in the style of a dolphin (actually this was a mistake; ape woman caught me flashing and the camera went off at a random angle as it was going back inside my bag) and one of the ankle biters almost chucking up. I thought it would make for an 'edgy' picture, but the poor girl failed to throw up her early morning Mars bar on cue for the camera.
Two weeks (GMT) to half term and counting...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 11 May, 2004 |
With apologies to South East London local luminary Inspector Sands, I had a most mean time in Greenwich today; that's MEAN as in: Adjective, extremely unpleasant or disagreeable, doing my bloody head in, don’t come back, never again, ner ner ner ner ner.
Looking after forty plus little darlings over-dosing on Sunny Delight and sky high with a day out of the classroom may have been a factor. A bastard bus journey taking over an hour from Wonderful Walworth to Grim Greenwich certainly didn't help ('I spy with my little eye, something beginning with G. Yes, that's right, the gallows at Tower Bridge; please don't tempt me you little cherub and why don't we all play a game of who can fall asleep the quickest?’)
The camera never lies but the blogger might |
The camera never lies but the onionbagblogger occasionally might. You'll just have to take my word then seeing as though a cross-breed between an orang utang and Ann Widdecombe wearing a security guard uniform almost rugby tackled me as soon as my seven inch wonder zoom raised its ugly head.
Don't worry luv, I wouldn’t ever dream of using it on you. The camera that it.
Like a guilty schoolboy (must be the daytime company I keep), I managed to sneak a couple of cheeky pics whilst inside the Museum. Nothing to shout home about – a spiral staircase which is so so, a lovely litter bin shaped in the style of a dolphin (actually this was a mistake; ape woman caught me flashing and the camera went off at a random angle as it was going back inside my bag) and one of the ankle biters almost chucking up. I thought it would make for an 'edgy' picture, but the poor girl failed to throw up her early morning Mars bar on cue for the camera.
Two weeks (GMT) to half term and counting...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Bonkers Bankside Blokes
A walk from Waterloo to London Bridge is littered with local London loons. Reading like a cast list of failed contestants for Opportunity Knocks, Bonkers Bankside Blokes is the ever so slightly psychotic elder uncle of Pop Idol; no obvious talent, a desire to be in the public eye and madder than a mad cow trying to open a packet of BSE flavour Hula Hoops with it's bare hoofs.
Moooooooo
But we love them all the same, each and every one. The South Bank is the South Bank is the South Bank. Decent buildings and all that, but where would it be without the Budgieman and his birdbrain friends?
The weather certainly brings them out. Mad dogs and Englishmen etc. Once the thermometer hits the happy clappy temperature of twenty degrees, now is the time to take your seat for the curiosity carnival of Bankside Bonkers Blokes (plus one loopy lady as well).
Budgieman
The onionbagblog personal favourite. I never could say no to a Geordie gentleman balancing a budgie on his microphone as he sings:
'Budgieman, I'm the B-B-B Budgieman, if you wanna love me, you've gotta love my budgerigars.'
All bashed out with the backing of a battered bontempi organ.
A class act.
BMX Boy
Nope, not the incredibly racist and scary rasta that hangs around outside Brixton tube on his bike and shouts out abuse at any white passer by, but the man with the most teetering two wheeler south of the river.
The deal: You ride five metres on his 'customised' BMX without falling off or putting your foot down and a crisp tenner is yours.
The reason why it is so crisp? No fool has yet to win. You'd probably stand a better chance if you were an ambidextrous circus clown with a sense of balance usually found within the Six Million Dollar Man.
With more twists than Chubby Checker playing naked Twister (hold it), the handlebars are unlikely to pass the Cycling Proficiency road worthy test.
The Tightrope Fiddler
'Pleasuring' oneself whilst suspended on a tightrope on the South Bank skyline would indeed be feat worthy of watching, but thankfully this family friendly fiddler rubs nothing stronger than his bow on his trusty fiddle.
Always has a nice smile though.
The Ice Maiden
Essentially a mine artist who 'will smile for cash.' Show her the colour of your money and you will get a cheeky little grin. The degree of happiness seems to be inflation linked to how much cash you cough up. Rumour has it that ten quid will get you a kiss. I'd love to see how far 100 quid will get you with her.
Better still, creep up from behind on her and give her a loud CLAP.
Shakepeare-athon
Many a fine verse was penned by The Bard but even the most passionate patron of prose would find it a challenge to take in all 37 volumes of Shakespeare's work in one sitting. Especially when performed by some sixth form 'actors' who wouldn't look out of place in a timber factory.
Balloon Gal
I'm sure there was some grand scheme in blowing up some balloons and then making an arch out of them. Couldn't quite see it myself.
Still, you blow mine, I'll blow yours luv.
Ring My Bell Bloke
Similar to BMX Boy, Ring My Bell Bloke challenges you to undertake a task that only he seems to know the secret to; climb a ladder made of rope, ring the bell at the end and then walk off with the wonga.
Fall arse over tit and you'll look a right knobber in front of the family crowd. Even more so if your spectacular fall from grace is punctuated with an almighty: 'SHIT!!!!!!!'
With probably a tenth of talent each, the ultimate Bonkers Bankside Bloke would of course ride his dodgy BMX across a tightrope whilst reciting Shakespeare, ahead of the main event involving the Budgieman song being played out on a fiddle while he blows up a balloon.
And the point of it all?
What the fuck is the point of Will Young exactly?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 10 May, 2004 |
A walk from Waterloo to London Bridge is littered with local London loons. Reading like a cast list of failed contestants for Opportunity Knocks, Bonkers Bankside Blokes is the ever so slightly psychotic elder uncle of Pop Idol; no obvious talent, a desire to be in the public eye and madder than a mad cow trying to open a packet of BSE flavour Hula Hoops with it's bare hoofs.
Moooooooo
If you wanna love me, you've gotta love my budgerigars |
The weather certainly brings them out. Mad dogs and Englishmen etc. Once the thermometer hits the happy clappy temperature of twenty degrees, now is the time to take your seat for the curiosity carnival of Bankside Bonkers Blokes (plus one loopy lady as well).
Budgieman
The onionbagblog personal favourite. I never could say no to a Geordie gentleman balancing a budgie on his microphone as he sings:
'Budgieman, I'm the B-B-B Budgieman, if you wanna love me, you've gotta love my budgerigars.'
All bashed out with the backing of a battered bontempi organ.
A class act.
BMX Boy
Nope, not the incredibly racist and scary rasta that hangs around outside Brixton tube on his bike and shouts out abuse at any white passer by, but the man with the most teetering two wheeler south of the river.
The deal: You ride five metres on his 'customised' BMX without falling off or putting your foot down and a crisp tenner is yours.
The reason why it is so crisp? No fool has yet to win. You'd probably stand a better chance if you were an ambidextrous circus clown with a sense of balance usually found within the Six Million Dollar Man.
With more twists than Chubby Checker playing naked Twister (hold it), the handlebars are unlikely to pass the Cycling Proficiency road worthy test.
The Tightrope Fiddler
'Pleasuring' oneself whilst suspended on a tightrope on the South Bank skyline would indeed be feat worthy of watching, but thankfully this family friendly fiddler rubs nothing stronger than his bow on his trusty fiddle.
Always has a nice smile though.
The Ice Maiden
Essentially a mine artist who 'will smile for cash.' Show her the colour of your money and you will get a cheeky little grin. The degree of happiness seems to be inflation linked to how much cash you cough up. Rumour has it that ten quid will get you a kiss. I'd love to see how far 100 quid will get you with her.
Better still, creep up from behind on her and give her a loud CLAP.
Shakepeare-athon
Many a fine verse was penned by The Bard but even the most passionate patron of prose would find it a challenge to take in all 37 volumes of Shakespeare's work in one sitting. Especially when performed by some sixth form 'actors' who wouldn't look out of place in a timber factory.
Balloon Gal
I'm sure there was some grand scheme in blowing up some balloons and then making an arch out of them. Couldn't quite see it myself.
Still, you blow mine, I'll blow yours luv.
Ring My Bell Bloke
Similar to BMX Boy, Ring My Bell Bloke challenges you to undertake a task that only he seems to know the secret to; climb a ladder made of rope, ring the bell at the end and then walk off with the wonga.
Fall arse over tit and you'll look a right knobber in front of the family crowd. Even more so if your spectacular fall from grace is punctuated with an almighty: 'SHIT!!!!!!!'
With probably a tenth of talent each, the ultimate Bonkers Bankside Bloke would of course ride his dodgy BMX across a tightrope whilst reciting Shakespeare, ahead of the main event involving the Budgieman song being played out on a fiddle while he blows up a balloon.
And the point of it all?
What the fuck is the point of Will Young exactly?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Monument-al
Too scared of heights and too much of a tightarse to try out the London Eye, I settled on Monument instead. Standing at 202 feet high and at a mere two quid to get in, Sir Christopher's Wren's phallic fantasy for the Great Fire will suffice.
Wren erected his great big column (ho ho) in 1677, five years in the making. Which is quite a lot of foreplay.
Built as a reminder to the Great Fire of London in 1666, the 202 feet height of Monument is the exact distance between the baker's shop in Pudding Lane where the fire started and the site where Wren built his towering totem.
History has cast Wren as an egotistical architect, keen for his own personality to be permanently projected on the London skyline. Monument however also reveals something of the scientist in the man; beneath the main structure, Wren was able to carry out experiments studying atmosphere and gravity, plus the hollow structure made for a perfect telescope.
Shame Wren wasn't as considerate to cyclists with no bike racks built nearby. Shameful.
Science, astrology and dumb snap happy tourism aside, was it really such a good idea for my aching limbs to clamber up the 311 stone steps whilst I'm trying to shake off a dodgy knee injury?
Selecting a Sunday to scale Monument maybe wasn't a bright idea either. Two copper coins with the Queen's head on gets you in, but try explaining that to the dumbass American tourist in front of me who couldn't understand what the problem was as he flashed his credit card around.
Knobber.
The windows built into the structure serve as a superb resting place, but if you have to pass a foxy female Finnish tourist as you are in the ascent, so to speak, just as she is going down (yeah, yeah), Monument provides a good opportunity to get friendly and further the cause of European unity.
Once you reach the top, what you see is what you get; a fantastic view of all four corners of London, stretching from Crystal Palace in the South to Primrose Hill in the North. Except that I felt a bit giddy and had to seek solace in my flask.
Monument is a reminder that whenever London is forced to confront tragedy, it always emerges stronger; the Great Fire, the Blitz, Dulwich Hamlet missing out on promotion via a pissing penalty shoot out this season.
Er, I think we're drifting off message slightly here, but you get the idea.
It's difficult to imagine the mass panic that the Great Fire must have generated at the time; Charles II decreed emergency powers for housing to be demolished in an attempt for the fire to fizzle out with nothing left in its path to actually burn.
Blimey, and we though David Blunkett was a little hasty on the Home Front.
Three hundred and twenty seven years and still standing. Will Mr Tony's Great Big White Elephant in Greenwich still be erected come 2337?
We get the monuments we deserve.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 9 May, 2004 |
Too scared of heights and too much of a tightarse to try out the London Eye, I settled on Monument instead. Standing at 202 feet high and at a mere two quid to get in, Sir Christopher's Wren's phallic fantasy for the Great Fire will suffice.
Wren erected his great big column (ho ho) in 1677, five years in the making. Which is quite a lot of foreplay.
We get the Monuments we deserve |
History has cast Wren as an egotistical architect, keen for his own personality to be permanently projected on the London skyline. Monument however also reveals something of the scientist in the man; beneath the main structure, Wren was able to carry out experiments studying atmosphere and gravity, plus the hollow structure made for a perfect telescope.
Shame Wren wasn't as considerate to cyclists with no bike racks built nearby. Shameful.
Science, astrology and dumb snap happy tourism aside, was it really such a good idea for my aching limbs to clamber up the 311 stone steps whilst I'm trying to shake off a dodgy knee injury?
Selecting a Sunday to scale Monument maybe wasn't a bright idea either. Two copper coins with the Queen's head on gets you in, but try explaining that to the dumbass American tourist in front of me who couldn't understand what the problem was as he flashed his credit card around.
Knobber.
The windows built into the structure serve as a superb resting place, but if you have to pass a foxy female Finnish tourist as you are in the ascent, so to speak, just as she is going down (yeah, yeah), Monument provides a good opportunity to get friendly and further the cause of European unity.
Once you reach the top, what you see is what you get; a fantastic view of all four corners of London, stretching from Crystal Palace in the South to Primrose Hill in the North. Except that I felt a bit giddy and had to seek solace in my flask.
Monument is a reminder that whenever London is forced to confront tragedy, it always emerges stronger; the Great Fire, the Blitz, Dulwich Hamlet missing out on promotion via a pissing penalty shoot out this season.
Er, I think we're drifting off message slightly here, but you get the idea.
It's difficult to imagine the mass panic that the Great Fire must have generated at the time; Charles II decreed emergency powers for housing to be demolished in an attempt for the fire to fizzle out with nothing left in its path to actually burn.
Blimey, and we though David Blunkett was a little hasty on the Home Front.
Three hundred and twenty seven years and still standing. Will Mr Tony's Great Big White Elephant in Greenwich still be erected come 2337?
We get the monuments we deserve.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
A Tale of Two Cities
Artefact (i) – Evidence that despite the ticket touts outside the tube, the trail of used needles in front of the War Memorial and the ratio of kebab shops to residents (Gazza would LOVE it), Sunny Stockwell SW8 has a history of being a 'Middle Class, well-to-do' neighbourhood.
So said Victorian philanthropist Charles Booth when he published his study assessing the levels of poverty in London at the turn of the Century.
Good libertarian intentions Mr Booth, but the assumption here is that there is no such thing as 'Working Class, Well-to-do.' Instead we have 'Vicious, self-criminal, chronic want' working class phraseology; victim of circumstances etc and that's before we even mention white collar crime in The City.
It's not surprising that large swathes of SW8 emerge as 'well to do' areas, given the proximity to the West End and The City. The majority of the Edwardian housing still stands and matching up the geography of Booth's map with a modern day version reveals little change in the layout of the streets.
What has changed though are the adjoining estates and tower blocks that link up the 'well to do' roads, filling in all the empty gaps on Booth's map.
'Time to move out dear, the 'Vicious, self-criminal, chronic want' oiks are moving in' is sadly not too far from the truth today.
It would be interesting to carry out Booth's study one hundread years on using the exact same methodology to see if levels of poverty have actually improved over the course of a Century.
In absolute terms, probably yes, but relatively?
Moving onto Artefact (ii) and we see why that on the very rare occasions when I tube it between Sunny Stockwell and Brixton (usually when it is pissing it down) it takes so bloody long to travel a distance that I can cycle in under five minutes. The Victoria Line's arc out towards Clapham at least means that I'm not troubled in my bed at night (steady) with great rumblings going on beneath me in SW8.
The 'real' London Underground fascinates me; of course tube don't travel in straight lines, and the wonderful map highlights how tourists who tube it between Embankment and Charing Cross are more twattish than first thought.
| Saturday 9 May, 2004 |
Artefact (i) – Evidence that despite the ticket touts outside the tube, the trail of used needles in front of the War Memorial and the ratio of kebab shops to residents (Gazza would LOVE it), Sunny Stockwell SW8 has a history of being a 'Middle Class, well-to-do' neighbourhood.
So said Victorian philanthropist Charles Booth when he published his study assessing the levels of poverty in London at the turn of the Century.
Tourists who tube it are more twattish than first thought |
It's not surprising that large swathes of SW8 emerge as 'well to do' areas, given the proximity to the West End and The City. The majority of the Edwardian housing still stands and matching up the geography of Booth's map with a modern day version reveals little change in the layout of the streets.
What has changed though are the adjoining estates and tower blocks that link up the 'well to do' roads, filling in all the empty gaps on Booth's map.
'Time to move out dear, the 'Vicious, self-criminal, chronic want' oiks are moving in' is sadly not too far from the truth today.
It would be interesting to carry out Booth's study one hundread years on using the exact same methodology to see if levels of poverty have actually improved over the course of a Century.
In absolute terms, probably yes, but relatively?
Moving onto Artefact (ii) and we see why that on the very rare occasions when I tube it between Sunny Stockwell and Brixton (usually when it is pissing it down) it takes so bloody long to travel a distance that I can cycle in under five minutes. The Victoria Line's arc out towards Clapham at least means that I'm not troubled in my bed at night (steady) with great rumblings going on beneath me in SW8.
The 'real' London Underground fascinates me; of course tube don't travel in straight lines, and the wonderful map highlights how tourists who tube it between Embankment and Charing Cross are more twattish than first thought.
| #permalink |
Pin-head
And so there I was, trousers around my ankles, haggling over the fee and looking a little sheepish as she tried to convince me that it was a good idea to sit back and enjoy the barrage of pricks that were about to be pressed against my naked flesh.
Funny old business going to the Chinese Natural Healing Centre.
After months of failing to shake off a torn cartilage, I decided that a prescribed course of eating raw tree bark (no, really) and using my knee joint as a pin cushion was worth a try.
And then the penny dropped. Quite heavily as well.
'Would Sir like to pay the £250 bill in one lump sum or in instalments?'
I'l get me coat and crutches then.
Thing is, I feel a hell of a lot better already; the astronomical figure for a few pricks of acupuncture gave me mild palpitations and I had to have a long lie down and a very milky cup of tea.
Witness the healing power of the tight arse watchful wallet.
| Thursday 6 May, 2004 |
And so there I was, trousers around my ankles, haggling over the fee and looking a little sheepish as she tried to convince me that it was a good idea to sit back and enjoy the barrage of pricks that were about to be pressed against my naked flesh.
Funny old business going to the Chinese Natural Healing Centre.
I'll get me coat and crutches |
And then the penny dropped. Quite heavily as well.
'Would Sir like to pay the £250 bill in one lump sum or in instalments?'
I'l get me coat and crutches then.
Thing is, I feel a hell of a lot better already; the astronomical figure for a few pricks of acupuncture gave me mild palpitations and I had to have a long lie down and a very milky cup of tea.
Witness the healing power of the tight arse watchful wallet.
| #permalink |
Global Warming
With the first sign of sun shining through on the South Bank, I headed for Shakespeare's Globe and the William Poel Festival, the traditional curtain raiser for the summer season down at Bankside.
Poel was a linguistic visionary in the early 1900's, keen to deliver Jacobean text to a turn of the Century audience. The annual Mayday celebration of both his own work and the original Elizabethan plays takes the form of inviting drama students to explore their budding talents on a prestige platform.
It's also an opportunity of course to ham it up to great effect; Globe Creative Director Mark Rylance (not exactly a shrinking violet himself) is always on hand, slumming it with the rest of the groundlings and perhaps developing his own stage fright with the new season now only weeks away.
Simon Callow is no stranger to Shakespeare having appeared in the horrendous homage to Tudor tourism, Shakespeare in Love. The old school Luvvie opened up the Festival with a plea to preserving prose. His argument is that language is becoming lazy and we should all ponce around, pondering:
'A pint of milk or a packet of Beno & Hedges? To be or not to be? That is the question.'
Sorry, but yer talking fucking bollox mate.
By your reckoning, the Brixton brothers are 'lazy' seeing as they go about developing a hybrid of Jamaican patois and South London slang and create a wonderful new language in the process.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark Hill, etc.
Language evolves, adapts and reflects the environment. If Callow's case was true, Shakespeare would have written in grunts and groans, the first true original 'language.'
The students then had their fifteen minutes of fame with some hit and miss performances, but all worthy of the fiver entrance fee. Is there a better value ticket in town? Five pounds throughout the season for three hours of quality Shakespeare.
The forthcoming summer season at The Globe sees the first production of Romeo & Juliet staged since the new theatre was built, plus A Midsummer's Night Dream, Much Ado and Measure for Measure.
After the clumsy comments of Callow, it was left to Mark Rylance to conclude the afternoon with his as ever excellent observations and forecast ahead for the summer. The Samaritans are heavily involved this year at Bankside and the choice of Romeo and Juliet sets the scene for the new season.
Having praised the Poel students for a 'gender bending' afternoon (and that's saying something coming from the man whose Olivia in Twelfth Night made Larry Grayson look like a lumberjack), Rylance then delivered a wonderful speech about the importance of eloquence and communication.
Here is a man who clearly understands the relevance of Shakespeare in 2004, without forgetting the historic backdrop and context that The Globe provides. Plus you've also got to just love a Big Drama Queen who miraculously manages to cast himself in a star role every summer, usually involving putting on a big skirt and adding a modern day homoerotic twist to Shakespeare.
All’s Well That Ends Well.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 5 May, 2004 |
With the first sign of sun shining through on the South Bank, I headed for Shakespeare's Globe and the William Poel Festival, the traditional curtain raiser for the summer season down at Bankside.
Poel was a linguistic visionary in the early 1900's, keen to deliver Jacobean text to a turn of the Century audience. The annual Mayday celebration of both his own work and the original Elizabethan plays takes the form of inviting drama students to explore their budding talents on a prestige platform.
It's also an opportunity of course to ham it up to great effect; Globe Creative Director Mark Rylance (not exactly a shrinking violet himself) is always on hand, slumming it with the rest of the groundlings and perhaps developing his own stage fright with the new season now only weeks away.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark Hill |
'A pint of milk or a packet of Beno & Hedges? To be or not to be? That is the question.'
Sorry, but yer talking fucking bollox mate.
By your reckoning, the Brixton brothers are 'lazy' seeing as they go about developing a hybrid of Jamaican patois and South London slang and create a wonderful new language in the process.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark Hill, etc.
Language evolves, adapts and reflects the environment. If Callow's case was true, Shakespeare would have written in grunts and groans, the first true original 'language.'
The students then had their fifteen minutes of fame with some hit and miss performances, but all worthy of the fiver entrance fee. Is there a better value ticket in town? Five pounds throughout the season for three hours of quality Shakespeare.
The forthcoming summer season at The Globe sees the first production of Romeo & Juliet staged since the new theatre was built, plus A Midsummer's Night Dream, Much Ado and Measure for Measure.
After the clumsy comments of Callow, it was left to Mark Rylance to conclude the afternoon with his as ever excellent observations and forecast ahead for the summer. The Samaritans are heavily involved this year at Bankside and the choice of Romeo and Juliet sets the scene for the new season.
Having praised the Poel students for a 'gender bending' afternoon (and that's saying something coming from the man whose Olivia in Twelfth Night made Larry Grayson look like a lumberjack), Rylance then delivered a wonderful speech about the importance of eloquence and communication.
Here is a man who clearly understands the relevance of Shakespeare in 2004, without forgetting the historic backdrop and context that The Globe provides. Plus you've also got to just love a Big Drama Queen who miraculously manages to cast himself in a star role every summer, usually involving putting on a big skirt and adding a modern day homoerotic twist to Shakespeare.
All’s Well That Ends Well.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Wealdstone 2 (after extra time), Wealdstone win 5-4 pen shootout (ARSE), 03/05/04
Heading towards Champion Hill five minutes before kick off and it was clear something was up; never has so much noise been heard at the Hamlet, well, not since some bright spark realised that Tooting and Mitcham rhymes with Useless Cloggers. Oh the endless hours of fun we had.
But no frivolity tonight. This was serious stuff – 46 league games digested down to one Do or Die play off match to decide promotion. That's like buying an industrial size pack of condoms (a weekly ritual for me) and then using them all up as party balloons, all bar one which you ride out on an emotional wave, forty five minutes each way, changing ends at half time of course. Except that Dulwich and Wealdstone managed thirty minutes more for extra time, and still the penetration of the penalty shoot out to come as the climax, when yes, some blanks were fired.
One season flushed down the toilet. And no morning after pill to reverse the hedonism of the night before. Looks like we're shagged then.
A healthy crowd of 582 crammed into Champion Hill, a happy reminder of how it use to be down at The Hamlet back in the heady days of the Diadora Premiership.
The Wealdstone fans were in fine voice, greeting the Hamlet team with:
'South London, wank wank wank,' as they took to the pitch. Charming. Please do cum again. And again, and again. Bring your own tissues next time though fellas.
With so much at stake, it was asking a bit much for this to be The Beautiful Game personified. Still, at least Dulwich had the more aesthetically pleasing kit. Give me pink 'n blue over boring blue and white any day.
Given the prestige occasion, it was good to hear a number of long lost Dulwich chants making a welcome return.
'We are Dulwich, super Dulwich, no one KNOWS us, we don't care' But then again when was the last time that you sat down in front of shitty ITV at 10.30 on a Saturday night and watched Des and the boys waffle on about Wealdstone?
The 'Stones responded with their own chant, some ditty bangin' on about having been to Wembley. Bet it was to see Elton John, and I'd wager that you all wallowed in the after show party as well.
Dulwich survived a goal line clearance early on but then after twenty five minutes Wealdstone took the lead with the assistance of a lucky deflection from a long range shot.
You know you're in a high profile play off match when rather than the referee blowing for half time whenever he feels the need for a milky cup of tea, that rarest of rare non-league breeds, the fourth official steps up to the touchline and tries to get to grips with modern technology waving his big electronic number board around like a man possessed.
I ventured out to the toilets at the break, kitted out with a stern pair of boots, some Kendal Mint Cake and leaving firm instruction to call for assistance if I didn't return before the re-start. It was a close call and I'm pleased to report that after my high praise for the archaeological artefacts housed within the shitter last Saturday (prized piece is the 'Tooting run from Dulwich' wall art), an orderly queue had formed to observe the toilet treasures. I thought of taking some pictures to share but I started to generate some unwarranted attention from a whopper of a Wealdstone fan when I pointed my seven inch super zoom directly in his face. I don't think he appreciated my 'so this is where the big knobs hang out' gag either.
Just as the Voice of Champion Hill was fading down the brilliant Babybird and You're Gorgeous, Charley Side sprinted out for the second half. I'm not saying any more.
Four minutes later and Cheeky Charlie was the charm of Champion Hill, after managing to meet the end of an Omari Coleman cross to level the score. You little beut.
With tense times ahead, the Voice of Champion Hill then reminded us all that it was 'an offence to encroach the field of play.' Fair point, but just you try and hold me back from bunking over the barrier and tonguing Charlie Boy if he was to net the winner.
Any port in a storm though and Omari Coleman almost found himself on the wrong end of some tonsil tasting action from me when he put Dulwich ahead with only eleven minutes remaining.
Ten minutes away from promotion and then Wealdstone hit us where it hurts - hard, low and from behind. Behind in the match that is. A forceful free kick found its way into the corner of the net with only six minutes left on the clock / snazzy electronic gizmo.
Both teams looked tired in the thirty minutes of extra time and Dulwich sent for reinforcements with Meshach Nugent and Lee Akers both coming on towards the end with penalties in mind.
Dulwich fired home their first four penalties and with Wealdstone wide of the mark with their first, we were as good as up. Nugent hit the bar with Dulwich's fifth though and when David Moore’s sudden death penalty was saved, Richard Jolly fired Wealdstone into the top division.
Highlight: Mixing, celebrating and commiserating with the wonderful Wealdstone supporters after the heartbreak of losing the shootout- the way football should be watched.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Tuesday 4 May, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Wealdstone 2 (after extra time), Wealdstone win 5-4 pen shootout (ARSE), 03/05/04
Heading towards Champion Hill five minutes before kick off and it was clear something was up; never has so much noise been heard at the Hamlet, well, not since some bright spark realised that Tooting and Mitcham rhymes with Useless Cloggers. Oh the endless hours of fun we had.
But no frivolity tonight. This was serious stuff – 46 league games digested down to one Do or Die play off match to decide promotion. That's like buying an industrial size pack of condoms (a weekly ritual for me) and then using them all up as party balloons, all bar one which you ride out on an emotional wave, forty five minutes each way, changing ends at half time of course. Except that Dulwich and Wealdstone managed thirty minutes more for extra time, and still the penetration of the penalty shoot out to come as the climax, when yes, some blanks were fired.
Looks like we're shagged then |
A healthy crowd of 582 crammed into Champion Hill, a happy reminder of how it use to be down at The Hamlet back in the heady days of the Diadora Premiership.
The Wealdstone fans were in fine voice, greeting the Hamlet team with:
'South London, wank wank wank,' as they took to the pitch. Charming. Please do cum again. And again, and again. Bring your own tissues next time though fellas.
With so much at stake, it was asking a bit much for this to be The Beautiful Game personified. Still, at least Dulwich had the more aesthetically pleasing kit. Give me pink 'n blue over boring blue and white any day.
Given the prestige occasion, it was good to hear a number of long lost Dulwich chants making a welcome return.
'We are Dulwich, super Dulwich, no one KNOWS us, we don't care' But then again when was the last time that you sat down in front of shitty ITV at 10.30 on a Saturday night and watched Des and the boys waffle on about Wealdstone?
The 'Stones responded with their own chant, some ditty bangin' on about having been to Wembley. Bet it was to see Elton John, and I'd wager that you all wallowed in the after show party as well.
Dulwich survived a goal line clearance early on but then after twenty five minutes Wealdstone took the lead with the assistance of a lucky deflection from a long range shot.
You know you're in a high profile play off match when rather than the referee blowing for half time whenever he feels the need for a milky cup of tea, that rarest of rare non-league breeds, the fourth official steps up to the touchline and tries to get to grips with modern technology waving his big electronic number board around like a man possessed.
I ventured out to the toilets at the break, kitted out with a stern pair of boots, some Kendal Mint Cake and leaving firm instruction to call for assistance if I didn't return before the re-start. It was a close call and I'm pleased to report that after my high praise for the archaeological artefacts housed within the shitter last Saturday (prized piece is the 'Tooting run from Dulwich' wall art), an orderly queue had formed to observe the toilet treasures. I thought of taking some pictures to share but I started to generate some unwarranted attention from a whopper of a Wealdstone fan when I pointed my seven inch super zoom directly in his face. I don't think he appreciated my 'so this is where the big knobs hang out' gag either.
Just as the Voice of Champion Hill was fading down the brilliant Babybird and You're Gorgeous, Charley Side sprinted out for the second half. I'm not saying any more.
Four minutes later and Cheeky Charlie was the charm of Champion Hill, after managing to meet the end of an Omari Coleman cross to level the score. You little beut.
With tense times ahead, the Voice of Champion Hill then reminded us all that it was 'an offence to encroach the field of play.' Fair point, but just you try and hold me back from bunking over the barrier and tonguing Charlie Boy if he was to net the winner.
Any port in a storm though and Omari Coleman almost found himself on the wrong end of some tonsil tasting action from me when he put Dulwich ahead with only eleven minutes remaining.
Ten minutes away from promotion and then Wealdstone hit us where it hurts - hard, low and from behind. Behind in the match that is. A forceful free kick found its way into the corner of the net with only six minutes left on the clock / snazzy electronic gizmo.
Both teams looked tired in the thirty minutes of extra time and Dulwich sent for reinforcements with Meshach Nugent and Lee Akers both coming on towards the end with penalties in mind.
Dulwich fired home their first four penalties and with Wealdstone wide of the mark with their first, we were as good as up. Nugent hit the bar with Dulwich's fifth though and when David Moore’s sudden death penalty was saved, Richard Jolly fired Wealdstone into the top division.
Highlight: Mixing, celebrating and commiserating with the wonderful Wealdstone supporters after the heartbreak of losing the shootout- the way football should be watched.
|
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
DHFC Supporters Team 1 Lokomotiv Ladyboy (erm...? Possibly got this slightly wrong) 1 (when I buggered off just before half time), 01/05/04
Having witnessed an abysmal Dulwich Hamlet collapse earlier in the afternoon, I stayed behind at Champion Hill on Saturday to try and restore my faith in the proud name of DHFC. Just as you listen to a crappy Coldplay CD in a desperate attempt to remind yourself that U2 aren't perpetually piss poor, my reckoning was that seeing South London’s least fit eleven men huff, puff and pant their way through 90 minutes would help me to retain some degree of respect for the first team.
I witnessed all that I needed to before the first fags were produced (cigarettes, not young boys). The game may well have developed into the greatest world footballing spectacle ever seen, but on the evidence I saw, I feel it only appropriate to give the Supporters Team their fifteen minutes of fame (which is when I decided to head back to the ranch, and that was probably ten minutes too late).
Credit where it's due of course; a couple of scouts had stayed behind to observe the game. That's CUB scouts of course, but still, they seemed to enjoy all the colourful language on offer.
Fuelled on by some energy intensive fluid before kick-off (Carlsberg), the usual Champion Hill aroma of freshly rubbed liniment oil was replaced by the stench of sweaty jockstraps and cheapo Lynx deodorant.
Straight from the kick off and the traditional football call of 'TIGHT!' before a corner took on a new meaning:
'These shorts are too fucking tight.'
'Buy some new ones then you tight arse.'
With the game being played at a continental walking pace, combined with all the aggression of a Supporters Team whose club had just thrown away promotion, Thierry Henry can sleep easy at night.
MAJOR MAJOR disclaimer: Running around like a twat for 90 minutes is actually no mean feat. Just ask Roy Keane. In the interests of literary humour (it is there, just search a bit harder), I may have played down the exceedingly high skill level, the grim (and I mean grotesquely grim in some cases) determination and the much to be admired fitness / fatness levels.
I am of course a crock; injury prone and carrying a slight cold. Cometh the hour, cometh the man, and I will soon make my return to the Supporters Team. As long as it's not an away match outside of the South Circular.
Tell It Like It Is etc etc, except when you want a cheap laugh.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
dhfc supporters team
| Monday 3 May, 2004 |
DHFC Supporters Team 1 Lokomotiv Ladyboy (erm...? Possibly got this slightly wrong) 1 (when I buggered off just before half time), 01/05/04
Having witnessed an abysmal Dulwich Hamlet collapse earlier in the afternoon, I stayed behind at Champion Hill on Saturday to try and restore my faith in the proud name of DHFC. Just as you listen to a crappy Coldplay CD in a desperate attempt to remind yourself that U2 aren't perpetually piss poor, my reckoning was that seeing South London’s least fit eleven men huff, puff and pant their way through 90 minutes would help me to retain some degree of respect for the first team.
I witnessed all that I needed to before the first fags were produced (cigarettes, not young boys). The game may well have developed into the greatest world footballing spectacle ever seen, but on the evidence I saw, I feel it only appropriate to give the Supporters Team their fifteen minutes of fame (which is when I decided to head back to the ranch, and that was probably ten minutes too late).
Running around like a twat for 90 minutes is no mean feat |
Fuelled on by some energy intensive fluid before kick-off (Carlsberg), the usual Champion Hill aroma of freshly rubbed liniment oil was replaced by the stench of sweaty jockstraps and cheapo Lynx deodorant.
Straight from the kick off and the traditional football call of 'TIGHT!' before a corner took on a new meaning:
'These shorts are too fucking tight.'
'Buy some new ones then you tight arse.'
With the game being played at a continental walking pace, combined with all the aggression of a Supporters Team whose club had just thrown away promotion, Thierry Henry can sleep easy at night.
MAJOR MAJOR disclaimer: Running around like a twat for 90 minutes is actually no mean feat. Just ask Roy Keane. In the interests of literary humour (it is there, just search a bit harder), I may have played down the exceedingly high skill level, the grim (and I mean grotesquely grim in some cases) determination and the much to be admired fitness / fatness levels.
I am of course a crock; injury prone and carrying a slight cold. Cometh the hour, cometh the man, and I will soon make my return to the Supporters Team. As long as it's not an away match outside of the South Circular.
Tell It Like It Is etc etc, except when you want a cheap laugh.
|
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
crap match report compendium
dhfc supporters team
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Walton & Hersham 4, 01/05/04
How the hell did The Hamlet go from being start of season promotion certs to making us supporters sit at the last game of the season with our fingers, arms and legs crossed, hoping and praying for a win and for results elsewhere to go our way? With more superstitions than a Stevie Wonder convention where the CD player is stuck on Superstitious ('cos they can't see the Stop button – ouch), Champion Hill wasn't for the faint hearted.
Stakes were high with failure to be promoted leading to a Do or Die one off play-off decider at home on Monday. Putting up shelves isn't my chosen way to pass away the hours on a Bank Holiday; I would happily spend my spare time though screwing away with my Seven by Ones if it meant that we didn't have some of the Division One planks playing against us again next season.
With our near neighbours Millwall having an early evening kick off, we welcomed a fair few Lions and Lionesses to Champion Hill. Odd bunch; you would have thought that seeing ONE team have a late season panic and plunder a promotion push was enough for anyone to take.
Watching Walton & Hersham take to the pitch at five to three and I had a double take moment; not only was their No 7 wearing the famous Becks number, but he was also sporting a 'dead badger on the barnet' Beckham style haircut from circa '02. When the dead ringer delivered a cry of 'Oh you SLAGGGGG!' I was forced to look around for his good lady wife, the fragrant Victoria. Turns out that the Surrey pseudo had sliced the ball sideways.
I was treated to a running commentary throughout the ninety minutes from the local radio bloke broadcasting live on Rockin' Walton & Hersham FM (wall to wall Sham 69 with live traffic reports every half hour from Byfleet and New Haw station). The excitement was clearly too much for me, causing me to drop my flask on the floor. I had to be re-strained from wrestling control of the broadcast mic and delivering my own 'You SLAGGGGG!' battlecry to half of Byfleet. Know your target audience and all that.
Dulwich were one down on the half hour mark when Reggie Savage delivered a well-timed lob over Seuke in the Dulwich net. Bummer. Five minutes later and Hamlet were lucky to escape an almost identical goal with the ball just drifting wide of the right hand post.
The visitors were hitting Hamlet on the break with their pace up front. Too much pace as Francis Quarm received a red card, despite the Walton player making a move on the corner flag rather than gunning for goal as he was brought down.
The Walton 'keeper then tried to force a second red from the ref, taking a dive before a corner and rolling around like a little girlie who has just peed her pants in front of the whole class. Retribution then that when the corner was finally taken, Craig Dundas drove the ball home for Dulwich.
It was still all up for grabs at half time with the DHFC forward planning committee preparing for a leap into the great unknown:
'We might be playing unknown opposition at an unknown time' confirmed the ever reliable Voice of Champion Hill during the break.
It was nail biting stuff but that's still no excuse for a Walton & Hersham fan to lock himself inside the shitter at half time. Actually the handle had broken loose leaving him barricaded in. With such a fine array of architectural artefacts contained within (an over-flowing urinal, a toilet straight out of Trainspotting and some fine art graffiti claiming 'Tooting run from Dulwich' – sad but true) I thought it only fair to leave the lucky fella locked in for ten minutes more before informing a steward.
Two minutes into the second half and the Walton #7 delivered a dipping shot on the edge of the area with a (whisper it) Beckham-esque belter.
You SLAGGGGG!
Neil Lampton added a third for the away team beating the offside trap, and then with ten minutes remaining the Walton #10 defied his smallest man on the pitch status to rise high and head home form a corner.
My Bank Holiday weekend misery was complete when Lee Akers, Mr Dulwich Dependable, was dismissed just before full time after being shown a second yellow card.
Fuckety fuck.
Come full time and we're use to seeing bemused blokes down at Dulwich pondering who the bastard in the black is. The look of pained expression today however was one of what might have been. It would have been hard to take a Hamlet win yet see other results not go in our favour. I'd rather take So Far, So What than So Far, So Close.
So now we're left with two Cup Finals in a week with the first team running out in the London (It Means Sweet) FA Cup Final on Thursday. Shame the play off game isn't the day after the Bank Holiday, then I could sign off with C U Next Tuesday.
Highlight: Picking up a copy of the always excellent Hamlet Historian. I don't think we’ll be talking about this game in years to come though.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Sunday 2 May, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Walton & Hersham 4, 01/05/04
How the hell did The Hamlet go from being start of season promotion certs to making us supporters sit at the last game of the season with our fingers, arms and legs crossed, hoping and praying for a win and for results elsewhere to go our way? With more superstitions than a Stevie Wonder convention where the CD player is stuck on Superstitious ('cos they can't see the Stop button – ouch), Champion Hill wasn't for the faint hearted.
Stakes were high with failure to be promoted leading to a Do or Die one off play-off decider at home on Monday. Putting up shelves isn't my chosen way to pass away the hours on a Bank Holiday; I would happily spend my spare time though screwing away with my Seven by Ones if it meant that we didn't have some of the Division One planks playing against us again next season.
I thought it fair to leave the lucky fella locked in the loo for ten minutes more |
Watching Walton & Hersham take to the pitch at five to three and I had a double take moment; not only was their No 7 wearing the famous Becks number, but he was also sporting a 'dead badger on the barnet' Beckham style haircut from circa '02. When the dead ringer delivered a cry of 'Oh you SLAGGGGG!' I was forced to look around for his good lady wife, the fragrant Victoria. Turns out that the Surrey pseudo had sliced the ball sideways.
I was treated to a running commentary throughout the ninety minutes from the local radio bloke broadcasting live on Rockin' Walton & Hersham FM (wall to wall Sham 69 with live traffic reports every half hour from Byfleet and New Haw station). The excitement was clearly too much for me, causing me to drop my flask on the floor. I had to be re-strained from wrestling control of the broadcast mic and delivering my own 'You SLAGGGGG!' battlecry to half of Byfleet. Know your target audience and all that.
Dulwich were one down on the half hour mark when Reggie Savage delivered a well-timed lob over Seuke in the Dulwich net. Bummer. Five minutes later and Hamlet were lucky to escape an almost identical goal with the ball just drifting wide of the right hand post.
The visitors were hitting Hamlet on the break with their pace up front. Too much pace as Francis Quarm received a red card, despite the Walton player making a move on the corner flag rather than gunning for goal as he was brought down.
The Walton 'keeper then tried to force a second red from the ref, taking a dive before a corner and rolling around like a little girlie who has just peed her pants in front of the whole class. Retribution then that when the corner was finally taken, Craig Dundas drove the ball home for Dulwich.
It was still all up for grabs at half time with the DHFC forward planning committee preparing for a leap into the great unknown:
'We might be playing unknown opposition at an unknown time' confirmed the ever reliable Voice of Champion Hill during the break.
It was nail biting stuff but that's still no excuse for a Walton & Hersham fan to lock himself inside the shitter at half time. Actually the handle had broken loose leaving him barricaded in. With such a fine array of architectural artefacts contained within (an over-flowing urinal, a toilet straight out of Trainspotting and some fine art graffiti claiming 'Tooting run from Dulwich' – sad but true) I thought it only fair to leave the lucky fella locked in for ten minutes more before informing a steward.
Two minutes into the second half and the Walton #7 delivered a dipping shot on the edge of the area with a (whisper it) Beckham-esque belter.
You SLAGGGGG!
Neil Lampton added a third for the away team beating the offside trap, and then with ten minutes remaining the Walton #10 defied his smallest man on the pitch status to rise high and head home form a corner.
My Bank Holiday weekend misery was complete when Lee Akers, Mr Dulwich Dependable, was dismissed just before full time after being shown a second yellow card.
Fuckety fuck.
Come full time and we're use to seeing bemused blokes down at Dulwich pondering who the bastard in the black is. The look of pained expression today however was one of what might have been. It would have been hard to take a Hamlet win yet see other results not go in our favour. I'd rather take So Far, So What than So Far, So Close.
So now we're left with two Cup Finals in a week with the first team running out in the London (It Means Sweet) FA Cup Final on Thursday. Shame the play off game isn't the day after the Bank Holiday, then I could sign off with C U Next Tuesday.
Highlight: Picking up a copy of the always excellent Hamlet Historian. I don't think we’ll be talking about this game in years to come though.
|
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| #permalink |
Revolution Will Be Cycle-ised
TEN years of a Friday night go-slow around the City.
TEN years of once a month liberating pedal power.
TEN years of confusing tourists and causing cabbies to complain to the cops, with the customary reply of: 'On yer bike.'
Happy Tenth Birthday Critical Mass London.
The celebrations under Waterloo Bridge prior to the ride showcased the first Must Have summer accessory of the season; CM football top style T-shirts with the number 10 and the legend CRITICAL emblazoned on the back.
'Back of the net!,' as Mr Partridge might say.
There's Mayoral votes on them there bikes; witness the appearance Deputy Mayor Jenny Jones doing her best meeeja mouthpiece meet 'n greet. Nice to have you on board JJ, but don’t forget that Critical Mass in a MONTHLY get together, TV cameras or no TV cameras.
And so on to the ride. Peering down from the Imax at the start, the sheer number of cyclists was reminiscent of the start of the London Marathon. Critical Mass has always been a joyous occasion, but this was a pure party carnival atmosphere.
Adding their own take on Critical Mass was the Weapons of Mass Vibration soundsytem: MC Carpet Face riding on the back of a rickshaw with some fine rhyme and verse entertaining the crowds and bemused bystanders.
After the customary 'Terry meets Julie every Friday night' Waterloo Bridge moment, the Mass made for Covent Garden, navigating the narrow streets and putting a smile on the face of late evening shoppers. The sheers size of the mass caused the first spilt with the more perky peddlers having to wait at Leicester Square as the volume of two wheeled wonders made their way through WC2.
An impromptu jam broke out Trafalgar Square and then on to Whitehall. I doubt if Mr Tony was actually in at No 10 (the lights were on, but no one was at home etc...) but I defy anyone to find more fun on a Friday evening than to de-camp outside the PM's gaff and wave the beast between your legs up in his face.
A brief sojourn through SW1 and Buckingham Palace was ours for the taking. Well, 'taking' in the sense of a couple of circuits around the Victoria Memorial and random remarks flying the flag for Republicanism.
The Soapbox soundsystem told us all that we could 'take the mic' if we had a message to put across. This was rather apt seeing as though Carpet Face had been taking the piss, with great effect, broadcasting to Brenda and her brethren about their 'reptile' features.
On to Hyde Park corner where a prick of a petrol head was told by our friendly Bobbies on bikes to 'take his hand off the horn otherwise you will be spending a night in the cells.' Sweet.
The first mobile soundclash on a bike broke out at Marble Arch as the Mass started to grow further still in length as we picked up a number of West End Girls on route who hailed down a rickshaw.
Back to the West End for some traditional Piccadilly posturing (why break a ten year habit?), with one good-humoured commuter praising the protest, but asking us politely to move on as he had to get back to Portsmouth.
At 9.5 miles (thank heavens for Argos and their cheapo on board 'computers'), this was far from the longest Mass over the past ten years; never mind the length, feel the thickness though, and boy, this was one hell of an orgasmic ride, baby.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
critical mass london
| Saturday 1 May, 2004 |
TEN years of a Friday night go-slow around the City.
TEN years of once a month liberating pedal power.
TEN years of confusing tourists and causing cabbies to complain to the cops, with the customary reply of: 'On yer bike.'
Happy Tenth Birthday Critical Mass London.
The celebrations under Waterloo Bridge prior to the ride showcased the first Must Have summer accessory of the season; CM football top style T-shirts with the number 10 and the legend CRITICAL emblazoned on the back.
'Back of the net!,' as Mr Partridge might say.
There's Mayoral votes on them there bikes; witness the appearance Deputy Mayor Jenny Jones doing her best meeeja mouthpiece meet 'n greet. Nice to have you on board JJ, but don’t forget that Critical Mass in a MONTHLY get together, TV cameras or no TV cameras.
Never mind the length, feel the thickness |
Adding their own take on Critical Mass was the Weapons of Mass Vibration soundsytem: MC Carpet Face riding on the back of a rickshaw with some fine rhyme and verse entertaining the crowds and bemused bystanders.
After the customary 'Terry meets Julie every Friday night' Waterloo Bridge moment, the Mass made for Covent Garden, navigating the narrow streets and putting a smile on the face of late evening shoppers. The sheers size of the mass caused the first spilt with the more perky peddlers having to wait at Leicester Square as the volume of two wheeled wonders made their way through WC2.
An impromptu jam broke out Trafalgar Square and then on to Whitehall. I doubt if Mr Tony was actually in at No 10 (the lights were on, but no one was at home etc...) but I defy anyone to find more fun on a Friday evening than to de-camp outside the PM's gaff and wave the beast between your legs up in his face.
A brief sojourn through SW1 and Buckingham Palace was ours for the taking. Well, 'taking' in the sense of a couple of circuits around the Victoria Memorial and random remarks flying the flag for Republicanism.
The Soapbox soundsystem told us all that we could 'take the mic' if we had a message to put across. This was rather apt seeing as though Carpet Face had been taking the piss, with great effect, broadcasting to Brenda and her brethren about their 'reptile' features.
On to Hyde Park corner where a prick of a petrol head was told by our friendly Bobbies on bikes to 'take his hand off the horn otherwise you will be spending a night in the cells.' Sweet.
The first mobile soundclash on a bike broke out at Marble Arch as the Mass started to grow further still in length as we picked up a number of West End Girls on route who hailed down a rickshaw.
Back to the West End for some traditional Piccadilly posturing (why break a ten year habit?), with one good-humoured commuter praising the protest, but asking us politely to move on as he had to get back to Portsmouth.
At 9.5 miles (thank heavens for Argos and their cheapo on board 'computers'), this was far from the longest Mass over the past ten years; never mind the length, feel the thickness though, and boy, this was one hell of an orgasmic ride, baby.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
critical mass london
| #permalink |
