onionbagblog
Nice Try
Bye bye Rugger Bugger, let's jump on the Fantasy Football fun bus bandwagon. And so Sir Clive wants to turn his hand to 'soccer' management. I knew something was up on Tuesday morning when my post-Bank Holiday blues was rudely interrupted by professional pitbull Brian Moore saying the dreaded 'S' word (it's FOOTBALL for fucks sake) on 5Live.
It seems that Sir Clive is bored of egg chasing and reckons that being a Knight of the Realm and all that, he can ease effortlessly into giving the likes of Kieron Dyer a much needed kick up the arse. I hate to state the obvious, but that's something which I don't think you need any specialist training in to carry out to full satisfaction.
Whereas any defection from the Buggers to the Beautiful Game has to be a Ya Boo Sucks moment to the Public School Boy twats, please can we bolt the turnstyles NOW. Seeing Jonah Lomu skipping down the wing at Old Trafford as a replacement for Giggsy may be the one occasion I could be tempted to Sky's shitty pay per view, but football is not a freak show. Well, let's just forget about Wayne's World. Oh, and poor Sir Bobby. And if anyone else calls Emile Heskey a freak then he will be on the first train out of Birmingham New Street bound for your team faster than you can say 'donkey on drugs.'
Sir Clive may be a great man motivator but he'll be out of his depth dealing with £100k a week prima donnas (although I wouldn't call the Dulwich defence prima donnas to their face).
All the warning signs were in place at St Mary's on Saturday; Sir Clive was spotted sitting next to Saints' chairman Rupert Lowe, a man whose own man management skills can be roughly summed up as sending out the request for his PA to write out yet another P45.
Lowe's first love is Rugby Union. You can tell by his twattish haircut. Despite the bling, football is still a game riddled with social hierarchy. Sacked Saints manager Graeme Souness summed up Lowe by stating:
'Is there anyone else in football by the name of Rupert?'
I'm all for class war in reverse. Give the little shits a good kicking, in football metaphorical terms of course, dare they invade one of the few enclaves of popular culture that remains knobber free.
If Sir Clive succeeds in 'soccer,' where will it all end? A no forward passing rule adopted in football? Looks like Chelsea have already adopted that dictum this season.
Calling the ref 'Sir?'
FUCK OFF
And where will all of this leave Super Sven? If we're swapping codes as frequently as the Swede swaps beds, then I predict that Sven will be Head Coach of the South London skipping club by next summer.
| Wednesday 1 September, 2004 |
Bye bye Rugger Bugger, let's jump on the Fantasy Football fun bus bandwagon. And so Sir Clive wants to turn his hand to 'soccer' management. I knew something was up on Tuesday morning when my post-Bank Holiday blues was rudely interrupted by professional pitbull Brian Moore saying the dreaded 'S' word (it's FOOTBALL for fucks sake) on 5Live.
It seems that Sir Clive is bored of egg chasing and reckons that being a Knight of the Realm and all that, he can ease effortlessly into giving the likes of Kieron Dyer a much needed kick up the arse. I hate to state the obvious, but that's something which I don't think you need any specialist training in to carry out to full satisfaction.
 I wouldn't call the Dulwich defence prima donnas to their face |
Sir Clive may be a great man motivator but he'll be out of his depth dealing with £100k a week prima donnas (although I wouldn't call the Dulwich defence prima donnas to their face).
All the warning signs were in place at St Mary's on Saturday; Sir Clive was spotted sitting next to Saints' chairman Rupert Lowe, a man whose own man management skills can be roughly summed up as sending out the request for his PA to write out yet another P45.
Lowe's first love is Rugby Union. You can tell by his twattish haircut. Despite the bling, football is still a game riddled with social hierarchy. Sacked Saints manager Graeme Souness summed up Lowe by stating:
'Is there anyone else in football by the name of Rupert?'
I'm all for class war in reverse. Give the little shits a good kicking, in football metaphorical terms of course, dare they invade one of the few enclaves of popular culture that remains knobber free.
If Sir Clive succeeds in 'soccer,' where will it all end? A no forward passing rule adopted in football? Looks like Chelsea have already adopted that dictum this season.
Calling the ref 'Sir?'
FUCK OFF
And where will all of this leave Super Sven? If we're swapping codes as frequently as the Swede swaps beds, then I predict that Sven will be Head Coach of the South London skipping club by next summer.
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Join the Kew
I attempted to escape the Bank Holiday crowds at Notting Hill in search of some peace and tranquillity over at Kew Gardens. Slight oversight: Splendid though the Royal Botanic Gardens may be, the proximity to the Heathrow flight path doesn't make for the most engaging of environments as you try to be at one with Mother Nature.
Many a time I have timed my airborne toilet trip at 30,000 feet to perfection as the plane passes over West London. It was with much caution then that I inspected the outdoor oasis of greenery at Kew, mindful that some Ibiza returnee overhead was about to release his in-flight fried chicken into the ozone.
Perhaps today wasn't the timeliest of moments to realise that I have an allergy to the early autumnal weather either. It actually wasn't the best timed visit; there is a very real sadness to Kew come the post-Bank Holiday blues. A Back to School atmosphere is in the air and the changing of the seasons can be a cruel reminder that the summer months have long since packed their bags and disappeared for another year.
The Japanese Pagoda was my first port of call. A splendid addition to the West London landscape, but in essence, nothing but a glorified fairground helter skelter. A killjoy sign informed us that for safety reasons we were unable to climb the single spiral wooden staircase in order to get closer to the plane loads of package tourists pissing down from up above.
The Temperate House was like a scene from The Day of the Triffids. Small children were coaxed into coming close to the giant flowering banana buds, only to disappear and never be seen again. Anything for the quiet life on a Bank Holiday Monday.
A particularly cruel insect eating plant was also proving to be a talking point. With an information card explaining how insects are attracted to the aroma of the flower under the false promise of sex, I can certainly empathise with the experience, if not the unfortunate outcome of instant death.
There were still yet further phallic fantasies on show in the aptly named Princess of Wales Conservatory; a particularly prickly cactus was shaped in the size of a giant cock. The perfect tribute for a Princess who saw her fair share of pricks in her time.
Educated, if not relaxed, I returned back to Sunny Stockwell and put my feet up in front of my wonderful window box. A plane passed overhead and then took a sharp left out towards the Westway. Somewhere in West London a blogger is sitting in front of his window box right now, safe in the knowledge that he needn't water it this evening.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 31 August, 2004 |
I attempted to escape the Bank Holiday crowds at Notting Hill in search of some peace and tranquillity over at Kew Gardens. Slight oversight: Splendid though the Royal Botanic Gardens may be, the proximity to the Heathrow flight path doesn't make for the most engaging of environments as you try to be at one with Mother Nature.
Many a time I have timed my airborne toilet trip at 30,000 feet to perfection as the plane passes over West London. It was with much caution then that I inspected the outdoor oasis of greenery at Kew, mindful that some Ibiza returnee overhead was about to release his in-flight fried chicken into the ozone.
A prickly cactus was shaped in the size of a giant cock |
The Japanese Pagoda was my first port of call. A splendid addition to the West London landscape, but in essence, nothing but a glorified fairground helter skelter. A killjoy sign informed us that for safety reasons we were unable to climb the single spiral wooden staircase in order to get closer to the plane loads of package tourists pissing down from up above.
The Temperate House was like a scene from The Day of the Triffids. Small children were coaxed into coming close to the giant flowering banana buds, only to disappear and never be seen again. Anything for the quiet life on a Bank Holiday Monday.
A particularly cruel insect eating plant was also proving to be a talking point. With an information card explaining how insects are attracted to the aroma of the flower under the false promise of sex, I can certainly empathise with the experience, if not the unfortunate outcome of instant death.
There were still yet further phallic fantasies on show in the aptly named Princess of Wales Conservatory; a particularly prickly cactus was shaped in the size of a giant cock. The perfect tribute for a Princess who saw her fair share of pricks in her time.
Educated, if not relaxed, I returned back to Sunny Stockwell and put my feet up in front of my wonderful window box. A plane passed overhead and then took a sharp left out towards the Westway. Somewhere in West London a blogger is sitting in front of his window box right now, safe in the knowledge that he needn't water it this evening.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Stumped
A three game Test series against New Zealand; a triangular one day tournament with the Windies; a four game Test series with Lara's slogging fodder; a three game one day clash with India and then, pause for breath… the ICC Champions Trophy with the might of the USA coming over to teach out boys how to play cricket. Talk about an Indian Summer. Being an England international these days must be thirsty work, but just make sure that your preferred tipple of choice is the preferred 'commercial partner' of the ECB.
The summer game should be all about quaint rituals such as cucumber sandwiches, sausage rolls and downing a crate of Tennants Extra in the midday sun. Not anymore. A truly astonishing letter arrived with my tickets for one of the ICC games that will be played down at The Oval next month which hit me for six. No point in trying to bowl you a googly and disguise the food fascist facts contained within:
'International sporting events of this nature require the support of commercial partners who invest considerable sums of money. I would therefore like to bring to your attention that beverages not produced by Pepsi, and crisps and snacks not produced by Walkers WILL NOT be permitted into the venue. Should you be planning to bring any food or soft drinks, please consult the list of authorised products below:'
A list of piss poor, teeth rotting, gut wrenching perishable items that even Shane MacGowan would turn his nose up for fear of repeated trips to the dentist are outlined in detail. They read like a Who's Who list of products that HM Chief Health Officer has probably put on the banned list for school dinners.
How the fuck are they going to police this? The new Vauxhall End at The Oval has increased the capacity to 23,000, and with play starting at 10.15, that's a lot of hampers to frisk to try and track down that one elusive can of Coca Cola which if consumed, will no doubt lead to the downfall of English cricket.
I plan to make the Pepsi Police partake in the Pepsi Challenge on the day; I shall fill my flask to the brim with the far superior (in that it is considerably cheaper) Sainsbury Value Cola. It's Make Your Mind Up Time boys – crap fizzy water that is propping up English cricket or crap fizzy water that is propping up my penny pinching lifestyle?
Where will this all lead to? I wouldn't go as far to declare that PG Tips are the 'global partners' of Dulwich Hamlet FC, but there is a rather prominent advertising board level with the halfway line down at Champion Hill. Dare I chance it with my flask of Yorkshire Tea at the next home match?
I look forward to the post-match presentations at The Oval when Team England are paraded on the podium, pissing, puking or poohing out the Pepsi shit all over their whites.
'Persil is the preferred product...'
| Monday 30 August, 2004 |
A three game Test series against New Zealand; a triangular one day tournament with the Windies; a four game Test series with Lara's slogging fodder; a three game one day clash with India and then, pause for breath… the ICC Champions Trophy with the might of the USA coming over to teach out boys how to play cricket. Talk about an Indian Summer. Being an England international these days must be thirsty work, but just make sure that your preferred tipple of choice is the preferred 'commercial partner' of the ECB.
The summer game should be all about quaint rituals such as cucumber sandwiches, sausage rolls and downing a crate of Tennants Extra in the midday sun. Not anymore. A truly astonishing letter arrived with my tickets for one of the ICC games that will be played down at The Oval next month which hit me for six. No point in trying to bowl you a googly and disguise the food fascist facts contained within:
It’s Make Your Mind Up Time... |
A list of piss poor, teeth rotting, gut wrenching perishable items that even Shane MacGowan would turn his nose up for fear of repeated trips to the dentist are outlined in detail. They read like a Who's Who list of products that HM Chief Health Officer has probably put on the banned list for school dinners.
How the fuck are they going to police this? The new Vauxhall End at The Oval has increased the capacity to 23,000, and with play starting at 10.15, that's a lot of hampers to frisk to try and track down that one elusive can of Coca Cola which if consumed, will no doubt lead to the downfall of English cricket.
I plan to make the Pepsi Police partake in the Pepsi Challenge on the day; I shall fill my flask to the brim with the far superior (in that it is considerably cheaper) Sainsbury Value Cola. It's Make Your Mind Up Time boys – crap fizzy water that is propping up English cricket or crap fizzy water that is propping up my penny pinching lifestyle?
Where will this all lead to? I wouldn't go as far to declare that PG Tips are the 'global partners' of Dulwich Hamlet FC, but there is a rather prominent advertising board level with the halfway line down at Champion Hill. Dare I chance it with my flask of Yorkshire Tea at the next home match?
I look forward to the post-match presentations at The Oval when Team England are paraded on the podium, pissing, puking or poohing out the Pepsi shit all over their whites.
'Persil is the preferred product...'
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Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Croydon Athletic 0, 28/08/04
Early doors, early goal for Dulwich. Which caught me out slightly as I was too busy gossiping about the incestuous nature of the South London ice hockey scene. And boy, have I got some tales to tell... Fifteen minutes in and Ronnie Green was on the end of a determined David Moore run after the Croydon 'keeper had committed himself. Watch the puck at all times etc.
'C'mon Dulwich, we 'aven't won anything yet!' came the cry from the bench. Too right. Stats of P4, W0, D1, L3 suggest that there is an astute student of the Ryman South sitting in the dugout. Still, it's a marathon not a sprint, as I'm sure Paula will tell you and besides, Mars bars are the preferred choice of chocolate at Champion Hill with Pete Garland here for his second coming (and second helpings).
The early season tension was starting to show on the pitch with the game being more stop / start than the crappy Croydon tram system. Having a ref who had an unfortunate nervous twitch meaning that he exerted a large propulsion of air whenever his whistle was near his lips didn't help the beautiful game to flow either.
It wasn't the most entertaining of first halves and even if the on the field observation of 'man on your arse!' is taken to be literally true, you'd be a more competent Crap Match Report writer than me to conjure up more than 250 words.
And so onto the half time entertainment; we were privileged to have a Meet 'n Greet by a burger biting Bet Lynch lookalike Croydon Supporter. Except with less glamour. At least I think that this was the pre-planned entertainment or it might have just been a Mrs Robinson moment from a young (ish) male fantasising about a post-menstrual more mature lady. A game old girl and I'd wager that she's a real hit in the away dressing room.
'Go on, 'AVE IT' roared on a young ruffian as Lee Akers launched another ball towards the trolley park in the adjacent Sainsbury after the break. Not likely little fellow, given the gung ho attitude of the Dulwich ball boys. A lost ball is on par with a lost three points around these parts. That will be eleven lost balls so far this season then.
Ronnie Green's rapid rise to Champion Hill cult hero continued in the 64th minute when he tapped home following some good work down the wing.
And speaking of wings...
Last week we had a female ref on the pitch; a different bird altogether this time when with ten minutes remaining, a penny pinching Goose glided on to the grass to try and catch some first class football. The early bird catches the worm etc, whereas the late bird catches eleven blokes wearing pink running around and swearing a lot.
But what's sauce for the goose is also sauce for the gander. Which is why the players showed the same lack of regard to the fragility of our feathered fan as he paid, so to speak, in gate crashing the game.
A recent development down at Dulwich has been for the winning team to 'warm down' (an oxymoron along with 'a decent Tooting team') after the final whistle; and so it was that after ninety minutes, Dulwich were put through their paces on the pitch, whereas Bet Lynch was last seen making her way towards the Croydon changing room, tongue hanging out, to administer her own personalised Croydon 'warming down' drill.
Saucy saucy, but something definitely not to be gandered at.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Sunday 29 August, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Croydon Athletic 0, 28/08/04
Early doors, early goal for Dulwich. Which caught me out slightly as I was too busy gossiping about the incestuous nature of the South London ice hockey scene. And boy, have I got some tales to tell... Fifteen minutes in and Ronnie Green was on the end of a determined David Moore run after the Croydon 'keeper had committed himself. Watch the puck at all times etc.
'C'mon Dulwich, we 'aven't won anything yet!' came the cry from the bench. Too right. Stats of P4, W0, D1, L3 suggest that there is an astute student of the Ryman South sitting in the dugout. Still, it's a marathon not a sprint, as I'm sure Paula will tell you and besides, Mars bars are the preferred choice of chocolate at Champion Hill with Pete Garland here for his second coming (and second helpings).
Man on yer arse! |
It wasn't the most entertaining of first halves and even if the on the field observation of 'man on your arse!' is taken to be literally true, you'd be a more competent Crap Match Report writer than me to conjure up more than 250 words.
And so onto the half time entertainment; we were privileged to have a Meet 'n Greet by a burger biting Bet Lynch lookalike Croydon Supporter. Except with less glamour. At least I think that this was the pre-planned entertainment or it might have just been a Mrs Robinson moment from a young (ish) male fantasising about a post-menstrual more mature lady. A game old girl and I'd wager that she's a real hit in the away dressing room.
'Go on, 'AVE IT' roared on a young ruffian as Lee Akers launched another ball towards the trolley park in the adjacent Sainsbury after the break. Not likely little fellow, given the gung ho attitude of the Dulwich ball boys. A lost ball is on par with a lost three points around these parts. That will be eleven lost balls so far this season then.
Ronnie Green's rapid rise to Champion Hill cult hero continued in the 64th minute when he tapped home following some good work down the wing.
And speaking of wings...
Last week we had a female ref on the pitch; a different bird altogether this time when with ten minutes remaining, a penny pinching Goose glided on to the grass to try and catch some first class football. The early bird catches the worm etc, whereas the late bird catches eleven blokes wearing pink running around and swearing a lot.
But what's sauce for the goose is also sauce for the gander. Which is why the players showed the same lack of regard to the fragility of our feathered fan as he paid, so to speak, in gate crashing the game.
A recent development down at Dulwich has been for the winning team to 'warm down' (an oxymoron along with 'a decent Tooting team') after the final whistle; and so it was that after ninety minutes, Dulwich were put through their paces on the pitch, whereas Bet Lynch was last seen making her way towards the Croydon changing room, tongue hanging out, to administer her own personalised Croydon 'warming down' drill.
Saucy saucy, but something definitely not to be gandered at.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
hamletweb
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