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
| #permalink |
Go Ahead Punk...
With perfect timing as the Friday afternoon rain receded, the monthly Critical Mass made its way over Waterloo Bridge with Ray Davies pumping out his unofficial London Republic Anthem on one of the many sound systems. The last Friday of each month really wouldn't feel right without this ritual.
All shapes and sizes, cyclists and cycles alike, slowly snaked through The Stand on what was the last Mass of the summer season. Cycling in the City is a lifestyle, not a fashion statement and Critical Mass is a twelve months of the year commitment. Have you seen what weekday New Year's Eve falls on this year...?
Past Charing Cross and into Trafalgar Square and the Mass then made its way down The Mall. With the corporate colours of the London 2012 Olympic Bid replacing the red, white and blue, we can look forward ahead to eight years time when Critical Mass should be an Olympic demonstration event. Well, I'm sure we'll be able to make it one.
A right turn (see, we’re not all pinko lefties) into St James and it must have been the first time that the Sex Pistols' Submission serenaded the Senior Palace of the Sovereign.
There has much been debate within Critical Mass recently as to the role of the Bobbies on Bikes that police OUR monthly leisurely and friendly ride through our city. In particular the police's insistence on making the Mass cycle THROUGH red lights and running the risk of injury to pedestrians (a cyclists best friend remember) has been challenged.
Through Piccadilly and we ignored Plod and stopped at the red lights, and cheered on the pedestrians as they too turned a blind eye to PC Pedantic who was trying to encourage them to break the law.
What exactly is the purpose of the peddling police on Critical Mass anyway? Haven't they got bike thief scum to go chasing after?
Coming into King's Cross and The Clash's Complete Control was met with applause. PC Plod take note.
And so to complete the old school punk trilogy, I managed St Pancras back down to Sunny Stockwell in seventeen minutes flat; unlike the commuters below who were probably Down in the Tube Station at Midnight. Boom Boom.
Don't forget your woollies for the first winter ride next month.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 28 August, 2004 |
With perfect timing as the Friday afternoon rain receded, the monthly Critical Mass made its way over Waterloo Bridge with Ray Davies pumping out his unofficial London Republic Anthem on one of the many sound systems. The last Friday of each month really wouldn't feel right without this ritual.
All shapes and sizes, cyclists and cycles alike, slowly snaked through The Stand on what was the last Mass of the summer season. Cycling in the City is a lifestyle, not a fashion statement and Critical Mass is a twelve months of the year commitment. Have you seen what weekday New Year's Eve falls on this year...?
What is the purpose of the police on Critical Mass? |
A right turn (see, we’re not all pinko lefties) into St James and it must have been the first time that the Sex Pistols' Submission serenaded the Senior Palace of the Sovereign.
There has much been debate within Critical Mass recently as to the role of the Bobbies on Bikes that police OUR monthly leisurely and friendly ride through our city. In particular the police's insistence on making the Mass cycle THROUGH red lights and running the risk of injury to pedestrians (a cyclists best friend remember) has been challenged.
Through Piccadilly and we ignored Plod and stopped at the red lights, and cheered on the pedestrians as they too turned a blind eye to PC Pedantic who was trying to encourage them to break the law.
What exactly is the purpose of the peddling police on Critical Mass anyway? Haven't they got bike thief scum to go chasing after?
Coming into King's Cross and The Clash's Complete Control was met with applause. PC Plod take note.
And so to complete the old school punk trilogy, I managed St Pancras back down to Sunny Stockwell in seventeen minutes flat; unlike the commuters below who were probably Down in the Tube Station at Midnight. Boom Boom.
Don't forget your woollies for the first winter ride next month.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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By George!
St George's Square in Pimlico is the only river facing residential Square in London. Bognor Regis beach it 'aint. With tranquil and pleasing views of the dirty old river flowing past towards Battersea, as the SW1 postcode would suggest, this is the heartland of London's Sloanes and Tory MP's.
Bram Stoker died at St George's Square in 1912 from syphilis, probably caught from a Sloane slut, or even a Tory MP perhaps. In 1981 a shy and giggly Lady Diana Spencer worked in a nearby playgroup. Thankfully her memory still lives on in the Square with a commemorative carving in a park bench proclaiming:
DIANA IS A SLUT
Petty vandalism is probably taken very seriously indeed within the Square but with so many candidates for such a hideous crime, it would be like trying to find a virgin princess.
Being a preserve for pricks is such a waste as St George's Square is a pleasant riverside escape from the city and should see more public use. Sure it's a public square but you run the risk of curtain twitchers, Neighbourhood Watch busy bodies and even intimidation from the private security firm if you don't look horsey enough.
I actually scrub up quite well but cycling in a tuxedo is not the most practical option. Cut off combats it was then.
'Excuse me young man can I help you? Are you lost?' queried some dumbfuck blue rinser walking her chiwawa in the cordoned off 'Dog Exercise' area (which was where Diana probably use to work out each morning).
'Alright love. I'm fine actually. I'm just sussing out the scene in preparation for an outdoor squat party I'm thinking of staging here soon.'
I teased the old girl taking a few photos of some of the empty property with For Sale signs and enquiring if the drugs laws were as laissez faire as across Vauxhall Bridge in Lovely Lambeth. The last I saw of her she was frantically writing details down about me and drawing a quick sketch. Which was actually quite flattering and I'd be proud of the resemblance if it ever was flashed up on Crimewatch.
Of course I was never going to invite the Ketamine crowd over to the rolling lawns of SW1 and get them so spazzed up that they ended up rolling around in the rose bushes and shitting, pissing and puking all over the pansies. It would be nice though if such a strategic piece of land was put to more public use.
Maybe F'Ken could host his fucking F1 there?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 27 August, 2004 |
St George's Square in Pimlico is the only river facing residential Square in London. Bognor Regis beach it 'aint. With tranquil and pleasing views of the dirty old river flowing past towards Battersea, as the SW1 postcode would suggest, this is the heartland of London's Sloanes and Tory MP's.
Bram Stoker died at St George's Square in 1912 from syphilis, probably caught from a Sloane slut, or even a Tory MP perhaps. In 1981 a shy and giggly Lady Diana Spencer worked in a nearby playgroup. Thankfully her memory still lives on in the Square with a commemorative carving in a park bench proclaiming:
DIANA IS A SLUT
Diana is a slut |
Being a preserve for pricks is such a waste as St George's Square is a pleasant riverside escape from the city and should see more public use. Sure it's a public square but you run the risk of curtain twitchers, Neighbourhood Watch busy bodies and even intimidation from the private security firm if you don't look horsey enough.
I actually scrub up quite well but cycling in a tuxedo is not the most practical option. Cut off combats it was then.
'Excuse me young man can I help you? Are you lost?' queried some dumbfuck blue rinser walking her chiwawa in the cordoned off 'Dog Exercise' area (which was where Diana probably use to work out each morning).
'Alright love. I'm fine actually. I'm just sussing out the scene in preparation for an outdoor squat party I'm thinking of staging here soon.'
I teased the old girl taking a few photos of some of the empty property with For Sale signs and enquiring if the drugs laws were as laissez faire as across Vauxhall Bridge in Lovely Lambeth. The last I saw of her she was frantically writing details down about me and drawing a quick sketch. Which was actually quite flattering and I'd be proud of the resemblance if it ever was flashed up on Crimewatch.
Of course I was never going to invite the Ketamine crowd over to the rolling lawns of SW1 and get them so spazzed up that they ended up rolling around in the rose bushes and shitting, pissing and puking all over the pansies. It would be nice though if such a strategic piece of land was put to more public use.
Maybe F'Ken could host his fucking F1 there?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Badge of Dishonour
Ah, so that's what First Direct spends my banking charges on - silly little 'ironic' promotional badges. Except I fail to see the irony, especially when I am advised not to withdraw MY money from their security flawed cash machines.
I wore the badge whilst out and about yesterday to try and gauge some reaction; no surprises that I received even more confused looks than normal. A Man who Loves his Mortgage is a Man who Probably Collects Stamps.
I fall into neither category, but you're more than welcome to come round and have a look at my growing portfolio of photographs depicting the changing nature of English football grounds, 1989 – 2004.
Whatever happened to Badge Culture anyway? I mean PROPER badge culture; in the late '70s and early '80s it was a real declaration of your identity, even if that identity was shared amongst the rest of your school.
The 2Tone badges were the most effective with their black and white design but it all seemed to die a death around the mid '80s. I don't see many of the Sunny Stockwell yoof with I Love Natasha Bedingfield badges around the mean streets of SW8. They probably all dream of a career working in corporate finance anyway.
Bankers.
| Thursday 26 August, 2004 |
Ah, so that's what First Direct spends my banking charges on - silly little 'ironic' promotional badges. Except I fail to see the irony, especially when I am advised not to withdraw MY money from their security flawed cash machines.
I wore the badge whilst out and about yesterday to try and gauge some reaction; no surprises that I received even more confused looks than normal. A Man who Loves his Mortgage is a Man who Probably Collects Stamps.
I fall into neither category, but you're more than welcome to come round and have a look at my growing portfolio of photographs depicting the changing nature of English football grounds, 1989 – 2004.
Whatever happened to Badge Culture anyway? I mean PROPER badge culture; in the late '70s and early '80s it was a real declaration of your identity, even if that identity was shared amongst the rest of your school.
The 2Tone badges were the most effective with their black and white design but it all seemed to die a death around the mid '80s. I don't see many of the Sunny Stockwell yoof with I Love Natasha Bedingfield badges around the mean streets of SW8. They probably all dream of a career working in corporate finance anyway.
Bankers.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Metropolitan Police 3, 24/08/04
Evening all, evening all. Always a pleasure to welcome the Old Bill down to Champion Hill, and I don't mean out favourite turn style operator either. With membership of the Met Police football team now being open to any Tom, Dick or semi-pro money grabbing footballer, the boys in blue adhere to amateur team selection with about as much respect as some of their colleagues are given on the beat around these parts.
Hamlet were 1-0 down early doors after a Copper clogger hoofed the ball from the halfway line and caught out Dulwich 'keeper Paul Seuke. The wet surface didn't help, but the sirens were sounding already amongst the small home crowd.
Dulwich were being roughed up both from behind and up front with a pair of plods at centre half and centre forward who you wouldn't want to meet in a dimly lit South London police cell. 2-0 down only minutes later as Dulwich had their pockets picked at the back with a row of Met Police players lining up to get on the end of a cross.
Battling against both a brute of a team and a slippery surface, matches like these require an official who is tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime. We had a female ref.
'Oh you fucking CUNT' went out the cry as yet another decision went against Dulwich. For once, this description wasn't too far wide of the mark.
Ronnie Green gave Dulwich hope just before the break, tapping home after the Met 'keeper failed to hold onto a save. Arresting stuff...
The second half became a competition to boot as many balls out of the ground as possible although the break in play did give the Dulwich fans the chance to quiz the lone Met Police supporter. The conversation came to an eerily end when the undercover officer made enquiries about the legitimacy of the car tax discs in the Dulwich car park.
Another goal mouth scramble led to a third goal for the Met Police and then moments later Dulwich were handed a get out of jail card when a dodgy penalty was awarded to them. I did consider testing out the new fancy video feature on my camera but the undercover agent was giving me the look of a man who didn't want too much evidence to be left remaining at the scene of the crime. The intimidation clearly got to the home players as well with the penalty being struck three truncheons wide of the post.
Three defeats and a draw for Dulwich – 999 anyone?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Wednesday 25 August, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Metropolitan Police 3, 24/08/04
Evening all, evening all. Always a pleasure to welcome the Old Bill down to Champion Hill, and I don't mean out favourite turn style operator either. With membership of the Met Police football team now being open to any Tom, Dick or semi-pro money grabbing footballer, the boys in blue adhere to amateur team selection with about as much respect as some of their colleagues are given on the beat around these parts.
Hamlet were 1-0 down early doors after a Copper clogger hoofed the ball from the halfway line and caught out Dulwich 'keeper Paul Seuke. The wet surface didn't help, but the sirens were sounding already amongst the small home crowd.
Dulwich had their pockets picked |
Battling against both a brute of a team and a slippery surface, matches like these require an official who is tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime. We had a female ref.
'Oh you fucking CUNT' went out the cry as yet another decision went against Dulwich. For once, this description wasn't too far wide of the mark.
Ronnie Green gave Dulwich hope just before the break, tapping home after the Met 'keeper failed to hold onto a save. Arresting stuff...
The second half became a competition to boot as many balls out of the ground as possible although the break in play did give the Dulwich fans the chance to quiz the lone Met Police supporter. The conversation came to an eerily end when the undercover officer made enquiries about the legitimacy of the car tax discs in the Dulwich car park.
Another goal mouth scramble led to a third goal for the Met Police and then moments later Dulwich were handed a get out of jail card when a dodgy penalty was awarded to them. I did consider testing out the new fancy video feature on my camera but the undercover agent was giving me the look of a man who didn't want too much evidence to be left remaining at the scene of the crime. The intimidation clearly got to the home players as well with the penalty being struck three truncheons wide of the post.
Three defeats and a draw for Dulwich – 999 anyone?
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| #permalink |
Danger, Danger - High Voltage!
'But what the fuck is it?'
A popular South East London phrase than can be heard most days as commuters pass through the Elephant & Castle northern roundabout and marvel at the aluminium box of tricks that stands firm in the centre of the gyratory system.
Rumours range from the conspiracy of 'something nuclear' to the absurd urban myth that it is actually the home of the Aphex Twin.
Wrong and wrong.
The Grade II listed building with the shining beam is actually a memorial to Michael Faraday, local Walworth boy, famed physicist and chemist and the man responsible for discovering electromagnetic induction.
Built in 1961 and designed by architect Rodney Gordon, the Faraday Memorial serves a duel purpose; as well as celebrating a local legend, housed inside is an electrical substation for London Underground, providing a transformer for the nearby Northern Line.
The original design was for the building to be cased in glass, giving an open house view of the workings within. Fears of vandalism scuppered this and we are left with the current stainless steel design.
After decades of bewildering commuters, the Faraday memorial hit the headlines in 1996 after a local girl won a Blue Peter competition with her design to illuminate the building. A bit of sticky back plastic here, a few fairy lights there, you get the idea...
Still looking futuristic some thirty years since it was built, the future of the Faraday Memorial is uncertain; recent plans to re-design the Elephant would mean the dual roundabout nightmare being removed, along with the Memorial. Relocation is an option, probably to a permanent Michael Faraday Museum.
Or the Aphex Twin's back garden...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 24 August, 2004 |
'But what the fuck is it?'
A popular South East London phrase than can be heard most days as commuters pass through the Elephant & Castle northern roundabout and marvel at the aluminium box of tricks that stands firm in the centre of the gyratory system.
Rumours range from the conspiracy of 'something nuclear' to the absurd urban myth that it is actually the home of the Aphex Twin.
Wrong and wrong.
The Grade II listed building with the shining beam is actually a memorial to Michael Faraday, local Walworth boy, famed physicist and chemist and the man responsible for discovering electromagnetic induction.
Built in 1961 and designed by architect Rodney Gordon, the Faraday Memorial serves a duel purpose; as well as celebrating a local legend, housed inside is an electrical substation for London Underground, providing a transformer for the nearby Northern Line.
The original design was for the building to be cased in glass, giving an open house view of the workings within. Fears of vandalism scuppered this and we are left with the current stainless steel design.
After decades of bewildering commuters, the Faraday memorial hit the headlines in 1996 after a local girl won a Blue Peter competition with her design to illuminate the building. A bit of sticky back plastic here, a few fairy lights there, you get the idea...
Still looking futuristic some thirty years since it was built, the future of the Faraday Memorial is uncertain; recent plans to re-design the Elephant would mean the dual roundabout nightmare being removed, along with the Memorial. Relocation is an option, probably to a permanent Michael Faraday Museum.
Or the Aphex Twin's back garden...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Style Council
The Museum of London is just that: a museum for LONDONERS, documenting the birth, growth and various downfalls of the city. Whereas the London Evening Sub-Standard is more concerned with the suburbs, or crappy Carlton TV 'news' deals with celebs, the Museum of London attempts to understand what it was like living in this city across different time periods for normal, everyday people.
If it's some fairytale world of Madonna at the Met Bar that makes a museum for you then you're better off queuing up with all the other knobbers across town at the ghastly Madame Tussauds (shitty flasturbation website alert). More the dummy you, boom boom.
The Museum of London even has all the right foundations with the building constructed around the remains of the original Roman Wall. Recent expansion of the Square Mile has led to an uncomfortable architectural alliance with the serious money in the City intruding on London's historical footsteps. Yes yes yes, tinted glass facades may well look the corporate part but will they still be standing in two thousand years time?
Currently exhibiting at the Museum of London is an exhibition looking at Whatever Happened to Council Housing? Two issues are addressed:
Can Councils continue to provide low cost, rented homes for Londoners?
Should the main responsibility for social housing be transferred to Housing Associations?
Yes and No.
That's all you need to know really, but just as you wouldn't read Time Out if you wanted to understand London life, it's worth digging a bit deeper to see how social housing has had the heart ripped out of it in the capital under Thatcherism.
At the start of the '80s Southwark Council was the largest landlord in London owning some 49,000 houses, the vast majority on the Aylesbury Estate. Building of council homes across ALL London boroughs stopped in 1980 with the Right to Buy legislation. This was good in the short term for the tenants but led to a drain in public housing stock, not to mention a corrupt Westminster Counicl or even the rise of Cardboard City around Waterloo.
The most sought after ex-Local Authority building in London today is the Trellick Tower over in Notting Hill. A three bedroom flat recently sold at £331,500; nice building, knobber of a neighbourhood though.
Tower Hamlets has the highest rate of Right to Buy take up with forecasts suggesting that there will be no public housing available in the borough in five years time.
Aware of the highly sensitive political clash of council housing being sold to the highest bidder, most local authorities transferred their stock to be managed by housing associations in the '90s. As part of Mr Tony's 'sustained communities' pledge by 2010, everyone has the right to live in 'decent home standards.' Critics see this as privatisation through the back door; local authorities haven't the resources to meet this legislation whereas the private sector has.
The Greenwich Millennium Village claims to be the 'future of London housing.' I think it looks like a glorified Butlins, and overpriced at that. The design boasts of a mixture of tenants with 1,377 owner occupiers, 192 rented and 74 shared ownership. Not exactly an equal mixture then.
More houses were being built in London at the start of the First World War than are under construction in 2004. The population will increase in the next decade to the equivalent of the entire population of Leeds moving down to the Big Smoke. Once their football team has disappeared, what else is there to keep our Friends in the North up there?
Elsewhere around the Museum and apologies for the lack of photographs. There is a diddly squat policy for serial flashers such as myself, except for the Lord Mayor's carriage and the Victorian walkway. If it's crap pics that you're after then there's always the waxworks over in the West.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
the highrise
high rise porn
| Monday 23 August, 2004 |
The Museum of London is just that: a museum for LONDONERS, documenting the birth, growth and various downfalls of the city. Whereas the London Evening Sub-Standard is more concerned with the suburbs, or crappy Carlton TV 'news' deals with celebs, the Museum of London attempts to understand what it was like living in this city across different time periods for normal, everyday people.
If it's some fairytale world of Madonna at the Met Bar that makes a museum for you then you're better off queuing up with all the other knobbers across town at the ghastly Madame Tussauds (shitty flasturbation website alert). More the dummy you, boom boom.
Nice building, knobber of a neighbourhood |
Currently exhibiting at the Museum of London is an exhibition looking at Whatever Happened to Council Housing? Two issues are addressed:
Can Councils continue to provide low cost, rented homes for Londoners?
Should the main responsibility for social housing be transferred to Housing Associations?
Yes and No.
That's all you need to know really, but just as you wouldn't read Time Out if you wanted to understand London life, it's worth digging a bit deeper to see how social housing has had the heart ripped out of it in the capital under Thatcherism.
At the start of the '80s Southwark Council was the largest landlord in London owning some 49,000 houses, the vast majority on the Aylesbury Estate. Building of council homes across ALL London boroughs stopped in 1980 with the Right to Buy legislation. This was good in the short term for the tenants but led to a drain in public housing stock, not to mention a corrupt Westminster Counicl or even the rise of Cardboard City around Waterloo.
The most sought after ex-Local Authority building in London today is the Trellick Tower over in Notting Hill. A three bedroom flat recently sold at £331,500; nice building, knobber of a neighbourhood though.
Tower Hamlets has the highest rate of Right to Buy take up with forecasts suggesting that there will be no public housing available in the borough in five years time.
Aware of the highly sensitive political clash of council housing being sold to the highest bidder, most local authorities transferred their stock to be managed by housing associations in the '90s. As part of Mr Tony's 'sustained communities' pledge by 2010, everyone has the right to live in 'decent home standards.' Critics see this as privatisation through the back door; local authorities haven't the resources to meet this legislation whereas the private sector has.
The Greenwich Millennium Village claims to be the 'future of London housing.' I think it looks like a glorified Butlins, and overpriced at that. The design boasts of a mixture of tenants with 1,377 owner occupiers, 192 rented and 74 shared ownership. Not exactly an equal mixture then.
More houses were being built in London at the start of the First World War than are under construction in 2004. The population will increase in the next decade to the equivalent of the entire population of Leeds moving down to the Big Smoke. Once their football team has disappeared, what else is there to keep our Friends in the North up there?
Elsewhere around the Museum and apologies for the lack of photographs. There is a diddly squat policy for serial flashers such as myself, except for the Lord Mayor's carriage and the Victorian walkway. If it's crap pics that you're after then there's always the waxworks over in the West.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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the highrise
high rise porn
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Crap Match Report
National Village Cricket Final - Sully Centurions beat Exhall and Wixford by an awful lots of runs (I fell asleep in the Lords sun...), 22/08/04
The National Village Final is an opportunity to get into Lords for free. Let me repeat that again: The National Village Final is an opportunity to get into Lords for FREE. I was there on Sunday.
Wine one day, water the next. Well, tea rather predictably but you get the idea. After the Lord Mayor's Show of the fourth Test at The Oval yesterday, it was up to Lords to slum it with the village sloggers on Sunday.
This is the showpiece of the village cricket season where two outposts of Middle England (or Wales in Sully's case) decamp down to the Big Smoke for the day, only to return back to their suburban splendour to find that they have all been burgled.
Being village cricket then of course there was a village idiot at Lords; that will be the stuffy MMC blazer boy looking more like a court jester with his egg and bacon attire than a cricket lover. He gave me a scowl at seeing my Sunday morning 11am stubbly shadow.
The cricket was fast and furious with as much pride at stake for those involved as twenty four hours previously back down at The Oval. Having narrowly missed out myself on a once in a lifetime chance to play football on the hallowed turf of the Hamlet with the Supporters' Team, I can appreciate the appeal of amateurs playing on the big stage. And they don't come much bigger than Champion Hill.
Sully slogged to an impressive 243, but there was suspicion that the boys from the valley were representing a second string Glamorgan County side rather than Sully village.
After the lunch interval and the legendary Lords slope was proving to be a problem for the Sully pace bowler. Not so much failing to find his footing, more like being out of breath before he even made it to the crease with his run up.
Runs were looking elusive for Exhall (Warwickshire if you can't be arsed to Google it), despite a generous boundary rope resembling a small tape measure.
With the run rate requited creeping up to 143 for Exhall to win come the final over, this wasn't exactly edge of your seat stuff. But I repeat again: It was FUCKING FREE.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
| Sunday 22 August, 2004 |
National Village Cricket Final - Sully Centurions beat Exhall and Wixford by an awful lots of runs (I fell asleep in the Lords sun...), 22/08/04
The National Village Final is an opportunity to get into Lords for free. Let me repeat that again: The National Village Final is an opportunity to get into Lords for FREE. I was there on Sunday.
Wine one day, water the next. Well, tea rather predictably but you get the idea. After the Lord Mayor's Show of the fourth Test at The Oval yesterday, it was up to Lords to slum it with the village sloggers on Sunday.
This is the showpiece of the village cricket season where two outposts of Middle England (or Wales in Sully's case) decamp down to the Big Smoke for the day, only to return back to their suburban splendour to find that they have all been burgled.
Being village cricket, there was a village idiot |
The cricket was fast and furious with as much pride at stake for those involved as twenty four hours previously back down at The Oval. Having narrowly missed out myself on a once in a lifetime chance to play football on the hallowed turf of the Hamlet with the Supporters' Team, I can appreciate the appeal of amateurs playing on the big stage. And they don't come much bigger than Champion Hill.
Sully slogged to an impressive 243, but there was suspicion that the boys from the valley were representing a second string Glamorgan County side rather than Sully village.
After the lunch interval and the legendary Lords slope was proving to be a problem for the Sully pace bowler. Not so much failing to find his footing, more like being out of breath before he even made it to the crease with his run up.
Runs were looking elusive for Exhall (Warwickshire if you can't be arsed to Google it), despite a generous boundary rope resembling a small tape measure.
With the run rate requited creeping up to 143 for Exhall to win come the final over, this wasn't exactly edge of your seat stuff. But I repeat again: It was FUCKING FREE.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
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Crap Test Report
England 470 & 4-0 beat the West Indies 152 & 318 by 10 wickets, 21/08/04
No sneaking into the freebie Seats of No Shame today. A £30 birthday treat from mrs onionbagblogger, but I did consider cashing it all in outside The Oval and doing the dirty deed with a tout tosspot. Thanks for the birthday present dear, you're sitting on your own...
It was a nice gesture for The Oval to provide free toilet paper to everyone at the start of play. No other explanation for the free copies of the Torygraph being given away on the gate.
With the first over scheduled for 10.30, the first pints were being poured by 10am. May as well start early with every chance of the Test being wrapped up before lunch. All depended on Brian Charles Lara, or Mr Un-Motivator as he is known to his team mates. The Windies captain cut a lone figure and looked like a blogger whose girlfriend had come close to dumping him after he tried to cash in on his Test ticket.
My own rearguard action was soon switched from a girlfriend giving me grief to a seat load of Sweaties knocking back the Special Brew. North of the border and the sound of leather on willow is rarer than a rallying Lara team talk. All very strange then to find a Tartan Army turn up in South London just to cheer on a cricket team with their roots some four and a half thousand miles away. It would make for an interesting hybrid of a language though, Jimmy Cranky meets Busta Rhymes.
Our Friends From the North / downtown Kingston (and I don't mean upon Thames) spent the entire morning session debating what actually constitutes a sport. The consensus was that 'breaking into a sweat' was a useful working definition. By that rationale, Scottish football is officially not a sport, whereas eating deep fried fat is.
Twenty three overs into the innings and lone man Lara was looking even more like someone who had just realised that his personal fan club consists of the clan of Rab C Nesbitt. Caught by Trescothick off bowling by Anderson and I was all set to give the Sweaties my very own South London version of the Glasgow Kiss as the Windies captain walked back to the pavilion.
It was then left to Gayle to have the wind blown into his sails and put the Windies back on course. A fine century off only 80 balls being caught by Flintoff with Anderson claiming another prize wicket.
Come the lunch break and I found myself being chased around the old ground by a bevy of blonde beauties, and I don't mean Andrew Flintoff look-alikes; every summer in South London a mini industry flourishes for one weekend of the year. If you're a blonde babe then chances are that your 'work skills' will be recruited during the Oval Test to hand out a variety of promotional literature on behalf of various companies. They must have lost my application in the post.
Being the high point of The Oval social season and there was even a toilet attendant in the Gents. Not a personal arse wiper as one would expect to find at Harrods, but some poor chap whose purpose is to stand in the puddles of piss and direct the cattle to the nearest space. A pleasant enough bloke, but somewhat bereft of the beauty found on the faces of the promo dollies.
With the afternoon session underway, Chanderpaul was spaying the ball around, but not as much as the habitual sneezer sitting behind me who was spraying his snot down the back of my neck, or even the Sweaties spraying their Special Brew all over my face.
Bravo survived until the drinks interval before falling lbw for 54 first ball back, suggesting that whatever was in his drink, he was keen keen for more of the same back in the pavilion.
The key wicket of Chanderpaul fell for 32 before tea, putting some blue sky between England and the Windies on a blue sky day that Jeff Lynne would be proud of. Smith was out for 28 and this was the signal for the stewards to come to the boundary with England staring a series 4:0 victory in the face. It is unlikely that any of the orange bib boys are nicknamed 'Smiler' but it's got to be better than staring a streaker in the face.
Collymore was caught behind by Jones for seven and the new ball saw off Baugh for 34. Anderson bowled Edwards for two, setting up the farce of England needing just one run off their second innings for victory.
Back to the pavilion went both teams and when Trescothick and Strauss returned to the crease in search of that elusive run, it was almost an anti-climax. Maybe they should have played left handed? Or used table tennis bats? Or perhaps even tried to run between the wickets three-legged race style?
Trescothick hit the winning run giving England a victory ONLY by ten wickets, and not an innings.
And finally...
I spotted Sir Trev at the back of the Surridge Stand at the end of play. His head was radiating a thought bubble declaring 'not another twat' as I greeted him with a 'BONG!'
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
| Saturday 21 August, 2004 |
England 470 & 4-0 beat the West Indies 152 & 318 by 10 wickets, 21/08/04
No sneaking into the freebie Seats of No Shame today. A £30 birthday treat from mrs onionbagblogger, but I did consider cashing it all in outside The Oval and doing the dirty deed with a tout tosspot. Thanks for the birthday present dear, you're sitting on your own...
It was a nice gesture for The Oval to provide free toilet paper to everyone at the start of play. No other explanation for the free copies of the Torygraph being given away on the gate.
Not another twat... |
My own rearguard action was soon switched from a girlfriend giving me grief to a seat load of Sweaties knocking back the Special Brew. North of the border and the sound of leather on willow is rarer than a rallying Lara team talk. All very strange then to find a Tartan Army turn up in South London just to cheer on a cricket team with their roots some four and a half thousand miles away. It would make for an interesting hybrid of a language though, Jimmy Cranky meets Busta Rhymes.
Our Friends From the North / downtown Kingston (and I don't mean upon Thames) spent the entire morning session debating what actually constitutes a sport. The consensus was that 'breaking into a sweat' was a useful working definition. By that rationale, Scottish football is officially not a sport, whereas eating deep fried fat is.
Twenty three overs into the innings and lone man Lara was looking even more like someone who had just realised that his personal fan club consists of the clan of Rab C Nesbitt. Caught by Trescothick off bowling by Anderson and I was all set to give the Sweaties my very own South London version of the Glasgow Kiss as the Windies captain walked back to the pavilion.
It was then left to Gayle to have the wind blown into his sails and put the Windies back on course. A fine century off only 80 balls being caught by Flintoff with Anderson claiming another prize wicket.
Come the lunch break and I found myself being chased around the old ground by a bevy of blonde beauties, and I don't mean Andrew Flintoff look-alikes; every summer in South London a mini industry flourishes for one weekend of the year. If you're a blonde babe then chances are that your 'work skills' will be recruited during the Oval Test to hand out a variety of promotional literature on behalf of various companies. They must have lost my application in the post.
Being the high point of The Oval social season and there was even a toilet attendant in the Gents. Not a personal arse wiper as one would expect to find at Harrods, but some poor chap whose purpose is to stand in the puddles of piss and direct the cattle to the nearest space. A pleasant enough bloke, but somewhat bereft of the beauty found on the faces of the promo dollies.
With the afternoon session underway, Chanderpaul was spaying the ball around, but not as much as the habitual sneezer sitting behind me who was spraying his snot down the back of my neck, or even the Sweaties spraying their Special Brew all over my face.
Bravo survived until the drinks interval before falling lbw for 54 first ball back, suggesting that whatever was in his drink, he was keen keen for more of the same back in the pavilion.
The key wicket of Chanderpaul fell for 32 before tea, putting some blue sky between England and the Windies on a blue sky day that Jeff Lynne would be proud of. Smith was out for 28 and this was the signal for the stewards to come to the boundary with England staring a series 4:0 victory in the face. It is unlikely that any of the orange bib boys are nicknamed 'Smiler' but it's got to be better than staring a streaker in the face.
Collymore was caught behind by Jones for seven and the new ball saw off Baugh for 34. Anderson bowled Edwards for two, setting up the farce of England needing just one run off their second innings for victory.
Back to the pavilion went both teams and when Trescothick and Strauss returned to the crease in search of that elusive run, it was almost an anti-climax. Maybe they should have played left handed? Or used table tennis bats? Or perhaps even tried to run between the wickets three-legged race style?
Trescothick hit the winning run giving England a victory ONLY by ten wickets, and not an innings.
And finally...
I spotted Sir Trev at the back of the Surridge Stand at the end of play. His head was radiating a thought bubble declaring 'not another twat' as I greeted him with a 'BONG!'
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
| #permalink |
Single White Female Amnesty
Further to the A Level posh totty titillation pics (more HERE and HERE), good 'ol South London Press for realising that horsy tarts don't necessarily sell newspapers.
I've no idea who Bayo Riley is, but a big congratulations from onionbagblog on your two A grades in sociology (puts my piss poor C to shame) and psychology. The Lambeth College student is apparently now either Reading or Kent University bound and we wish him well.
Just keep away from any pubic school girl silly posh bints who try to entrap you with wild tales of joining the Young Tories.
| Friday 20 August, 2004 |
Further to the A Level posh totty titillation pics (more HERE and HERE), good 'ol South London Press for realising that horsy tarts don't necessarily sell newspapers.
I've no idea who Bayo Riley is, but a big congratulations from onionbagblog on your two A grades in sociology (puts my piss poor C to shame) and psychology. The Lambeth College student is apparently now either Reading or Kent University bound and we wish him well.
Just keep away from any pubic school girl silly posh bints who try to entrap you with wild tales of joining the Young Tories.
| #permalink |
This is the Modern World
Art Deco London is usually associated with such grand gestures to Modernism as the Hoover Building out in Greenford, or even the marbled halls of Highbury up in N5. Closer to home and South London's love affair with Art Deco Architecture is more aligned to home comforts than commerce.
Hidden away in the most unlikely of locations are a number of simple but striking structures that give a flavour of Mediterranean appeal to the Sunny South. My interest in Art Deco is how the style cuts through the cluster of suburban London and some seventy years since the boom in Modernism, these buildings still manage to strike a pose on the landscape.
St Reatham is famous for the Redskins, Naomi Campbell and the being Prostitution Central in South London. Two of these claim to fames are not unrelated. It's also home to Pullman Court, an Art Deco complex of studio flats that wouldn't like out of place in Bohemian Barcelona.
The Grade II listed building was built in 1935 by Frederick Gibberd and on completion was advertised as 'Luxury combined with Economy,' a mantra which I repeat to mrs onionbagblogger every morning. Each flat contained a fitted kitchen with a refrigerator, and rents ranged from £68 to £130 a year. £94,000 is the current asking price for a piece of Zone 3 Modernist London, but there is always the lure of St Reatham Bus Garage next door which still serves the 159 Routemaster.
Each year the complex is opened up as part of the London Open House Weekend. Eddie Izzard still owns property here, which even if you are an architectural ignoramus, should be sufficient bait to have a rummage through the cross dresser's back passage one weekend each year.
A short cycle down the Norwood Road along the leafy edges of Brockwell Park and you're presented with a pair of Art Deco delights. Two town houses built with a Modernist approach, South London style.
Being private property then the modern interweb is not that helpful to pull up a series of fascinating facts. I can only assume that the appearance of two similar style abodes along a road that otherwise holds about as much architectural appeal as Paul Daniel's underpants is no coincidence.
Both properties boast a roof terrace with views all the way back across Brockwell Park and out to Brixton. Boo hiss. I can see Stockwell Bus Garage from where I sit right now.
My sole contribution to an Art Deco lifestyle is a piece of Lido style mosaic that I picked up at an 'architecture salvage emporium' – a local junk shop. It doubles up behind the sink as a splendid splashboard for the rare moments when I exert too much enthusiasm during Fairy Liquid time.
I've often been tempted to line my bathroom floor with marble and commission a bust of Billy Bragg to sit above the bog. But that would just be SO North London.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 20 August, 2004 |
Art Deco London is usually associated with such grand gestures to Modernism as the Hoover Building out in Greenford, or even the marbled halls of Highbury up in N5. Closer to home and South London's love affair with Art Deco Architecture is more aligned to home comforts than commerce.
Hidden away in the most unlikely of locations are a number of simple but striking structures that give a flavour of Mediterranean appeal to the Sunny South. My interest in Art Deco is how the style cuts through the cluster of suburban London and some seventy years since the boom in Modernism, these buildings still manage to strike a pose on the landscape.
St Reatham is famous for Naomi Campbell & prostitution |
The Grade II listed building was built in 1935 by Frederick Gibberd and on completion was advertised as 'Luxury combined with Economy,' a mantra which I repeat to mrs onionbagblogger every morning. Each flat contained a fitted kitchen with a refrigerator, and rents ranged from £68 to £130 a year. £94,000 is the current asking price for a piece of Zone 3 Modernist London, but there is always the lure of St Reatham Bus Garage next door which still serves the 159 Routemaster.
Each year the complex is opened up as part of the London Open House Weekend. Eddie Izzard still owns property here, which even if you are an architectural ignoramus, should be sufficient bait to have a rummage through the cross dresser's back passage one weekend each year.
A short cycle down the Norwood Road along the leafy edges of Brockwell Park and you're presented with a pair of Art Deco delights. Two town houses built with a Modernist approach, South London style.
Being private property then the modern interweb is not that helpful to pull up a series of fascinating facts. I can only assume that the appearance of two similar style abodes along a road that otherwise holds about as much architectural appeal as Paul Daniel's underpants is no coincidence.
Both properties boast a roof terrace with views all the way back across Brockwell Park and out to Brixton. Boo hiss. I can see Stockwell Bus Garage from where I sit right now.
My sole contribution to an Art Deco lifestyle is a piece of Lido style mosaic that I picked up at an 'architecture salvage emporium' – a local junk shop. It doubles up behind the sink as a splendid splashboard for the rare moments when I exert too much enthusiasm during Fairy Liquid time.
I've often been tempted to line my bathroom floor with marble and commission a bust of Billy Bragg to sit above the bog. But that would just be SO North London.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Moorgate Madness
Handcuffed by the Underground bully boy staff at Moorgate (FOUR of the fuckers), before half a dozen coppers dragged him away.
Please touch your Oystercard at the start of each journey, etc...
Have a nice day.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 19 August, 2004 |
Handcuffed by the Underground bully boy staff at Moorgate (FOUR of the fuckers), before half a dozen coppers dragged him away.
Please touch your Oystercard at the start of each journey, etc...
Have a nice day.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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The Horses are on the Track
That time of year again then: Lolita lusting knobber broadsheet editors placing fantasy wankfest pics on their front page of posh middle class birds coming across all horsey as they open their 'A' Level results .
Horse of the Year, 'A' Levels a speciality. I bet they are love, especially in the seedy minds of some tosspot middle-aged editor.
Yes, well done Tallulah, a Grade A in Fine Arts, but for the term fees that Daddy forks out for your jolly hockey sticks private schooling then I would bloody hope so too. Never mind, tuition fees will bankrupt the Old Man in a few years time. See how you like stacking shelves then.
Why can't The Times and The Torygraph show us some Preston porker with a pork pie slobbering all over her gob as she finds out that she is doomed to three years of Essex University hell? Or some sweaty Scottish scrotum scratcher finding out that his Grade C in Landscape Gardening will lead to three years at Bournemouth Institute of HE, and a string of ginger haired spogs scattered along the South Coast during his stay?
Silly public school girl cows on the front page during the silly season is now an established English tradition along with the Minimum Wage and Re-Start for single mums; two concepts that a BA in Biscuit Making will one day lead to.
Congratulations.
*more horsey nonsense HERE*
| Thursday 19 August, 2004 |
That time of year again then: Lolita lusting knobber broadsheet editors placing fantasy wankfest pics on their front page of posh middle class birds coming across all horsey as they open their 'A' Level results .
Horse of the Year, 'A' Levels a speciality. I bet they are love, especially in the seedy minds of some tosspot middle-aged editor.
Yes, well done Tallulah, a Grade A in Fine Arts, but for the term fees that Daddy forks out for your jolly hockey sticks private schooling then I would bloody hope so too. Never mind, tuition fees will bankrupt the Old Man in a few years time. See how you like stacking shelves then.
Why can't The Times and The Torygraph show us some Preston porker with a pork pie slobbering all over her gob as she finds out that she is doomed to three years of Essex University hell? Or some sweaty Scottish scrotum scratcher finding out that his Grade C in Landscape Gardening will lead to three years at Bournemouth Institute of HE, and a string of ginger haired spogs scattered along the South Coast during his stay?
Silly public school girl cows on the front page during the silly season is now an established English tradition along with the Minimum Wage and Re-Start for single mums; two concepts that a BA in Biscuit Making will one day lead to.
Congratulations.
*more horsey nonsense HERE*
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Flag Day
Want to fly a flag in London? Seems like most public spaces are up for rent. Parliament Square is the latest setting to be branded with the corporate colours of the London 2012 Olympic bid.
I'm not the most patriotic of flag wavers, although I do own a giant black flag, poised to be flown at the street carnival once the Wicked Witch leaves us. But is there really any need to pimp out the Union Flag (pedant alert: Union Flag is only a 'Jack' if it is flown at sea) to the highest bidder?
One of the most sickening sites in London in recent years was the Stars and Stripes flying down The Mall last November when Fuckface was in town.
Parliament Square is a wonderful contradiction of ideology at the moment. Shame the same can't be said for the cross-party concencus of knobbers inside. Providing a much more pleasing appearance than Lord Coe and his cronies' corporate colours is of course the lone anti-war protestor, Brian Haw who seems to have been outside the Palace of Westminster since the FIRST Gulf War. Remember that - fighting to free Iraqi's etc?
You get the impression that Brian is tolerated rather than being turfed out by Mr Tony, although his website has been pulled by the police on a number of occasions. He may fly a fantastic anarchic two fingered salute outside the Establishment's power base, but to move him along somewhat contradicts the reasons for Mr Tony's crusade in the Iraqi oil fields in the first place.
Yes yes, blah blah blah, if you lived in Iraq you wouldn't get the chance to protest, why don't you live there if you want to find out what free speech is etc...
Let's just see if the banners are still out in Parliament Square once the IOC delegation hits town and the seedy business of the bid begins for real.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 18 August, 2004 |
Want to fly a flag in London? Seems like most public spaces are up for rent. Parliament Square is the latest setting to be branded with the corporate colours of the London 2012 Olympic bid.
I'm not the most patriotic of flag wavers, although I do own a giant black flag, poised to be flown at the street carnival once the Wicked Witch leaves us. But is there really any need to pimp out the Union Flag (pedant alert: Union Flag is only a 'Jack' if it is flown at sea) to the highest bidder?
One of the most sickening sites in London in recent years was the Stars and Stripes flying down The Mall last November when Fuckface was in town.
Parliament Square is a wonderful contradiction of ideology at the moment. Shame the same can't be said for the cross-party concencus of knobbers inside. Providing a much more pleasing appearance than Lord Coe and his cronies' corporate colours is of course the lone anti-war protestor, Brian Haw who seems to have been outside the Palace of Westminster since the FIRST Gulf War. Remember that - fighting to free Iraqi's etc?
You get the impression that Brian is tolerated rather than being turfed out by Mr Tony, although his website has been pulled by the police on a number of occasions. He may fly a fantastic anarchic two fingered salute outside the Establishment's power base, but to move him along somewhat contradicts the reasons for Mr Tony's crusade in the Iraqi oil fields in the first place.
Yes yes, blah blah blah, if you lived in Iraq you wouldn't get the chance to protest, why don't you live there if you want to find out what free speech is etc...
Let's just see if the banners are still out in Parliament Square once the IOC delegation hits town and the seedy business of the bid begins for real.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Standard Seller of the Day
Cheer up guv, might never happen. No comment on the crappness of the Sub-Standard that these lovely gents and ladies have to flog, but I don't think that their lack of cheeriness is just a coincidence.
Something for everyone hopefully; as pictured, the sexy Standard seller outside the new Virgin Store (that FUCKING HIPPY TWAT... AGAIN) can read my small print anytime.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 18 August, 2004 |
Cheer up guv, might never happen. No comment on the crappness of the Sub-Standard that these lovely gents and ladies have to flog, but I don't think that their lack of cheeriness is just a coincidence.
Something for everyone hopefully; as pictured, the sexy Standard seller outside the new Virgin Store (that FUCKING HIPPY TWAT... AGAIN) can read my small print anytime.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Name Game
Competing for Team GB in the Equestrian at the Olympics are Pippa Funnell and William Fox-Pitt.
Louise Bond-Williams is a member of the fencing team.
Robin Bourne-Taylor and Andrew Triggs-Hodge will be dipping their cox in the water as part of the rowing team.
Timothy has been playing tennis, although not that well.
Lining up for England against the Ukraine in a football friendly on Wednesday evening is a Gary, a John, a Frank and an Alan.
Wayne is crocked.
I have no further comment.
| Tuesday 17 August, 2004 |
Competing for Team GB in the Equestrian at the Olympics are Pippa Funnell and William Fox-Pitt.
Louise Bond-Williams is a member of the fencing team.
Robin Bourne-Taylor and Andrew Triggs-Hodge will be dipping their cox in the water as part of the rowing team.
Timothy has been playing tennis, although not that well.
Lining up for England against the Ukraine in a football friendly on Wednesday evening is a Gary, a John, a Frank and an Alan.
Wayne is crocked.
I have no further comment.
| #permalink |
South Bank Boarders
Skateboards are synonymous with the South Bank. They are as much as part of the cultural landscape by the banks of the Thames as The Tate Modern, The Globe and the Budgieman. I use to curse the baggy arsed little rascals whenever I was trying to act the windswept poet, looking painfully serious across the City like some costume drama twat on Sunday night TV.
What kind of cultural fulfilment can a young man gain from riding an over-sized roller skate whilst wearing a T-shirt two sizes too big? But then I grew up and realised that I was suffering from skateboard dude jealousy syndrome. Besides, I never grow tired of watching the yoof doing their board thing down by the Thames, unlike the hit and miss street 'entertainers.'
It seems that I'm not alone and the skate kids now have friends in high places; after years of conflict between the boarders and the South Bank management, the men in suits have finally succumb to the kids in hoods by sanctioning an official skate area underneath the South Bank.
The deal is that the blocks of concrete placed under the concourse of the Queen Elizabeth Hall have been designated 'urban art' by the cultural controllers from up above. Urban art my arse. They're glorified breeze blocks that look like some removed section of football terracing (ah, the good old days - boys being passed overhead to the front, swapping ends at half time, some knobber peeing into his programme standing behind you as wonder where the warmth trickling down your inside leg is coming from...)
Five of the concrete fuckers have been put in place for the yoof to use and abuse. Judging by the war wounds and scars on show on Sunday (haven't they heard of knee pads?), they’re being abused more than used.
Given the imaginative title of the 'Undercroft' (what is this? Inbred Norfolk?), you can see why the kids like it deep down below in the dimly little den. And I don't mean because they are out of reach of the knobber mime artists.
Underground and out of view form the tourists, it's like a little secret club set up for the under 18s. If you're old, you’re in the way.
I can still cut it with the yoof somehow. I think at best they find me a curiosity, at worst a freak show.
I thought the first question was:
'What are you doing?'
But the bumfluff boarder stopped after 'you.'
No answer to that really. Blogs are for the boarders who are too aged to actually explore the seedy delights of the Undercroft (jazz cigarettes, White Lightening and what I hazard to guess may be the appearance of a number of loose women).
I made some excuse about being lost but didn't wait for the inevitable 'get lost' reply.
As Pete Townsend once observed, The Kids Are Alright really and they stand a better chance of developing into responsible citizens as is Mr Tony's want by mugging themselves on their four wheels than mugging some coffin dodger coming out of The Purcell Rooms.
Fearing a scene from Larry Clark's Kids film, the skidmarks were starting to show; not on the urban art but inside my cacks and so I knew it was time to move along.
A mime artist approached me near the NFT cafe and looked at me with an expression that suggested I should lamp the cunt. The karma of the skate kids had rubbed off on me though.
'What are you?'
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 17 August, 2004 |
Skateboards are synonymous with the South Bank. They are as much as part of the cultural landscape by the banks of the Thames as The Tate Modern, The Globe and the Budgieman. I use to curse the baggy arsed little rascals whenever I was trying to act the windswept poet, looking painfully serious across the City like some costume drama twat on Sunday night TV.
What kind of cultural fulfilment can a young man gain from riding an over-sized roller skate whilst wearing a T-shirt two sizes too big? But then I grew up and realised that I was suffering from skateboard dude jealousy syndrome. Besides, I never grow tired of watching the yoof doing their board thing down by the Thames, unlike the hit and miss street 'entertainers.'
If you're old, you're in the way |
The deal is that the blocks of concrete placed under the concourse of the Queen Elizabeth Hall have been designated 'urban art' by the cultural controllers from up above. Urban art my arse. They're glorified breeze blocks that look like some removed section of football terracing (ah, the good old days - boys being passed overhead to the front, swapping ends at half time, some knobber peeing into his programme standing behind you as wonder where the warmth trickling down your inside leg is coming from...)
Five of the concrete fuckers have been put in place for the yoof to use and abuse. Judging by the war wounds and scars on show on Sunday (haven't they heard of knee pads?), they’re being abused more than used.
Given the imaginative title of the 'Undercroft' (what is this? Inbred Norfolk?), you can see why the kids like it deep down below in the dimly little den. And I don't mean because they are out of reach of the knobber mime artists.
Underground and out of view form the tourists, it's like a little secret club set up for the under 18s. If you're old, you’re in the way.
I can still cut it with the yoof somehow. I think at best they find me a curiosity, at worst a freak show.
I thought the first question was:
'What are you doing?'
But the bumfluff boarder stopped after 'you.'
No answer to that really. Blogs are for the boarders who are too aged to actually explore the seedy delights of the Undercroft (jazz cigarettes, White Lightening and what I hazard to guess may be the appearance of a number of loose women).
I made some excuse about being lost but didn't wait for the inevitable 'get lost' reply.
As Pete Townsend once observed, The Kids Are Alright really and they stand a better chance of developing into responsible citizens as is Mr Tony's want by mugging themselves on their four wheels than mugging some coffin dodger coming out of The Purcell Rooms.
Fearing a scene from Larry Clark's Kids film, the skidmarks were starting to show; not on the urban art but inside my cacks and so I knew it was time to move along.
A mime artist approached me near the NFT cafe and looked at me with an expression that suggested I should lamp the cunt. The karma of the skate kids had rubbed off on me though.
'What are you?'
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Slam in the Face
I'm not a trainspotter but I do enjoy spending my weekends taking photographs and notes of other people taking photographs and notes of trains. Perhaps that makes me a trainspotter spotter? And what of the bloke at Waterloo on Sunday who was getting off taking photos and notes of me? A trainspotter spotter spotter?
There was good reason for all this anonymous anorak-ism this weekend as the superbly titled SLAM-FEST was taking place on the concourse at Waterloo. What can it all mean? Limp Bizkit, skateboarders and inappropriate body piercings at one of London's principle railway terminals?
Nope, MUCH more important than that: The weekend was earmarked as a fond farewell to the slam-door carriages as South West Trains begins to phase them out in a £1billion overhaul of the transport infrastructure. One door closes and another one opens, but I doubt if an automatic door shutting model would generate such titillation.
Dating back to the early '60s, the slammers still remain the safest and quickest way to dash for a departing train. Not on Sunday morning though as we had the surreal sight on platform six of cheesy looking (and smelling) blokes loitering and generally making a nuisance of themselves as genuine commuters fought to get past to catch a train about to pull out.
'Why the rush? Have you got a train to catch, or are you just here to soak up the Slamfest vibe?'
That will be the latter for me then, although I drew a very definite line between the hardcore slammers and the slammer-curious such as myself.
Slam door trains are of a different age with Waterloo station now carrying more livery than the entire F1 circus. You can even watch the shitty ITV News Channel from the comfort of the platform, but to be honest, I'd rather twiddle my thumbs and poke a finger up my arse whilst waiting for the 5.15.
With train travel to that there foreign continent now a reality in under two hours just down the platform, it does seem odd that in 2004 you can still run the risk of losing a finger on a slamming train door.
The re-branding of Waterloo has yet to reach the end of the line though just yet; the station still stinks of the potent mixture of piss and Old Father Thames wafting into the evening air.
Phooey. Shut that door.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 16 August, 2004 |
I'm not a trainspotter but I do enjoy spending my weekends taking photographs and notes of other people taking photographs and notes of trains. Perhaps that makes me a trainspotter spotter? And what of the bloke at Waterloo on Sunday who was getting off taking photos and notes of me? A trainspotter spotter spotter?
There was good reason for all this anonymous anorak-ism this weekend as the superbly titled SLAM-FEST was taking place on the concourse at Waterloo. What can it all mean? Limp Bizkit, skateboarders and inappropriate body piercings at one of London's principle railway terminals?
Are you here to soak up the Slamfest atmosphere? |
Dating back to the early '60s, the slammers still remain the safest and quickest way to dash for a departing train. Not on Sunday morning though as we had the surreal sight on platform six of cheesy looking (and smelling) blokes loitering and generally making a nuisance of themselves as genuine commuters fought to get past to catch a train about to pull out.
'Why the rush? Have you got a train to catch, or are you just here to soak up the Slamfest vibe?'
That will be the latter for me then, although I drew a very definite line between the hardcore slammers and the slammer-curious such as myself.
Slam door trains are of a different age with Waterloo station now carrying more livery than the entire F1 circus. You can even watch the shitty ITV News Channel from the comfort of the platform, but to be honest, I'd rather twiddle my thumbs and poke a finger up my arse whilst waiting for the 5.15.
With train travel to that there foreign continent now a reality in under two hours just down the platform, it does seem odd that in 2004 you can still run the risk of losing a finger on a slamming train door.
The re-branding of Waterloo has yet to reach the end of the line though just yet; the station still stinks of the potent mixture of piss and Old Father Thames wafting into the evening air.
Phooey. Shut that door.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Banstead Athletic 3, 14/08/04
The first home match of the season and the hoolies were on the hunt down at the Hamlet; I'm saddened to report that I was threatened with violence upon my arrival at Champion Hill. The lynch mob was waiting for me at the gate and I was warned by the Chairman of the Dulwich Hamlet Supporters Trust to 'take some bleedin photos' of his new DHST mugs else I would 'find flat tyres' at the end of 90 minutes.
Yeah yeah, don't mug yourself etc. They did look rather nice though and will probably prove to be a decree absolute in confirming my painful divorce from Nottingham Forest Football Club after a twenty nine year marriage. The old Forest mugs (ZDS Cup Winners 1989 natch) look set to be given the boot in favour of some London Senior Cup Winners 2004 younger and more sexually alluring pieces of pottery.
On the pitch and Banstead were proving to be no mugs themselves with the ball in the back of the net after only eight minutes. Sitting behind the Voice of Champion Hill, a man remember who speaks nothing but the truth, the off the record analysis was 'that's OUTRAGEOUS – you're 'avin a laugh, lino.'
A flick of the magical microphone switch and seconds later this version of events differed slightly from the official club line:
'The first goal for Banstead scored by number 10, Simon Mitchell.'
In this age of seedy football spin and PR realpolitik, which narrative to believe? The Voice of Champion Hill - he speaketh nothing but the truth remember, but OFF the record of course.
Cheating Banstead bastards.
If the first goal was open to interpretation then the second was economical with the truth; a 50:50 ball on the edge of the Dulwich penalty area with home 'keeper Paul Seuke challenging for the ball, not the man. I'd hate to be on trial at the Old Bailey for a minor offence such as litter dropping if the referee was on jury service. Hang him. A penalty for Banstead then which was scored by Mickey Beale after twenty nine minutes.
Forget the razzmatazz of Athens, the Hamlet were hosting their own mini Olympics down at Champion Hill; the Banstead attack would give the 100m sprinters a good run for their money, whereas Dulwich would be going for gold in the high jump with the return of six foot plus striker Steffan 'Sticks' Ball.
Banstead were once again celebrating with a hop, skip and a jump after thirty five minutes with a classic bullet header from Neil John straight from a corner. 3:0 down with the season barely half an hour old. Can I get a refund on that mug please?
Passes were going astray in the midfield, 'Sticks' Steffan had his head in the clouds and come half time, I realised that I had forgotten my flask. Bugger.
More erratic defending didn't help Dulwich after the break and Banstead were by now playing a training ground game and trying to walk in a fourth goal.
Justin Bowen headed home what seemed like a consolation goal in the 80th minute and then five minutes later he was on a hat trick after tapping home a rebound form his own saved penalty.
But it was all too late and the Hamlet cup had runneth dry. Unlike my DHST mug which I couldn't wait to take back to Sunny Stockwell for a much needed brew.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Sunday 15 August, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Banstead Athletic 3, 14/08/04
The first home match of the season and the hoolies were on the hunt down at the Hamlet; I'm saddened to report that I was threatened with violence upon my arrival at Champion Hill. The lynch mob was waiting for me at the gate and I was warned by the Chairman of the Dulwich Hamlet Supporters Trust to 'take some bleedin photos' of his new DHST mugs else I would 'find flat tyres' at the end of 90 minutes.
Yeah yeah, don't mug yourself etc. They did look rather nice though and will probably prove to be a decree absolute in confirming my painful divorce from Nottingham Forest Football Club after a twenty nine year marriage. The old Forest mugs (ZDS Cup Winners 1989 natch) look set to be given the boot in favour of some London Senior Cup Winners 2004 younger and more sexually alluring pieces of pottery.
Can I get a refund on my mug please? |
A flick of the magical microphone switch and seconds later this version of events differed slightly from the official club line:
'The first goal for Banstead scored by number 10, Simon Mitchell.'
In this age of seedy football spin and PR realpolitik, which narrative to believe? The Voice of Champion Hill - he speaketh nothing but the truth remember, but OFF the record of course.
Cheating Banstead bastards.
If the first goal was open to interpretation then the second was economical with the truth; a 50:50 ball on the edge of the Dulwich penalty area with home 'keeper Paul Seuke challenging for the ball, not the man. I'd hate to be on trial at the Old Bailey for a minor offence such as litter dropping if the referee was on jury service. Hang him. A penalty for Banstead then which was scored by Mickey Beale after twenty nine minutes.
Forget the razzmatazz of Athens, the Hamlet were hosting their own mini Olympics down at Champion Hill; the Banstead attack would give the 100m sprinters a good run for their money, whereas Dulwich would be going for gold in the high jump with the return of six foot plus striker Steffan 'Sticks' Ball.
Banstead were once again celebrating with a hop, skip and a jump after thirty five minutes with a classic bullet header from Neil John straight from a corner. 3:0 down with the season barely half an hour old. Can I get a refund on that mug please?
Passes were going astray in the midfield, 'Sticks' Steffan had his head in the clouds and come half time, I realised that I had forgotten my flask. Bugger.
More erratic defending didn't help Dulwich after the break and Banstead were by now playing a training ground game and trying to walk in a fourth goal.
Justin Bowen headed home what seemed like a consolation goal in the 80th minute and then five minutes later he was on a hat trick after tapping home a rebound form his own saved penalty.
But it was all too late and the Hamlet cup had runneth dry. Unlike my DHST mug which I couldn't wait to take back to Sunny Stockwell for a much needed brew.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| #permalink |
Necrophilia News
Heard the one about the stiffie and the stiff? Two pages, two stories, one confused reader.
Is the South London Press heading for a Sun style out of court settlement with 'Sharon?'
FUCKING DEAD good.
| Sunday 15 August, 2004 |
Heard the one about the stiffie and the stiff? Two pages, two stories, one confused reader.
Is the South London Press heading for a Sun style out of court settlement with 'Sharon?'
FUCKING DEAD good.
| #permalink |
Same Old Same...
All highly predictable, even before the first ball has been kicked in The Premiership.
1.
Arsenal
2.
Chelsea
3.
Manchester United
4.
Liverpool
5.
Newcastle
6.
Aston Villa
7.
Charlton
8.
Middlesbro
9.
Fulham
10.
Tottenham
11.
Birmingham
12.
Manchester City
13.
Bolton
14.
Blackburn
15.
Southampton
16.
Portsmouth
17.
Everton
18.
West Brom
19.
Norwich
20.
Crystal Palace
Meanwhile, back in the real word, you try and separate this bunch of bruisers:
AFC Wimbledon, Ashford Town, Banstead Athletic, Bashley, Bromley, Burgess Hill Town, Corinthian Casuals, Cray Wanderers, Croydon Athletic, Dorking, Dulwich Hamlet, Fleet Town, Hastings United, Horsham, Leatherhead, Newport (IoW), Tooting & Mitcham United, Walton & Hersham, Whyteleafe.
C'MON DULWICH!!!!
| Saturday 14 August, 2004 |
All highly predictable, even before the first ball has been kicked in The Premiership.
1.
Arsenal
2.
Chelsea
3.
Manchester United
4.
Liverpool
5.
Newcastle
6.
Aston Villa
7.
Charlton
8.
Middlesbro
9.
Fulham
10.
Tottenham
11.
Birmingham
12.
Manchester City
13.
Bolton
14.
Blackburn
15.
Southampton
16.
Portsmouth
17.
Everton
18.
West Brom
19.
Norwich
20.
Crystal Palace
Meanwhile, back in the real word, you try and separate this bunch of bruisers:
AFC Wimbledon, Ashford Town, Banstead Athletic, Bashley, Bromley, Burgess Hill Town, Corinthian Casuals, Cray Wanderers, Croydon Athletic, Dorking, Dulwich Hamlet, Fleet Town, Hastings United, Horsham, Leatherhead, Newport (IoW), Tooting & Mitcham United, Walton & Hersham, Whyteleafe.
C'MON DULWICH!!!!
| #permalink |
Greek Tragedy
Setting the scene for a fortnight of drug induced hallucinations beyond all physical probability, the opening of the 28th Olympiad in Athens was a strange mixture of watching a Pink Floyd video filmed in a school history lesson with commentary from dear old Barry Davies, who clearly thought that he was still at the Queen Mum's funeral.
It was riveting viewing from the start when with a wild shriek of orgasmic joy, the Greek God of Love appeared live on BBC1 on primetime Friday night TV. I don't mean Gary Linker either. What followed was much splashing around in puddles and streams of water, which all suggests than horizontal gymnastic Greek style is a whole lot more of an aquatic and seedy affair than in Sunny Stockwell.
It got better and Bazza was clearly enjoying himself:
'Ah, look, the Goddess of Love is now holding some symbolic snakes in each hand and waving them around...'
Wow! Whatever next? Bukkake as a demonstration Olympic event? Bring back Fatima Whitbread I say...
A procession of naked men then wandered across my screen, just as I was dipping into my Friday night saveloy treat; that's something to get your mouth around Barry. Some bird dressed in scarlet red then handpicked one of the birthday suit blokes out and in front of an estimated worldwide TV audience of three billion, casually walked off with him giving him the wink as she went about her merry way.
Strangely a chopped up torso was next in line as part of the procession, a phenomenon that Bazza politely passed on explaining the significance of.
Can you see the symbolism there Barry? Do you want bleedin' signposts? Gate crashing the party as Little Red Riding Hood, she was what Sir Cliff would probably refer to as The Devil Woman. Bet her capture fails a drugs test tomorrow morning, if the poor chap is still in one piece that is.
This all may be the Greatest Show on Earth but I once witnessed Crazyhead from the front row of the Reading Festival one Sunday morning back in '89. If I were in the Athens audience I would feel slightly duped.
As a piece of theatre it wasn't exactly Hamlet at the Old Vic; the actors were all either figuratively, or literally wood. Trojan Horses and all that.
A loud cheer then greeted the arrival back on the main stage of some bird with a bun in her oven. Blimey. Was it the same slapper clasping the snakes and luring the Greek God figure away from the showpiece fun and games earlier? Is he on performance enhancing drugs or something? Probably Viagra.
Speaking of drugs, the Pink Floyd lightshow then went into overdrive and Barry Davies started to bang on about space age temples. He even paraphrased his commentary / space cadet ramblings with 'MAN...'
Shine on You Crazy Diamond, you.
The Athens opening ceremony concluded with 'mythology and history intertwined,' a theme Mr Tony has built his entire political career on.
Victory for knobber Coe and the London 2012 bid would hopefully mean all the pomp and pageantry being pushed aside for a good 'ol London piss up; Chas and Dave need to be booked NOW for a knees up with free pie and mash and pints of London Pride being served up by Pearly Kings and Queens (who are just crying out for a separate post here; each time I seem to be in the presence of such greatness around this city I never have my camera with me).
No need for a plastic themed London picture postcard ceremony though; some geezer can be guaranteed to look at someone else's bird (probably pervy Barry Davies) and it will all kick off out in the street.
Bazza signed off by saying that the past twenty minutes of twaddle had all been put together by a British company. Ah, so that's why there was no mention of the Elgin Marbles.
Barry Davies can be heard live on BBC television over the next fortnight trying to find his.
| Saturday 14 August, 2004 |
Setting the scene for a fortnight of drug induced hallucinations beyond all physical probability, the opening of the 28th Olympiad in Athens was a strange mixture of watching a Pink Floyd video filmed in a school history lesson with commentary from dear old Barry Davies, who clearly thought that he was still at the Queen Mum's funeral.
It was riveting viewing from the start when with a wild shriek of orgasmic joy, the Greek God of Love appeared live on BBC1 on primetime Friday night TV. I don't mean Gary Linker either. What followed was much splashing around in puddles and streams of water, which all suggests than horizontal gymnastic Greek style is a whole lot more of an aquatic and seedy affair than in Sunny Stockwell.
What next? Bukkake as an Olympic event? |
'Ah, look, the Goddess of Love is now holding some symbolic snakes in each hand and waving them around...'
Wow! Whatever next? Bukkake as a demonstration Olympic event? Bring back Fatima Whitbread I say...
A procession of naked men then wandered across my screen, just as I was dipping into my Friday night saveloy treat; that's something to get your mouth around Barry. Some bird dressed in scarlet red then handpicked one of the birthday suit blokes out and in front of an estimated worldwide TV audience of three billion, casually walked off with him giving him the wink as she went about her merry way.
Strangely a chopped up torso was next in line as part of the procession, a phenomenon that Bazza politely passed on explaining the significance of.
Can you see the symbolism there Barry? Do you want bleedin' signposts? Gate crashing the party as Little Red Riding Hood, she was what Sir Cliff would probably refer to as The Devil Woman. Bet her capture fails a drugs test tomorrow morning, if the poor chap is still in one piece that is.
This all may be the Greatest Show on Earth but I once witnessed Crazyhead from the front row of the Reading Festival one Sunday morning back in '89. If I were in the Athens audience I would feel slightly duped.
As a piece of theatre it wasn't exactly Hamlet at the Old Vic; the actors were all either figuratively, or literally wood. Trojan Horses and all that.
A loud cheer then greeted the arrival back on the main stage of some bird with a bun in her oven. Blimey. Was it the same slapper clasping the snakes and luring the Greek God figure away from the showpiece fun and games earlier? Is he on performance enhancing drugs or something? Probably Viagra.
Speaking of drugs, the Pink Floyd lightshow then went into overdrive and Barry Davies started to bang on about space age temples. He even paraphrased his commentary / space cadet ramblings with 'MAN...'
Shine on You Crazy Diamond, you.
The Athens opening ceremony concluded with 'mythology and history intertwined,' a theme Mr Tony has built his entire political career on.
Victory for knobber Coe and the London 2012 bid would hopefully mean all the pomp and pageantry being pushed aside for a good 'ol London piss up; Chas and Dave need to be booked NOW for a knees up with free pie and mash and pints of London Pride being served up by Pearly Kings and Queens (who are just crying out for a separate post here; each time I seem to be in the presence of such greatness around this city I never have my camera with me).
No need for a plastic themed London picture postcard ceremony though; some geezer can be guaranteed to look at someone else's bird (probably pervy Barry Davies) and it will all kick off out in the street.
Bazza signed off by saying that the past twenty minutes of twaddle had all been put together by a British company. Ah, so that's why there was no mention of the Elgin Marbles.
Barry Davies can be heard live on BBC television over the next fortnight trying to find his.
| #permalink |
Lewie Lewie
Six reasons why John Lewis ROCKS:
(i) A central London location for the flagship store. I want my department stores to ooze in prestige, not the piss of some back street alley.
(ii) Air conditioning that can cool even a sweaty betty bicycle boy such as myself. After a fifteen minute sprint from Sunny Stockwell to the West End, even a dripping wet onionbagblogger can walk with confidence past the cosmetics dollies. I would never dare to engage in conversation with the red faced freaks though.
(iii) John Lewis sells EVERYTHING. Computer, cycle and camera aside, there are very little consumer goods that I crave for. I let my guard down though in the past twenty four hours and finally succumbed to the iPod generation. Where to get your grubby hands on the 20gigs of magic though?
Argos in Brixton? 'One left in our Peckham branch...'
Bearded Hippy Twat's glorified emporium in Brixton? 'No, but can we interest Sir in a Motorola mobile?'
Can you fuck.
Curry's hideous retail park towards Herne Hill?
Shop? SHOP? FUCKING SHOP?????
Hello? I have £219 worth of debt that I want to cripple myself with. Any takers?
Onionbagblogger 1, Curry's Customer Service 0.
Fifteen minutes later and I was in the West End. Twenty minutes later I was being served. Twenty five minutes later and I was £219 down, but have the richness of a lifetime of seedy downloading to look forward to. Is it really possible to fill up a 20gig hard drive with wall to wall Billy Bragg?
(iv) Girls. The Oxford Street store seems to be a magnet for London babes. Unlike my flat which is a magnet for local nutters passing by. It's enough to make you want to actually work there, preferably in the bed department.
(v) John Lewis is never knowingly undersold; I am never knowingly ripped off, a point of principle that I put to the test a few years ago. Having bought a new fridge (life is 99% dull) I then spotted the same model two hundred quid cheaper elsewhere (I admit it was a flash fridge). A phone call and a letter later and John Lewis sent me a cheque. The following week I found it a further £100 cheaper online. By now I was just being a cheeky cunt. Still, true to their word, I was sent a further hundred quid to furnish my fridge with the finest wine known to humanity. Or Sainsbury's brand coke. What do you think...?.
(vi) My Mum like John Lewis. It's not often that my mother and I share the same world view:
'Are you feeling the new Aphex Twin album mo'?'
'I beg your pardon young man? Wasn't Last of the Summer Wine funny last night?'
'Enough. I'm off to John Lewis.'
'Ooh goody, want a lift?'
You try finding an ice cool, everything including the kitchen sink, fanny infested, guaranteed pikey cheapness, family value loving Costcutters in the West End.
| Friday 13 August, 2004 |
(i) A central London location for the flagship store. I want my department stores to ooze in prestige, not the piss of some back street alley.
(ii) Air conditioning that can cool even a sweaty betty bicycle boy such as myself. After a fifteen minute sprint from Sunny Stockwell to the West End, even a dripping wet onionbagblogger can walk with confidence past the cosmetics dollies. I would never dare to engage in conversation with the red faced freaks though.
The Oxford Street store is a magnet for babes |
Argos in Brixton? 'One left in our Peckham branch...'
Bearded Hippy Twat's glorified emporium in Brixton? 'No, but can we interest Sir in a Motorola mobile?'
Can you fuck.
Curry's hideous retail park towards Herne Hill?
Shop? SHOP? FUCKING SHOP?????
Hello? I have £219 worth of debt that I want to cripple myself with. Any takers?
Onionbagblogger 1, Curry's Customer Service 0.
Fifteen minutes later and I was in the West End. Twenty minutes later I was being served. Twenty five minutes later and I was £219 down, but have the richness of a lifetime of seedy downloading to look forward to. Is it really possible to fill up a 20gig hard drive with wall to wall Billy Bragg?
(iv) Girls. The Oxford Street store seems to be a magnet for London babes. Unlike my flat which is a magnet for local nutters passing by. It's enough to make you want to actually work there, preferably in the bed department.
(v) John Lewis is never knowingly undersold; I am never knowingly ripped off, a point of principle that I put to the test a few years ago. Having bought a new fridge (life is 99% dull) I then spotted the same model two hundred quid cheaper elsewhere (I admit it was a flash fridge). A phone call and a letter later and John Lewis sent me a cheque. The following week I found it a further £100 cheaper online. By now I was just being a cheeky cunt. Still, true to their word, I was sent a further hundred quid to furnish my fridge with the finest wine known to humanity. Or Sainsbury's brand coke. What do you think...?.
(vi) My Mum like John Lewis. It's not often that my mother and I share the same world view:
'Are you feeling the new Aphex Twin album mo'?'
'I beg your pardon young man? Wasn't Last of the Summer Wine funny last night?'
'Enough. I'm off to John Lewis.'
'Ooh goody, want a lift?'
You try finding an ice cool, everything including the kitchen sink, fanny infested, guaranteed pikey cheapness, family value loving Costcutters in the West End.
| #permalink |
Going Down, Sir?
The Lloyds Building is a beast with a belly. And boy is that belly getting big on the obesity of the free market. So much so that there's no room for the inner workings within as the stoking room shovels more fiscal folly onto the fire.
Much is made of Richard Roger's City calling card for capitalism. Lifts, service shafts, nooses for the Suits - all housed on the outside of the building.
Visionary! Progressive! Blue Sky Thinking!
Fucking stupid if you ask me.
You wouldn't build a house and place the bog on the outside so that everyone can see you go about your dirty work in public. Much in the same way that I don't want to see some pug-faced City Boy with no taste in ties making his way up to the Executive Suite in the outside lifts, some dirty deeds are best kept behind closed door.
Still, the feeling's probably neutral; walking around EC2 wearing a pair of cut off combats and sandals (It's a St Ockewell Thing, dahhhling) and I could be forgiven for thinking that I had OSAMA tattooed across my forehead. Personal space is a treasured amenity in any City; it can all be yours with just two days of goatee stubble as the Suits give you a shifty look and try to work out where you are stashing your copies of The Big Issue.
I'm certainly no Prince Charles prude when it comes to architecture and would rather live and work in a space that comments on the century that I'm living in, and not some throwback of a museum timepiece. But the Lloyds Building doesn't belong to any age. If a green man from Mars landed in London tomorrow he would look at the Lloyds Building and dismiss it as a piece of Rachel Whiteread art.
Yes, it really is that shit.
As we strive towards a classless society (yeah, right...) the Lloyds Building still boasts the Great Divide; keep the tradesman on the outside with all that vulgar manual work and allow the white collar knobbers to go about their paper shuffling in peace.
The Crisis of Capitalism though is that everything has a price; the markets fall and so does your House of Cards, as the Lloyd's names found out to their cost in the late '80s. Watching the crash lay bare and being played out in public on the outside of the building has got to be better viewing than Big Brother.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 12 August, 2004 |
The Lloyds Building is a beast with a belly. And boy is that belly getting big on the obesity of the free market. So much so that there's no room for the inner workings within as the stoking room shovels more fiscal folly onto the fire.
Much is made of Richard Roger's City calling card for capitalism. Lifts, service shafts, nooses for the Suits - all housed on the outside of the building.
Visionary! Progressive! Blue Sky Thinking!
Fucking stupid if you ask me.
Yes, it really is that shit |
Still, the feeling's probably neutral; walking around EC2 wearing a pair of cut off combats and sandals (It's a St Ockewell Thing, dahhhling) and I could be forgiven for thinking that I had OSAMA tattooed across my forehead. Personal space is a treasured amenity in any City; it can all be yours with just two days of goatee stubble as the Suits give you a shifty look and try to work out where you are stashing your copies of The Big Issue.
I'm certainly no Prince Charles prude when it comes to architecture and would rather live and work in a space that comments on the century that I'm living in, and not some throwback of a museum timepiece. But the Lloyds Building doesn't belong to any age. If a green man from Mars landed in London tomorrow he would look at the Lloyds Building and dismiss it as a piece of Rachel Whiteread art.
Yes, it really is that shit.
As we strive towards a classless society (yeah, right...) the Lloyds Building still boasts the Great Divide; keep the tradesman on the outside with all that vulgar manual work and allow the white collar knobbers to go about their paper shuffling in peace.
The Crisis of Capitalism though is that everything has a price; the markets fall and so does your House of Cards, as the Lloyd's names found out to their cost in the late '80s. Watching the crash lay bare and being played out in public on the outside of the building has got to be better viewing than Big Brother.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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South Side Sign of the Times
I never really know what the deal is with the South Bank Centre: The Royal Festival Hall, the Queen Elizabeth Hall, the Purcell Rooms; it's all one complex maze to me with sign posts that seem to have been designed to confuse.
Sure I've seen shows and exhibitions there; Mercury Rev in some theatre, Polyphonic Spree in a hallway and even the great Budgieman strutting his stuff outside, although I don't think that this particular masterful performance of bloke meets budgerigar was part of any official programme of events.
Just don’t ask me where I’ve seen all these performances. I usually turn up late anyway and just walk around like the knobber I am before I can find the right entrance or venue. This of course sometimes leads to a performance being lost altogether (as was thankfully the case with Sinead O'Connor in '96), with the upside that I might walk in on something totally new and unexpected.
All of which is the true beauty of the South Bank Centre and should serves as a model of how we should appreciate the arts. No regimental stage timings, no structured buying tickets in advance with a booking fee that will bankrupt you and definitely no tourists please.
The South Bank should be for London and London alone. If I can get lost in there then god knows what a tourist must make of it all. One of my favourite pastimes is to hang around by the Thames looking all urban and Boy About Town, then wait for a hapless tourist to approach and ask for directions for the Hayward Gallery. I supply them with detailed instructions on how to get to Rod Stewart The Musical in the West End.
I'm doing it for London, dudes. Keep London arts for Londoners and besides, the fuckspud Yanks probably want an evening with Rod the Mod then a recital of some obscure Michael Nyman retrospective.
Such a shame then that the South Bank is to go ahead with a £90m plus refit, some fifty years since the Festival of Britain first came up with the idea of a mazed concrete mass down by the river. I really hope that the budget doesn't include provision for new signs.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 11 August, 2004 |
I never really know what the deal is with the South Bank Centre: The Royal Festival Hall, the Queen Elizabeth Hall, the Purcell Rooms; it's all one complex maze to me with sign posts that seem to have been designed to confuse.
Sure I've seen shows and exhibitions there; Mercury Rev in some theatre, Polyphonic Spree in a hallway and even the great Budgieman strutting his stuff outside, although I don't think that this particular masterful performance of bloke meets budgerigar was part of any official programme of events.
No booking fee that will bankrupt you... |
All of which is the true beauty of the South Bank Centre and should serves as a model of how we should appreciate the arts. No regimental stage timings, no structured buying tickets in advance with a booking fee that will bankrupt you and definitely no tourists please.
The South Bank should be for London and London alone. If I can get lost in there then god knows what a tourist must make of it all. One of my favourite pastimes is to hang around by the Thames looking all urban and Boy About Town, then wait for a hapless tourist to approach and ask for directions for the Hayward Gallery. I supply them with detailed instructions on how to get to Rod Stewart The Musical in the West End.
I'm doing it for London, dudes. Keep London arts for Londoners and besides, the fuckspud Yanks probably want an evening with Rod the Mod then a recital of some obscure Michael Nyman retrospective.
Such a shame then that the South Bank is to go ahead with a £90m plus refit, some fifty years since the Festival of Britain first came up with the idea of a mazed concrete mass down by the river. I really hope that the budget doesn't include provision for new signs.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Careless Talk...
Parlez vous Anglais? If the answer is No (how come you have got past the first sentence...) you'd do well to keep your gob shut on the Underground. Intelligent Officers are listening in on conversations and any Johnny Foreigner types are under immediate suspicion of being illegal immigrants.
Seeing at though over 300 languages are spoken in Lovely Lambeth alone, looks like the Victoria Line is going to be a busy patch for the MI6 snoops up the road in Vauxhall.
The Happy Talk of a global language across London is of course not just the preserve of locals. The Intelligent types are obviously not that clever to have failed to realise that London is one of the world's tourist hotspots.
You can come over here for your holiday but just make sure you leave behind your nasty lingo. We want to know what you’re saying about us; when in Rome; Norman Tebbit for Mayor etc.
The London economy, legit or not, is full of black holes. Not the most appropriate phrase, but even the snatch squad mentality of Blunkett and his boot boys has now given up the pretence of hiding behind covert racism.
Big business in The City is rife with white collar crime whereas I am not that naive to believe that every smiling face I see around me is in procession of a passport with HM's stamp on the front.
Historically the London economy has had the Invisible Hand to keep the City afloat, legal or otherwise. Who do you think props up the tourist industry and the service trade?
Not the wisest of moves then to systematically remove the sector of the economy that fuels one of London's main industries. But perhaps that it the plan? Two foreign birds with one stone?
| Tuesday 10 August, 2004 |
Parlez vous Anglais? If the answer is No (how come you have got past the first sentence...) you'd do well to keep your gob shut on the Underground. Intelligent Officers are listening in on conversations and any Johnny Foreigner types are under immediate suspicion of being illegal immigrants.
Seeing at though over 300 languages are spoken in Lovely Lambeth alone, looks like the Victoria Line is going to be a busy patch for the MI6 snoops up the road in Vauxhall.
The Happy Talk of a global language across London is of course not just the preserve of locals. The Intelligent types are obviously not that clever to have failed to realise that London is one of the world's tourist hotspots.
You can come over here for your holiday but just make sure you leave behind your nasty lingo. We want to know what you’re saying about us; when in Rome; Norman Tebbit for Mayor etc.
The London economy, legit or not, is full of black holes. Not the most appropriate phrase, but even the snatch squad mentality of Blunkett and his boot boys has now given up the pretence of hiding behind covert racism.
Big business in The City is rife with white collar crime whereas I am not that naive to believe that every smiling face I see around me is in procession of a passport with HM's stamp on the front.
Historically the London economy has had the Invisible Hand to keep the City afloat, legal or otherwise. Who do you think props up the tourist industry and the service trade?
Not the wisest of moves then to systematically remove the sector of the economy that fuels one of London's main industries. But perhaps that it the plan? Two foreign birds with one stone?
| #permalink |
Some Bloggers are on the Pitch...
On the same day that Dulwich Hamlet had a glamour game away at King's Lynn, I was at Wembley. Not as a glory hunter, but with the clock counting down to the 2006 FA Trophy Final, I was on a sortee mission ahead of what will surely be the Hamlet's finest hour and a half.
We can all but dream of course and many a footballing fantasy has ended along Wembley Way. Delusions of dominance along the mythical mini concrete flyover can now come to an end, much like Wembley Way itself which has had the stadium approach completely sliced off. If you were a lemming (or a Man Utd fan) it would make for the perfect ramp to jump off and end it all.
The Taylor Report was a turning point not only for English football clubs, but also for ground hopping freaks such as myself who like nothing better than having a hard drive full of pictures of scaffolding as a new stadium is under construction. And what better cause than the Daddy of stadium design as a new Wembley starts to re-define the London landscape to the north of the city?
I undertook a similar OFFLINE photographic project back in '92 when Notts County's historic old ground was lost to the ego of a chairman wanting a new stand named after himself. It was with great pleasure then when I first visited the new urinals north of the Trent and pissed all over Derek Pavis. Unfortunately there wasn't much of a market for Meadow Lane photographs. My many visits throughout the summer of '92 though were memorable for bumping into the then Manager, one Neil Warnock, and making an ill-advised joke that unfortunately he just didn't find funny.
Does a LIFETIME ban really mean life? I really can't be arsed to find out.
The new Wembley Stadium is due to open for the 2006 FA Cup Final. No doubt the FA will hoping for a showpiece game between Arsenal and Man Utd. Crewe Vs Birmingham would be fine by me, with England Manager Barry Fry as the Guest of Honour.
With just under two years of the project remaining before completion, is the Old Girl looking like a 21st Century reincarnation, or some old tart who has simply had a nip, tuck and a boob job?
Forget football's inclusivity in the design and purpose; forget the football for the regions argument; and forget bloody Ken Bates. Instead marvel at how the iconic Twin Towers have been superseded with a stunning piece of architecture fit for the next century.
The Wembley Arch has a basic beauty that can only be truly experienced by seeing it up close for yourself. The curvature and the angle that it rests upon suggests a feat of engineering implausibility. There's a genuine sense that the whole structure could come crashing down at any moment, such is the size of the illusion taking place in front of you.
Porn films have the Angle of the Dangle. Wembley has the Nerve of the Curve.
Back of the net!
Beyond the Arch and it's too early to assess the atmosphere potential; football grounds can be lonely places even when half full, let alone half finished. Time will tell if the nu-Wembley will be able to replicate the crap views, overpriced fried fat and streams of piss that were so unique of the old.
'We're the famous Dulwich Hamlet and we’re going to Wembley...' (and I don't mean for an away game against Harrow).
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 10 August, 2004 |
On the same day that Dulwich Hamlet had a glamour game away at King's Lynn, I was at Wembley. Not as a glory hunter, but with the clock counting down to the 2006 FA Trophy Final, I was on a sortee mission ahead of what will surely be the Hamlet's finest hour and a half.
We can all but dream of course and many a footballing fantasy has ended along Wembley Way. Delusions of dominance along the mythical mini concrete flyover can now come to an end, much like Wembley Way itself which has had the stadium approach completely sliced off. If you were a lemming (or a Man Utd fan) it would make for the perfect ramp to jump off and end it all.
Wembley has the Nerve of the Curve |
I undertook a similar OFFLINE photographic project back in '92 when Notts County's historic old ground was lost to the ego of a chairman wanting a new stand named after himself. It was with great pleasure then when I first visited the new urinals north of the Trent and pissed all over Derek Pavis. Unfortunately there wasn't much of a market for Meadow Lane photographs. My many visits throughout the summer of '92 though were memorable for bumping into the then Manager, one Neil Warnock, and making an ill-advised joke that unfortunately he just didn't find funny.
Does a LIFETIME ban really mean life? I really can't be arsed to find out.
The new Wembley Stadium is due to open for the 2006 FA Cup Final. No doubt the FA will hoping for a showpiece game between Arsenal and Man Utd. Crewe Vs Birmingham would be fine by me, with England Manager Barry Fry as the Guest of Honour.
With just under two years of the project remaining before completion, is the Old Girl looking like a 21st Century reincarnation, or some old tart who has simply had a nip, tuck and a boob job?
Forget football's inclusivity in the design and purpose; forget the football for the regions argument; and forget bloody Ken Bates. Instead marvel at how the iconic Twin Towers have been superseded with a stunning piece of architecture fit for the next century.
The Wembley Arch has a basic beauty that can only be truly experienced by seeing it up close for yourself. The curvature and the angle that it rests upon suggests a feat of engineering implausibility. There's a genuine sense that the whole structure could come crashing down at any moment, such is the size of the illusion taking place in front of you.
Porn films have the Angle of the Dangle. Wembley has the Nerve of the Curve.
Back of the net!
Beyond the Arch and it's too early to assess the atmosphere potential; football grounds can be lonely places even when half full, let alone half finished. Time will tell if the nu-Wembley will be able to replicate the crap views, overpriced fried fat and streams of piss that were so unique of the old.
'We're the famous Dulwich Hamlet and we’re going to Wembley...' (and I don't mean for an away game against Harrow).
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Strange Fruit
How to brand an 'un-branded' festival? That was the Executive ethical question across town at Regent's Park on Sunday where smoothie syndicate Innocent were staging the second Fruitstock Festival.
With a strap line of 'an innocent festival for innocent people...' the smoothie corporate trouser press people at Innocent weren't THAT naive: £1.50 for a bottle so small it would barely make you burp, let alone bring all the boys to the yard.
Smooth operators indeed.
Meanwhile mrs onionbagblogger and myself are not exactly the innocent types ourselves. We can spot a bucket carrying charity collector a mile off and fall asleep instantly on demand. No idea who they were tin rattling for – I didn't stay awake long enough to find out.
Most people were content to soak up the sun, feel the funk and then get so sunburnt that another strawberry smoothie was needed. There's no such thing as a free dinner. Or smoothie.
My ears pricked up when the full length version of Too Much Too Young gave Regent's Park a laid back feel so smooth you couldn't bottle it (or sell it) if you tried.
'Aint you heard of the starving millions?' asked Terry Hall. Nope, but get yer Rude Boy arse down to Regent's Park Tel my son and you will witness the thirsty thousands.
It was all so apolitical, the very antithesis of what a field full of kids, music and (hopefully) drugs should be about; Fruitstock was not so much a festival than an urban utopia for the friendly face of a capitalist fruit juice loving funk-lite crowd.
Art for advertising's sake, and damn thirsty work at that.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 9 August, 2004 |
How to brand an 'un-branded' festival? That was the Executive ethical question across town at Regent's Park on Sunday where smoothie syndicate Innocent were staging the second Fruitstock Festival.
With a strap line of 'an innocent festival for innocent people...' the smoothie corporate trouser press people at Innocent weren't THAT naive: £1.50 for a bottle so small it would barely make you burp, let alone bring all the boys to the yard.
Smooth operators indeed.
There's no such thing as a free smoothie |
Most people were content to soak up the sun, feel the funk and then get so sunburnt that another strawberry smoothie was needed. There's no such thing as a free dinner. Or smoothie.
My ears pricked up when the full length version of Too Much Too Young gave Regent's Park a laid back feel so smooth you couldn't bottle it (or sell it) if you tried.
'Aint you heard of the starving millions?' asked Terry Hall. Nope, but get yer Rude Boy arse down to Regent's Park Tel my son and you will witness the thirsty thousands.
It was all so apolitical, the very antithesis of what a field full of kids, music and (hopefully) drugs should be about; Fruitstock was not so much a festival than an urban utopia for the friendly face of a capitalist fruit juice loving funk-lite crowd.
Art for advertising's sake, and damn thirsty work at that.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Let It Be...
Knobber tourists.
And that comes from a Beatles obsessive who is neither proud or ashamed to admit that he has just read THIS.
Thing is with Abbey Road, there is about half a dozen zebra crossings crumbling away in desperate need of repair. All except one, which is miraculously kept immaculate. Strange that...
Paul is dead etc, which he might as well be following that howler of a Glasto headline slot.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 8 August, 2004 |
Knobber tourists.
And that comes from a Beatles obsessive who is neither proud or ashamed to admit that he has just read THIS.
Thing is with Abbey Road, there is about half a dozen zebra crossings crumbling away in desperate need of repair. All except one, which is miraculously kept immaculate. Strange that...
Paul is dead etc, which he might as well be following that howler of a Glasto headline slot.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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My Kinda Shop
| Sunday 8 August, 2004 |
| #permalink |
Cops and Bloggers
The Thames Barrier should be seen as a London landmark. Postcards in Piccadilly would make for a far more appealing picture if they showed the world London's stunning new architecture and engineering achievements instead of some dead bitch of a Princess.
As well as the Thames Barrier we also have the Swiss Re Tower, the Millennium Bridge, Tate Modern and the wonderful new Wembley Arch, all fast becoming landmarks for the nu-london. Giles Peterson will probably release a remix album 'feeling' the whole structural vibe by the end of the summer.
As is fitting for a great feat of industrial architecture, the Thames Barrier is at the end of a mangy Industrial Estate. And here's the security warning:
If you’re a camera happy, notepad carrying onionbagblogger on a bike, chances are that you won't make it past the end of the Industrial Estate before being pulled up by the Old Bill.
Seriously.
The not very subtle line of enquiry was along the lines of: 'Is Sir an international terrorist sussing out the Barrier before blowing her up?'
'No, I'm just an onionbagblogger, and not a very good one at that, Officer. Here, have a look at my crap pics.'
PC Tweedle Dee and PC Tweedle Dum just didn't 'get' blogging though.
'Has Sir got any foreign friends?'
It must have been the weekend goatee that gave the game away.
I wasn't arrested; I wasn't cautioned (what with – writing Crap Match Reports?), but rather worryingly my details were all logged in his little notebook. See how Dibble is allowed to write down pointless information and I'm not?
Thankfully I wasn't carrying my ex-army industrial sized flask at the time. I did have a Dulwich Hamlet season ticket in my wallet though, a sure sign of a slightly maladjusted male.
The only other time I’ve been questioned by the police was a case of washing my dirtys laundry in public; I was stopped in Colchester carrying a rather large bag of my smelly student Y-fronts in transit from the launderette late at night. One look inside at the stained wonders within and I was a free man.
All enthusiasm for the Thames Barrier was by now washed away. Yes the scenery was lovely, but the constant sound of a siren in the background was a bit too much like The Bill for my liking.
Brief details logged in pad (which incidentally everyone arrested is entitled to under the Judges Act, 1967): Six space age style armadillos sliced in two; speedboats shooting past; Dome and Canary Wharf in the background; Tate and Lyle dock opposite. Which was my signal for a hasty escape and head back to Sunny Stockwell to put the kettle on.
Storm in a tea cup, Officer?
'I hope Sir won't allow this incident to cloud his judgement on law and order,' was the parting comment from the copper.
What is this? The bloody thought police?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 7 August, 2004 |
The Thames Barrier should be seen as a London landmark. Postcards in Piccadilly would make for a far more appealing picture if they showed the world London's stunning new architecture and engineering achievements instead of some dead bitch of a Princess.
As well as the Thames Barrier we also have the Swiss Re Tower, the Millennium Bridge, Tate Modern and the wonderful new Wembley Arch, all fast becoming landmarks for the nu-london. Giles Peterson will probably release a remix album 'feeling' the whole structural vibe by the end of the summer.
Is Sir an international terrorist? |
If you’re a camera happy, notepad carrying onionbagblogger on a bike, chances are that you won't make it past the end of the Industrial Estate before being pulled up by the Old Bill.
Seriously.
The not very subtle line of enquiry was along the lines of: 'Is Sir an international terrorist sussing out the Barrier before blowing her up?'
'No, I'm just an onionbagblogger, and not a very good one at that, Officer. Here, have a look at my crap pics.'
PC Tweedle Dee and PC Tweedle Dum just didn't 'get' blogging though.
'Has Sir got any foreign friends?'
It must have been the weekend goatee that gave the game away.
I wasn't arrested; I wasn't cautioned (what with – writing Crap Match Reports?), but rather worryingly my details were all logged in his little notebook. See how Dibble is allowed to write down pointless information and I'm not?
Thankfully I wasn't carrying my ex-army industrial sized flask at the time. I did have a Dulwich Hamlet season ticket in my wallet though, a sure sign of a slightly maladjusted male.
The only other time I’ve been questioned by the police was a case of washing my dirtys laundry in public; I was stopped in Colchester carrying a rather large bag of my smelly student Y-fronts in transit from the launderette late at night. One look inside at the stained wonders within and I was a free man.
All enthusiasm for the Thames Barrier was by now washed away. Yes the scenery was lovely, but the constant sound of a siren in the background was a bit too much like The Bill for my liking.
Brief details logged in pad (which incidentally everyone arrested is entitled to under the Judges Act, 1967): Six space age style armadillos sliced in two; speedboats shooting past; Dome and Canary Wharf in the background; Tate and Lyle dock opposite. Which was my signal for a hasty escape and head back to Sunny Stockwell to put the kettle on.
Storm in a tea cup, Officer?
'I hope Sir won't allow this incident to cloud his judgement on law and order,' was the parting comment from the copper.
What is this? The bloody thought police?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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What the Fuck?!*^
Three WTF moments from the Silly Season. Two trivial, one eye opener.
Apparently there's a 'soccer' team called the Milton Keynes Dons, dude, playing in a league called the Coca Cola Championship Two (although note the good 'ol BBC url still refers to it as div_3). Whatever next? The McDonald's Community Shield instead of the traditional Charity Shield? You couldn't make it up...
606 on 5Live has finally ditched the godawful Dandy Warhols and Bohemian Like You as the theme tune. In it's place? The Cure's '80s gothtastic bass bubbly singalong of In-between Days. Hurrah!
Speaking of the early '80s the then nasty National Party of South Africa has jumped into bed with the ANC – Blimey Charlie! The New National Party (note worryingly use of New, Mr Tony's legacy) has to be a good thing in a still troubled country.
So much for the Silly Season. Hopefully the Sven sensations of Sunday morning will be something along the lines of 'A meritocratic social policy is the only sound foundation to support a fair and just economy promoting opportunity for all. Brian.'
I fear we will get: 'There were three in the bed and Mark Palios said...'
| Saturday 7 August, 2004 |
Three WTF moments from the Silly Season. Two trivial, one eye opener.
Apparently there's a 'soccer' team called the Milton Keynes Dons, dude, playing in a league called the Coca Cola Championship Two (although note the good 'ol BBC url still refers to it as div_3). Whatever next? The McDonald's Community Shield instead of the traditional Charity Shield? You couldn't make it up...
606 on 5Live has finally ditched the godawful Dandy Warhols and Bohemian Like You as the theme tune. In it's place? The Cure's '80s gothtastic bass bubbly singalong of In-between Days. Hurrah!
Speaking of the early '80s the then nasty National Party of South Africa has jumped into bed with the ANC – Blimey Charlie! The New National Party (note worryingly use of New, Mr Tony's legacy) has to be a good thing in a still troubled country.
So much for the Silly Season. Hopefully the Sven sensations of Sunday morning will be something along the lines of 'A meritocratic social policy is the only sound foundation to support a fair and just economy promoting opportunity for all. Brian.'
I fear we will get: 'There were three in the bed and Mark Palios said...'
| #permalink |
A Right Booby?
With my usual pollster provider going tits up, I'm left to beat my own chest and reveal an even more methodologically unsound poll than previous.
The Storm in a D Cup, Mountain out of a Mole Hill question is:
'Topless on the tube?'
Of course the question is top heavy depending on the gender under debate. Don't be a tit, like the man breast bearing males on the Metropolitan Line at peak rush hour today.
Vote away, but don't milk it.
| Friday 6 August, 2004 |
With my usual pollster provider going tits up, I'm left to beat my own chest and reveal an even more methodologically unsound poll than previous.
The Storm in a D Cup, Mountain out of a Mole Hill question is:
'Topless on the tube?'
Of course the question is top heavy depending on the gender under debate. Don't be a tit, like the man breast bearing males on the Metropolitan Line at peak rush hour today.
Vote away, but don't milk it.
| #permalink |
Travel News
It was once every boy's dream to become a train driver. This noble employment ambition changed sometime during the '80s so that school Career Advisors were left scratching their heads when some cocky kid armed with a Dave Lee Travis Party Tape (The WORST party in the world - EVER!) declared that they wanted to be a DJ.
I was told to 'get a proper job,' advice that I have never adhered to. A good thing as well, seeing as though there is no such thing as a 'proper job' in Mr Tony's 21 Century economy. Instead we have multi-UN-skilled, Jack of All Trades trying to drive a high speed train and delve into the odd spot of DJing in-between stations.
The obvious breeding ground for any budding DJ Diesel is all aboard the 11:52 from Doncaster to Derby. The bearded free market loving, free love marketing Hippy Twat is not only a Fat Controller but also a Programme Controller. Two job interviews for the price of one, a hire and fire technique he no doubt picked up from the Evil Witch when she recruited Ken Clarke for the joint role of Health Secretary and Personal Arse Licker.
Train driving / disc spinning Virgins please mind the gap whilst boarding.
*notes that Branson no longer owns Virgin Radio but won't allow such insubstantial evidence to nibble away at the nub of my argument*
When I plonk my fat hairy arse down in my reserved seat only to find that an even fatter hairy arse is already residing within, the last thing I want to hear on the train tannoy is a five minute 'welcome aboard' announcement from the silver tongued train driver who fancies himself as the new Terry Wogan, to be sure.
When exactly did these messages morph from a 'next stop Crewe' to become a continuity announcement delivering such drivel as 'my name’s Harry (once a train driver, always a train driver) and behalf of blah blah blah bollocks (the Bearded Twat), first class (knobbers), standard class (although I fail to see what is so standard about a £65 return fare), buffet and bar bollocks, reserved, unreserved (hairy arsed oiks take note), weekend upgrade and oh, my colleague's name is Brian, the Smashey to my Nicey. And the winning numbers in the midweek Lottery...'
The Voice Over Man come Ticket Stamper was by now on a roll, and unlike his shiny new Virgin train that had hit the buffers just outside of Wigan, there was no bloody stopping the DJ Driver. Even crappy local radio time checks were read out , all top and tailed with the familiar phrase 'and once again, the Bearded Hippy Twat would like to personally apologise for the late running of this service.'
Shut the fuck up and just drive yer bloody train!
I sought solstice come Stafford from the in-house headphone service provided by Virgin Trains, and for £65 I was expecting a pair of Bang and Olufsen headphones broadcasting the finest audible delights from all corners of the universe.
What I got of course was wanky Virgin Radio.
But then get this: Whenever Harry or Brian has a broadcast to make, even shitty Virgin Radio is cut off and you are reverted back to the ETA at Euston bollocks blasting through the Bang and Olufsens.
What the fuck have they got in the driver's cabin? A forty eight track mixing desk? Are the Stones laying down their new album just past the buffet carriage?
When my Career Advisor said 'get yourself a trade, son,' I don't think he meant trading places between a drivers cabin and a DJ booth.
Toot toot.
Big up yerself.
| Friday 6 August, 2004 |
It was once every boy's dream to become a train driver. This noble employment ambition changed sometime during the '80s so that school Career Advisors were left scratching their heads when some cocky kid armed with a Dave Lee Travis Party Tape (The WORST party in the world - EVER!) declared that they wanted to be a DJ.
I was told to 'get a proper job,' advice that I have never adhered to. A good thing as well, seeing as though there is no such thing as a 'proper job' in Mr Tony's 21 Century economy. Instead we have multi-UN-skilled, Jack of All Trades trying to drive a high speed train and delve into the odd spot of DJing in-between stations.
The Bearded Hippy Twat would like to apologise... |
Train driving / disc spinning Virgins please mind the gap whilst boarding.
*notes that Branson no longer owns Virgin Radio but won't allow such insubstantial evidence to nibble away at the nub of my argument*
When I plonk my fat hairy arse down in my reserved seat only to find that an even fatter hairy arse is already residing within, the last thing I want to hear on the train tannoy is a five minute 'welcome aboard' announcement from the silver tongued train driver who fancies himself as the new Terry Wogan, to be sure.
When exactly did these messages morph from a 'next stop Crewe' to become a continuity announcement delivering such drivel as 'my name’s Harry (once a train driver, always a train driver) and behalf of blah blah blah bollocks (the Bearded Twat), first class (knobbers), standard class (although I fail to see what is so standard about a £65 return fare), buffet and bar bollocks, reserved, unreserved (hairy arsed oiks take note), weekend upgrade and oh, my colleague's name is Brian, the Smashey to my Nicey. And the winning numbers in the midweek Lottery...'
The Voice Over Man come Ticket Stamper was by now on a roll, and unlike his shiny new Virgin train that had hit the buffers just outside of Wigan, there was no bloody stopping the DJ Driver. Even crappy local radio time checks were read out , all top and tailed with the familiar phrase 'and once again, the Bearded Hippy Twat would like to personally apologise for the late running of this service.'
Shut the fuck up and just drive yer bloody train!
I sought solstice come Stafford from the in-house headphone service provided by Virgin Trains, and for £65 I was expecting a pair of Bang and Olufsen headphones broadcasting the finest audible delights from all corners of the universe.
What I got of course was wanky Virgin Radio.
But then get this: Whenever Harry or Brian has a broadcast to make, even shitty Virgin Radio is cut off and you are reverted back to the ETA at Euston bollocks blasting through the Bang and Olufsens.
What the fuck have they got in the driver's cabin? A forty eight track mixing desk? Are the Stones laying down their new album just past the buffet carriage?
When my Career Advisor said 'get yourself a trade, son,' I don't think he meant trading places between a drivers cabin and a DJ booth.
Toot toot.
Big up yerself.
| #permalink |
Where Are They Now?
A skim through the Time Out Music section (it's a little bit Badly Drawn Boy, it's a little bit Badly Written) reveals the following musical 'delights' to be found on a London stage in the coming weeks:
Rick Astley, Ronnie Scott’s (!) - 19/09/04
'Astley in the noose, he hasn't got a use but he's trying’ wailed The Wonderstuff back in '89. Still trying it looks like. Rather worryingly the picture of the Boy Next Door in the ad shows Rickayyyyy wearing his '80s Next suit and looking not unlike a Premiership footballer suffering under the uncomfortable confines of an ill fitting whistle and flute. Can't see much demand for a Charlie Parker freestyle sax workout of Never Gonna Give You Up in amongst the Hush Puppy crowd at Ronnie's. The '80s revival ends here.
The Mission, Mean Fiddler - 05/08/04
Memories of moshing bare chested at Rock City and doing that silly NMA inspired arm waving dance that makes gullible youth look like gullible twats. Wayne Hussey sounded half dead more than a decade ago and so God knows what levels of croakiness he will be crooning out fifteen years later at an ageing female fan base (single civil servants living in Surbiton, still wearing cherry red DM's and with an average cat count of five per female). Hussey remains a Rock God though after trying to take out knobber James Whale live on TV.
The Ukrainiuns, The Borderline - 05/08/04
Wedding Present off-shoot who specialised in Ukrainian (you don't say) interpretations of bog standard indie fare of the day. Best of which was a cover of Big Mouth Strikes Again. Keeping with the wedding theme, all sounds a bit like the reception scene when the crap DJ plays some dodgy Eastern European traditional song that starts off slow and then has even the bride sweating come the close. If poor old Dave Gedge is reduced to releasing his own Cinerama stuff, is there still a market for this indie version of a Knots Landing spin off in 2004?
Siouxsie Sioux, Royal Festival Hall - 15&16/10/04
Still able to press all the right buttons around onionbagblog HQ, the original Bromley Contingent temptress remains a site to behold in all her leather loveliness. When the Pistols reformed for the Filthy Lucre tour in '96, the Banshees were forced to split, citing that pantomime punk made it impossible for them to carry on. Never write off a South London gal who has survived Grundy, Sidney and Bob. A Basement Jaxx collaboration has seen a Sioux revival. The swastikas may have gone, but she's still got the spunk, if you see what I mean.
Omar, Jazz Cafe – 6&7/08/04
If it's the summertime then it must mean Omar at the Jazz Cafe. There may be Nothing Like This but it's hard to string this moment of nu-soul glory along for a whole bloody decade. Is there a better bass line between here and Basildon though?
All of which must mean that ageing '80s musicians don't go back to the day job or the dole; they simply re-group, downsize and find a niche. Busted, Black Eyed Peas and Blue at Barfly in 2014 anyone? Tickets available on the door apparently.
| Friday 6 August, 2004 |
A skim through the Time Out Music section (it's a little bit Badly Drawn Boy, it's a little bit Badly Written) reveals the following musical 'delights' to be found on a London stage in the coming weeks:
Rick Astley, Ronnie Scott’s (!) - 19/09/04
'Astley in the noose, he hasn't got a use but he's trying’ wailed The Wonderstuff back in '89. Still trying it looks like. Rather worryingly the picture of the Boy Next Door in the ad shows Rickayyyyy wearing his '80s Next suit and looking not unlike a Premiership footballer suffering under the uncomfortable confines of an ill fitting whistle and flute. Can't see much demand for a Charlie Parker freestyle sax workout of Never Gonna Give You Up in amongst the Hush Puppy crowd at Ronnie's. The '80s revival ends here.
The Mission, Mean Fiddler - 05/08/04
Memories of moshing bare chested at Rock City and doing that silly NMA inspired arm waving dance that makes gullible youth look like gullible twats. Wayne Hussey sounded half dead more than a decade ago and so God knows what levels of croakiness he will be crooning out fifteen years later at an ageing female fan base (single civil servants living in Surbiton, still wearing cherry red DM's and with an average cat count of five per female). Hussey remains a Rock God though after trying to take out knobber James Whale live on TV.
The Ukrainiuns, The Borderline - 05/08/04
Wedding Present off-shoot who specialised in Ukrainian (you don't say) interpretations of bog standard indie fare of the day. Best of which was a cover of Big Mouth Strikes Again. Keeping with the wedding theme, all sounds a bit like the reception scene when the crap DJ plays some dodgy Eastern European traditional song that starts off slow and then has even the bride sweating come the close. If poor old Dave Gedge is reduced to releasing his own Cinerama stuff, is there still a market for this indie version of a Knots Landing spin off in 2004?
Siouxsie Sioux, Royal Festival Hall - 15&16/10/04
Still able to press all the right buttons around onionbagblog HQ, the original Bromley Contingent temptress remains a site to behold in all her leather loveliness. When the Pistols reformed for the Filthy Lucre tour in '96, the Banshees were forced to split, citing that pantomime punk made it impossible for them to carry on. Never write off a South London gal who has survived Grundy, Sidney and Bob. A Basement Jaxx collaboration has seen a Sioux revival. The swastikas may have gone, but she's still got the spunk, if you see what I mean.
Omar, Jazz Cafe – 6&7/08/04
If it's the summertime then it must mean Omar at the Jazz Cafe. There may be Nothing Like This but it's hard to string this moment of nu-soul glory along for a whole bloody decade. Is there a better bass line between here and Basildon though?
All of which must mean that ageing '80s musicians don't go back to the day job or the dole; they simply re-group, downsize and find a niche. Busted, Black Eyed Peas and Blue at Barfly in 2014 anyone? Tickets available on the door apparently.
| #permalink |
Cumbrian Sausage Time
Yes, I did stay in COCKERMOUTH, or if you require further Viz style smuttiness, nearby ROGERscale. Marks out of two on the scale? I'd give her one, boom boom.
Here's the cock and bull story:
It's a strange sensation being stuck up a mountain with only sheep for company. Not THAT strange though. I did have a Climbing Companion / Crap Map Reader, but she buggered off once the blisters in my boots got the better of me.
The serene surroundings were the ideal opportunity to try out my voice throwing technique, especially with a new term only weeks away.
'YOU’RE WORSE THAN TOOTING AND MITCHAM!!!!'
'YA BOO SUCKS AND WAVE MY WILLY IN THE AIR AT METROKNOBBERS' and...
'MY OLD MAN SAID BE A DERBY FAN, I SAID...'
The sheep started to show an interest at this point and I too felt slightly sheepish seeing Crap Map Reader returning after hearing my Heidi impression.
A case of cock (er) / foot in the mouth.
Speaking of which, we then took in a brief camera stop to snap away at a field of cows. Best not look the udder way as Climbing Companion came over all flustered and legged it with no explanation. The silly moo.
Turns out that one of the heifers was giving me the horn. That will be the pair of horns positioned firmly on his head. And here's me eyeballing the beast with my seven inch super zoom, wearing a red T-Shirt as well.
Oh, Bulls Bollocks, which just so happened to be as Unfeasibly Sized as Buster's.
Just to complete the Cockermouth Viz Cartoon watch, a night out in Wordsworth's ward included sightings of Biffa Bacon (any white shirted male under the age of twenty five), Terry Fuckwit (me wondering why Kendal Mint Cake doesn't contain any sponge) and Two Fat Slags. To the power of ten.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 5 August, 2004 |
Yes, I did stay in COCKERMOUTH, or if you require further Viz style smuttiness, nearby ROGERscale. Marks out of two on the scale? I'd give her one, boom boom.
Here's the cock and bull story:
It's a strange sensation being stuck up a mountain with only sheep for company. Not THAT strange though. I did have a Climbing Companion / Crap Map Reader, but she buggered off once the blisters in my boots got the better of me.
The heifer was giving me the horn |
'YOU’RE WORSE THAN TOOTING AND MITCHAM!!!!'
'YA BOO SUCKS AND WAVE MY WILLY IN THE AIR AT METROKNOBBERS' and...
'MY OLD MAN SAID BE A DERBY FAN, I SAID...'
The sheep started to show an interest at this point and I too felt slightly sheepish seeing Crap Map Reader returning after hearing my Heidi impression.
A case of cock (er) / foot in the mouth.
Speaking of which, we then took in a brief camera stop to snap away at a field of cows. Best not look the udder way as Climbing Companion came over all flustered and legged it with no explanation. The silly moo.
Turns out that one of the heifers was giving me the horn. That will be the pair of horns positioned firmly on his head. And here's me eyeballing the beast with my seven inch super zoom, wearing a red T-Shirt as well.
Oh, Bulls Bollocks, which just so happened to be as Unfeasibly Sized as Buster's.
Just to complete the Cockermouth Viz Cartoon watch, a night out in Wordsworth's ward included sightings of Biffa Bacon (any white shirted male under the age of twenty five), Terry Fuckwit (me wondering why Kendal Mint Cake doesn't contain any sponge) and Two Fat Slags. To the power of ten.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Climb Every Mountain
I am HERE
Bahhhhhhhh
| Monday 2 August, 2004 |
I am HERE
Bahhhhhhhh
| #permalink |
Oh When the Saints…
Cycling through New Cross on Sunday and the rousing sound of All Saints had the effect of me pulling over and allowing the healing power of soul music to inspire me to peddle past Peckham.
Please don't confuse the wailing coke-fuelled cries of four West London slappers who managed to make a Red Hot Chili Peppers cover even crapper than the original with the sweet soul sound of the marching band of All Saints Church, New Cross. These boys certainly know how to blow their own trumpets.
Strangely the All Saints Church flag was the same as the Millwall crest. Draw your own No One Likes Us conclusions from the sparse (but spirited) congregation.
Back in Sunny Stockwell and we're use to the Sunday afternoon treat of a Southern style marching band leading a funeral procession southbound towards Brixton. Obviously not exactly a 'treat' for the deceased and their nearest and dearest though.
The All Saints sound was devoid of death; a smiling rosy cheeked vicar and bunting in the churchyard suggested nothing more sinister than a summer fete. Not worse than death, etc.
Back to the late '90s baggy arsed 'shag me I'm a pop star' tarts.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 2 August, 2004 |
Cycling through New Cross on Sunday and the rousing sound of All Saints had the effect of me pulling over and allowing the healing power of soul music to inspire me to peddle past Peckham.
Please don't confuse the wailing coke-fuelled cries of four West London slappers who managed to make a Red Hot Chili Peppers cover even crapper than the original with the sweet soul sound of the marching band of All Saints Church, New Cross. These boys certainly know how to blow their own trumpets.
Strangely the All Saints Church flag was the same as the Millwall crest. Draw your own No One Likes Us conclusions from the sparse (but spirited) congregation.
Back in Sunny Stockwell and we're use to the Sunday afternoon treat of a Southern style marching band leading a funeral procession southbound towards Brixton. Obviously not exactly a 'treat' for the deceased and their nearest and dearest though.
The All Saints sound was devoid of death; a smiling rosy cheeked vicar and bunting in the churchyard suggested nothing more sinister than a summer fete. Not worse than death, etc.
Back to the late '90s baggy arsed 'shag me I'm a pop star' tarts.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 0 Fisher Athletic 1, 31/07/04
A larger than life figure has been casting a sizeable shadow on Dulwich's pre-season fixture list; returning hero Pete Garland fills the boots (and shirts) of two average players at this level and the meaty midfield player clearly still has the appetite. For the game of course.
Differing accounts exist surrounding the circumstances of the first departure of Garland from Dulwich; was there an off the field bust up at the highest level? Or did the club bar simply run out of Mars Bars? Hid dad being Manager and also leaving the club probably didn't do much for his claim for captaincy.
Garland is still looked (through a wide angle lens) around these parts very favourably. A definite cult figure, the kind of character that you always want playing FOR your club, but never AGAINST. Despite the excess baggage (definitely ON the field time, but he did look noticeably leaner in this game), he is without a doubt the most skilful and intelligent player that has been at Dulwich in the past decade. Gazza meets Ready Steady Teddy with the 'gift of the gob' Roy Keane style thrown in to liven things up.
Welcome home Pete – there's a beer (and a pie) behind the bar for you. I hope you'll be appreciated this season.
Dulwich welcomed Fisher Athletic to Champion Hill in a game that would no doubt be styled as 'The Battle of Southwark' had shitty Sky Sports been involved. Actually it was dubbed exactly that by The Voice of Champion Hill but his golden mic skills never utter anything but the truth.
Fisher are going to be casting their hook across SE22 on a permanent basis with the Surrey Docks club anchoring at Champion Hill for a ground share this season while they undergo their own ship repairs.
The hastily arranged marriage of convenience between the two clubs led to the bastard offspring in the form of the Fisher and Dulwich DJ double act, Southwark's very own Little and Large sharing the match day microphone. The Fisher fraternity was friendly, whilst the Dulwich delegation was strong on discipline:
'To the boys playing football: DON'T. Just as the players can't keep the ball on the pitch, you can't keep the ball off the pitch.'
Firm but fair I'd say, although it doesn't bode well for the Dulwich youth set up in years to come.
The first returning visit to your ground at the start of each season is always filled with hope and anticipation; will a 20,000 capacity cantilever stand have been built during the summer months? Which multi-national will be secured for a multi-million pound plus sponsorship scheme? And will the club have a flash new megastore?
Well...
The pigeons have finally got the better of the front row seats towards the Greendale end of the ground and these have now been ripped out after years of shit abuse. From the pigeons, not the supporters. Castlemaine XXXX had hastily pinned up a few advertising boards behind the goal (quite apt for the artists that reside there) and the Supporters Trust shed is still standing and still selling all things Pink 'n Blue.
With a crowd only slightly higher than the blazing hot temperature (thankfully Fahrenheit), this summer work out was only semi-competitive with more drinks breaks than a Dublin pub crawl.
Dulwich controlled the midfield with Garland adding his weight, but were weak up front after the departure of last season's top scorer Omari Coleman to Watford. Fisher were the reverse, finding the superb Subbuteo style lawn pitch a little too much of a luxury in the middle of the park, but they looked dangerous in the box.
The goal came after fifty three minutes but I missed it as I was too engrossed in Test Match Special on my walkman. I almost shouted out HOWZATTTT!!!! following a Dulwich penalty claim. Must get my football, basketball and ice hockey heads sorted out within the next few weeks.
Highlight: The FREE pitch side BBQ provided by our friends from Fisher. Get in there before Garland does (but seriously, it is GREAT to see him back in the Pink 'n Blue).
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Sunday 1 August, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 0 Fisher Athletic 1, 31/07/04
A larger than life figure has been casting a sizeable shadow on Dulwich's pre-season fixture list; returning hero Pete Garland fills the boots (and shirts) of two average players at this level and the meaty midfield player clearly still has the appetite. For the game of course.
Differing accounts exist surrounding the circumstances of the first departure of Garland from Dulwich; was there an off the field bust up at the highest level? Or did the club bar simply run out of Mars Bars? Hid dad being Manager and also leaving the club probably didn't do much for his claim for captaincy.
The pigeons finally got the better of the front row seats |
Welcome home Pete – there's a beer (and a pie) behind the bar for you. I hope you'll be appreciated this season.
Dulwich welcomed Fisher Athletic to Champion Hill in a game that would no doubt be styled as 'The Battle of Southwark' had shitty Sky Sports been involved. Actually it was dubbed exactly that by The Voice of Champion Hill but his golden mic skills never utter anything but the truth.
Fisher are going to be casting their hook across SE22 on a permanent basis with the Surrey Docks club anchoring at Champion Hill for a ground share this season while they undergo their own ship repairs.
The hastily arranged marriage of convenience between the two clubs led to the bastard offspring in the form of the Fisher and Dulwich DJ double act, Southwark's very own Little and Large sharing the match day microphone. The Fisher fraternity was friendly, whilst the Dulwich delegation was strong on discipline:
'To the boys playing football: DON'T. Just as the players can't keep the ball on the pitch, you can't keep the ball off the pitch.'
Firm but fair I'd say, although it doesn't bode well for the Dulwich youth set up in years to come.
The first returning visit to your ground at the start of each season is always filled with hope and anticipation; will a 20,000 capacity cantilever stand have been built during the summer months? Which multi-national will be secured for a multi-million pound plus sponsorship scheme? And will the club have a flash new megastore?
Well...
The pigeons have finally got the better of the front row seats towards the Greendale end of the ground and these have now been ripped out after years of shit abuse. From the pigeons, not the supporters. Castlemaine XXXX had hastily pinned up a few advertising boards behind the goal (quite apt for the artists that reside there) and the Supporters Trust shed is still standing and still selling all things Pink 'n Blue.
With a crowd only slightly higher than the blazing hot temperature (thankfully Fahrenheit), this summer work out was only semi-competitive with more drinks breaks than a Dublin pub crawl.
Dulwich controlled the midfield with Garland adding his weight, but were weak up front after the departure of last season's top scorer Omari Coleman to Watford. Fisher were the reverse, finding the superb Subbuteo style lawn pitch a little too much of a luxury in the middle of the park, but they looked dangerous in the box.
The goal came after fifty three minutes but I missed it as I was too engrossed in Test Match Special on my walkman. I almost shouted out HOWZATTTT!!!! following a Dulwich penalty claim. Must get my football, basketball and ice hockey heads sorted out within the next few weeks.
Highlight: The FREE pitch side BBQ provided by our friends from Fisher. Get in there before Garland does (but seriously, it is GREAT to see him back in the Pink 'n Blue).
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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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