onionbagblog
Enemy Within
Well lookey lookey here... A campaign to highlight how worthless and crap the NME has become. Five years ago I may have heartedly agreed, but with the onset of old age and Soulseek supplying me with enough substance rather than style (and all for FREE as well) - I just don't give a toss to be honest.
'Compromised by greed and cynicism...'
Well I never! Big business publishing empire in Let's Make More Money Shocker! They're selling you out kids, just like they were on the back of punk, rave, madchester and the current barrel scraping 'nu rock revolution' wank.
By definition, the NEW Musical Express is always going to reflect the market and the new musical market is shit right now; imprints from major labels masquerading as indies, rush-releasing half arsed, half finished albums, running shit scared of online leaks and desperately trying to squeeze the last dregs out of the corporate dollar of a music retail business model has eaten itself with greed.
Who the fuck actually walks into HMV and forks out fifteen quid for a CD anyway? People that probably buy soup in cartons rather than tins. You need to download, darling, or wonder at the WOWness of CD WOW; failing that then go have a word with that nice Mr CD on Berwick Street or if you are an oik out in the sticks then there's always shitty supermarkets for fucks sake.
The current 'scene' of a dead horse that the NME is trying to flog is no different to the uninspiring treadmill of turd that I was foolish to climb aboard on ten or so years ago. Retard rock knobbers ejaculating all over the tombstone of Lennon and his lumpen rich white rock star back catalogue. And with ridiculous haircuts as well. That's just the old fart in me dribbling more drool of course.
Having just uploaded 500 albums to my iPod (go on: 'You Useless Tosser!'), I'm pretty confident that if I was to repeat the whole process in five years time then I very much doubt that my choice of tracks would change. Unless of course Billy Bragg enters a period of artistic hyper-activity, a vault of long lost Clash albums are found and Diesel Park West get together for that difficult tenth album.
The very reason why the NME is full of so much twaddle is because the tossers who lurk between the adverts for ringtones are twaddle as well. Angling Weekly can be a right rip roaring read, but only during the fishing season. Content is king, blah blah blah. This very blog was born with the intention of banging on about music, but I soon realised that non league football and a fascination for crap pics of the capital is oddly more exciting than some knobber New York junkies who can just about hold down a couple of chords.
Meanwhile...
Riots Break Out After Pete Doherty No-Show
Big fucking deal, buddy. I was all set for firebombing Sainsbury's next door to Dulwich after the 3-2 home defeat to Whyteleafe midweek. There was about as much interest in that story from a sane readership as well.
'The NME was better in my day' is the usual pub bore rallying cry just before he puts another dime in the jukebox, baby, and selects some Smashing Pumpkins shite. Of course it was you knobber! That's the whole fucking point! Aside from making cash from chaos for IPC Media, the NME exists to remind every generation that they are YOUNG and different to their dad. It's just a bit of throwaway FUN, and if I was an eighteen-year-old fresh faced youth once again heading off to Cirencester University living in Mr Tony's Britain then FUN would be exactly what I was in need of right now. Plus a sympathetic bank manager of course.
The rock-stocracy (clever, don’t you think?) are always going to reflect with rose tinted specs back to an era that never really existed. Does the NME really matter? DID the NME ever really matter? It's just a newspaper for fucks sake (which admittedly is doing very well right now at trying to desert any of its indie heritage and become a lightweight piece of 'style' journalism that appeals only to the staff that write it).
Historically the NME has used a selection of writers who I admit have always looked out for, safe in their knowledge that a byline by Steven Wells must mean 100% fact, tell it like it is etc. In his heyday, Swells was a rock god, flicking up two fingers not only to the artists but also the NME as well. Cocksucking and not criticism seems to be the case now with the little to choose between the adverts and editorial.
But you're confusing me with someone who gives a shit. Move along the magazine rack. Click through to the next site (or blog). Write your bloody own.
'I use the NME...'
Not anymore Johnny boy...
*obvious parallels with My Radio Don't Rock over HERE*
| Friday 1 October, 2004 |
Well lookey lookey here... A campaign to highlight how worthless and crap the NME has become. Five years ago I may have heartedly agreed, but with the onset of old age and Soulseek supplying me with enough substance rather than style (and all for FREE as well) - I just don't give a toss to be honest.
'Compromised by greed and cynicism...'
Well I never! Big business publishing empire in Let's Make More Money Shocker! They're selling you out kids, just like they were on the back of punk, rave, madchester and the current barrel scraping 'nu rock revolution' wank.
 Angling Weekly can be a right rip roaring read |
Who the fuck actually walks into HMV and forks out fifteen quid for a CD anyway? People that probably buy soup in cartons rather than tins. You need to download, darling, or wonder at the WOWness of CD WOW; failing that then go have a word with that nice Mr CD on Berwick Street or if you are an oik out in the sticks then there's always shitty supermarkets for fucks sake.
The current 'scene' of a dead horse that the NME is trying to flog is no different to the uninspiring treadmill of turd that I was foolish to climb aboard on ten or so years ago. Retard rock knobbers ejaculating all over the tombstone of Lennon and his lumpen rich white rock star back catalogue. And with ridiculous haircuts as well. That's just the old fart in me dribbling more drool of course.
Having just uploaded 500 albums to my iPod (go on: 'You Useless Tosser!'), I'm pretty confident that if I was to repeat the whole process in five years time then I very much doubt that my choice of tracks would change. Unless of course Billy Bragg enters a period of artistic hyper-activity, a vault of long lost Clash albums are found and Diesel Park West get together for that difficult tenth album.
The very reason why the NME is full of so much twaddle is because the tossers who lurk between the adverts for ringtones are twaddle as well. Angling Weekly can be a right rip roaring read, but only during the fishing season. Content is king, blah blah blah. This very blog was born with the intention of banging on about music, but I soon realised that non league football and a fascination for crap pics of the capital is oddly more exciting than some knobber New York junkies who can just about hold down a couple of chords.
Meanwhile...
Riots Break Out After Pete Doherty No-Show
Big fucking deal, buddy. I was all set for firebombing Sainsbury's next door to Dulwich after the 3-2 home defeat to Whyteleafe midweek. There was about as much interest in that story from a sane readership as well.
'The NME was better in my day' is the usual pub bore rallying cry just before he puts another dime in the jukebox, baby, and selects some Smashing Pumpkins shite. Of course it was you knobber! That's the whole fucking point! Aside from making cash from chaos for IPC Media, the NME exists to remind every generation that they are YOUNG and different to their dad. It's just a bit of throwaway FUN, and if I was an eighteen-year-old fresh faced youth once again heading off to Cirencester University living in Mr Tony's Britain then FUN would be exactly what I was in need of right now. Plus a sympathetic bank manager of course.
The rock-stocracy (clever, don’t you think?) are always going to reflect with rose tinted specs back to an era that never really existed. Does the NME really matter? DID the NME ever really matter? It's just a newspaper for fucks sake (which admittedly is doing very well right now at trying to desert any of its indie heritage and become a lightweight piece of 'style' journalism that appeals only to the staff that write it).
Historically the NME has used a selection of writers who I admit have always looked out for, safe in their knowledge that a byline by Steven Wells must mean 100% fact, tell it like it is etc. In his heyday, Swells was a rock god, flicking up two fingers not only to the artists but also the NME as well. Cocksucking and not criticism seems to be the case now with the little to choose between the adverts and editorial.
But you're confusing me with someone who gives a shit. Move along the magazine rack. Click through to the next site (or blog). Write your bloody own.
'I use the NME...'
Not anymore Johnny boy...
*obvious parallels with My Radio Don't Rock over HERE*
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Whyteleafe 3, 28/09/04
I missed the first goal (Kevin Cooper after 53 seconds apparently) having been reduced to the trots and a long sit down, the turd treatment coming after hearing Mr Tony's conference speech on C4 News. And relax...
With our Beloved Leader (Mr Tony, not Martin Eede) facing protests earlier in the day, I arrived at Champion Hill with my own act of defiance ready to spring into action; Whyteleafe were awarded a penalty just as my Marin was being wheeled into the ground. Like all good box-to-box midfielders, I timed my run to perfection, walking behind the goal wearing my spoddy luminous cycling top with the aim of distracting the 'Leafe spot kicker. A lone cyclist looking like a twat doesn't exactly have the same impact as 5,000 CUNTryside Alliance members, although a twat is a twat to be honest. Mr Tony made it to the end of his speech and Dulwich were soon drawing 1-1.
Pete Garland was playing his best game for Dulwich since his return, combining his skill with his new found fitness levels. A looping long range header from Kevin Cooper after only eight minutes gave Dulwich the lead again and Whyteleafe's run of four consecutive away victories as Champion Hill looked to be coming to an end.
Speaking of 'coming to an end,' has there ever been a more camp lino down at Dulwich? You couldn't get more camp if you bought a two man tent from Argos, pitched it up on the touchline and invited the Pet Shop Boys to perform in a pink 'n blue top.
Just over half an hour gone and 'Leafe were back level with Kevin Lock scoring a close range header after a scramble in the Dulwich box. The remainder of the first half was about as inspiring as the drizzle that rained down over East Dulwich. The only moment of note was Coach Engin Salih booting a ball out of the ground when it should have been a replacement for... a ball having just been booted out of the ground. It really was that dull.
Much of the same for the second half and so it was left to the now familiar routine of seeing Sebastian Schoburg stretch his long legs as a late second half sub. The Whytleafe winner came after seventy minutes with Kevin Lock scoring his second with a perfect chip over Dulwich 'keeer Paul Seuke.
The evening started with a session in the dumper and strangely ended that way as well. Not quite 'we’re shit and we know we are' but this was a pebble dash of a performance.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Thursday 30 September, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Whyteleafe 3, 28/09/04
I missed the first goal (Kevin Cooper after 53 seconds apparently) having been reduced to the trots and a long sit down, the turd treatment coming after hearing Mr Tony's conference speech on C4 News. And relax...
With our Beloved Leader (Mr Tony, not Martin Eede) facing protests earlier in the day, I arrived at Champion Hill with my own act of defiance ready to spring into action; Whyteleafe were awarded a penalty just as my Marin was being wheeled into the ground. Like all good box-to-box midfielders, I timed my run to perfection, walking behind the goal wearing my spoddy luminous cycling top with the aim of distracting the 'Leafe spot kicker. A lone cyclist looking like a twat doesn't exactly have the same impact as 5,000 CUNTryside Alliance members, although a twat is a twat to be honest. Mr Tony made it to the end of his speech and Dulwich were soon drawing 1-1.
A twat is a twat |
Speaking of 'coming to an end,' has there ever been a more camp lino down at Dulwich? You couldn't get more camp if you bought a two man tent from Argos, pitched it up on the touchline and invited the Pet Shop Boys to perform in a pink 'n blue top.
Just over half an hour gone and 'Leafe were back level with Kevin Lock scoring a close range header after a scramble in the Dulwich box. The remainder of the first half was about as inspiring as the drizzle that rained down over East Dulwich. The only moment of note was Coach Engin Salih booting a ball out of the ground when it should have been a replacement for... a ball having just been booted out of the ground. It really was that dull.
Much of the same for the second half and so it was left to the now familiar routine of seeing Sebastian Schoburg stretch his long legs as a late second half sub. The Whytleafe winner came after seventy minutes with Kevin Lock scoring his second with a perfect chip over Dulwich 'keeer Paul Seuke.
The evening started with a session in the dumper and strangely ended that way as well. Not quite 'we’re shit and we know we are' but this was a pebble dash of a performance.
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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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Go West
With the Westway to the World roaring overhead, I've always wondered why you would need to leave West London with Little Venice located within. Something to do with the locals maybe?
The Grand Union Canal must have been the hub of Paddington when it was built in 1801. Look for it on an A-Z over two hundred years later and all you see is a sorry little strip of water with the great orange blob of the Westway obliterating it on the map. Which sums up quite well what the situation is like on the ground; towering pillows of concrete cutting out the daylight as London's twenty first century traffic races out of the capital and heads out West.
All of which means that underneath the arches of one of London's busiest and most brutal transport routes is perhaps the most peaceful part of Paddington. Only dead fish swim with the sea and all that. Give me the Georgian pace of life over London's fast and loose thrust of today.
The Grand Union was the industrial infrastructure of West London for over a century, only put out of business in 1900 with the railway next door at Paddington arriving in town. When the canals were nationalised in 1948, the Grand Union remained the last waterway to handle commercial traffic. Forward to the 1950's and the Westway was the final pulling of the plug, reducing this corner of London to the current Little Venice tourist trap. Except few tourists want to venture anywhere near an overhead concrete gyratory system, leaving Little Venice one of London's genuine lost little treasures.
The Paddington loop of the Grand Union is essentially a triangular transport interchange; The Rembrandt Gardens fill one side, routes off to Camden in the north and west out towards Notting Hill complete the junction. Lined along the route are a combination of living properties (moorings withstanding), tourists trips and converted canal boats that are now cafes.
Past the sanitised tourist stretch is the sanitised shit house. I admit to being slightly concerned cycling over a pipe pumping gallons of pooh from sea to shore with a slight leak spraying random green apple splat. The experience was only made tolerable seeing the football top worn by Captain Shit Shoveller – Liverpool away, which is quite apt when you think about it. The 1989 pigeon shit away design would have been asking just too much.
My only experience of messing about on the water was one long week of an alcoholic haze back in the day when I had the time, money and physical capability to be able to indulge in a week long alcoholic haze. Not much is remembered apart from falling asleep in the sun on the top of the boat, and then being woken up by the cheer of a crowd of Suits in a nearby Oxfordshire waterway pub as we passed by. A Danger - Work in Progress road sign had been bastardised by my crewmen with the O and R in Work being replaced with an A and an N.
Two hours of cycling westwards towards Westbourne Park and a hat trick of West London wonders hit me. A rare occurrence, I know, so I savoured the moment. As if passing right next to the Westbourne Park bus garage with a row of Routemaster 23's wasn't enough, and then if the thrill of seeing the yoof doing their thing on the skatebaoard park almost made up for being splattered in shit... round the corner and there she was: The Trellick Tower!
Even with an overcast September morning failing to light up the landscape, the combination of the Trellick, the Grand Union and Captain Shit Shoveller and his leaking pipe leaving him in the... shit, all made up for the West London locals.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 29 September, 2004 |
With the Westway to the World roaring overhead, I've always wondered why you would need to leave West London with Little Venice located within. Something to do with the locals maybe?
The Grand Union Canal must have been the hub of Paddington when it was built in 1801. Look for it on an A-Z over two hundred years later and all you see is a sorry little strip of water with the great orange blob of the Westway obliterating it on the map. Which sums up quite well what the situation is like on the ground; towering pillows of concrete cutting out the daylight as London's twenty first century traffic races out of the capital and heads out West.
Danger: Wank in Progress |
The Grand Union was the industrial infrastructure of West London for over a century, only put out of business in 1900 with the railway next door at Paddington arriving in town. When the canals were nationalised in 1948, the Grand Union remained the last waterway to handle commercial traffic. Forward to the 1950's and the Westway was the final pulling of the plug, reducing this corner of London to the current Little Venice tourist trap. Except few tourists want to venture anywhere near an overhead concrete gyratory system, leaving Little Venice one of London's genuine lost little treasures.
The Paddington loop of the Grand Union is essentially a triangular transport interchange; The Rembrandt Gardens fill one side, routes off to Camden in the north and west out towards Notting Hill complete the junction. Lined along the route are a combination of living properties (moorings withstanding), tourists trips and converted canal boats that are now cafes.
Past the sanitised tourist stretch is the sanitised shit house. I admit to being slightly concerned cycling over a pipe pumping gallons of pooh from sea to shore with a slight leak spraying random green apple splat. The experience was only made tolerable seeing the football top worn by Captain Shit Shoveller – Liverpool away, which is quite apt when you think about it. The 1989 pigeon shit away design would have been asking just too much.
My only experience of messing about on the water was one long week of an alcoholic haze back in the day when I had the time, money and physical capability to be able to indulge in a week long alcoholic haze. Not much is remembered apart from falling asleep in the sun on the top of the boat, and then being woken up by the cheer of a crowd of Suits in a nearby Oxfordshire waterway pub as we passed by. A Danger - Work in Progress road sign had been bastardised by my crewmen with the O and R in Work being replaced with an A and an N.
Two hours of cycling westwards towards Westbourne Park and a hat trick of West London wonders hit me. A rare occurrence, I know, so I savoured the moment. As if passing right next to the Westbourne Park bus garage with a row of Routemaster 23's wasn't enough, and then if the thrill of seeing the yoof doing their thing on the skatebaoard park almost made up for being splattered in shit... round the corner and there she was: The Trellick Tower!
Even with an overcast September morning failing to light up the landscape, the combination of the Trellick, the Grand Union and Captain Shit Shoveller and his leaking pipe leaving him in the... shit, all made up for the West London locals.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Messenger in a Bottleneck*
After a hard week of burning rubber around South London, the 'wheel that turns is the wheel that earns' winds down by... going hell for leather at Herne Hill Velodrome. The South London Olympic site hosted the Speed, Skill & Sausages event on Sunday, otherwise known as the courier community cycle fest.
The Sausages refers to the post-race barbecue of course, and nothing at all to do with the tightness of the lycra.
Never have so many cut off combat shorts been seen in the same place since Ned's Atomic Dustbin (worst fucking webshite - EVER) were last on tour. Of course it goes without saying that the day job requires responsible citizens who obey the Highway Code and stay within the speed limit. This all changes on the track with lap speeds touching just over thirty seconds.
Any seasoned cyclist will tell you that fuckspud pedestrians who ramble onto the road are as much a pain in their bony cycle seat arse as cocky cabbies. Even my short journey from Sunny Stockwell to Herne Hill led to a lesson for some free wandering fucker into the power of the free wheeling bike. Green light equals GO, and not the chance to test the strength of a metallic Marin frame over human bone. I win every time.
No surprises then to see a stray knobber trackside at Herne Hill, seconds before a fixed wheel bike with no brakes was attempting to break the track speed record. His excuse? Collecting corner flags from the football pitch situated in the centre of the circuit. Makes a change I suppose from the 'but you're not a car' bollocks that I usually get.
The courier community is currently involved in an industrial dispute and this weekend off was a well timed occasion to form stronger bonds. Over one hundred and fifty couriers employed by London Messenger company SMS are on strike after a new management regime imposed new weekend working conditions. The rate for paid drops has also remained the same over a six year period.
Over 25,000 daily drops were made by the riders before the dispute. Four rider reps were sacked outright by the Waterloo based company and the industrial action has been registered with the TUC, for what it's worth (probably not very much).
The fear is that being a low paid, un-regulated labour market, finding scab staff, legal or otherwise, will not be difficult. The irony in employing cheap, foreign labour is that SMS has recently won the contract to deliver passports on behalf of the Home Office.
The job description may not include death, but for an industry which involves such high risk, this is no way to treat your workforce. A date has been set for late November for the trial of a HGV driver who has been charged with driving without due care and attention in an incident which killed London messenger Sebastian Lukomski.
The punishment, if found guilty, is disqualification from driving for a 'short period of time,' and the possibility of having to re-sit the driving test.
The couriers testing the century old Herne Hill circuit on Sunday weren't motivated by a barley above the minimum wage pay packet; they weren't intimidated by a London transport infrastructure that squeezes cyclists out into the periphery where they are most vulnerable. Cycling is their life and they pedal for pleasure. Admittedly there is pain in that pleasure but it sure beats being a Johnny at the bus stop.
*yes I know, weak...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
london messengers
speed skill & sausages
| Monday 27 September, 2004 |
After a hard week of burning rubber around South London, the 'wheel that turns is the wheel that earns' winds down by... going hell for leather at Herne Hill Velodrome. The South London Olympic site hosted the Speed, Skill & Sausages event on Sunday, otherwise known as the courier community cycle fest.
The Sausages refers to the post-race barbecue of course, and nothing at all to do with the tightness of the lycra.
Never have so many cut off combat shorts been seen in the same place since Ned's Atomic Dustbin (worst fucking webshite - EVER) were last on tour. Of course it goes without saying that the day job requires responsible citizens who obey the Highway Code and stay within the speed limit. This all changes on the track with lap speeds touching just over thirty seconds.
Pedestrians who ramble are a pain in the arse |
No surprises then to see a stray knobber trackside at Herne Hill, seconds before a fixed wheel bike with no brakes was attempting to break the track speed record. His excuse? Collecting corner flags from the football pitch situated in the centre of the circuit. Makes a change I suppose from the 'but you're not a car' bollocks that I usually get.
The courier community is currently involved in an industrial dispute and this weekend off was a well timed occasion to form stronger bonds. Over one hundred and fifty couriers employed by London Messenger company SMS are on strike after a new management regime imposed new weekend working conditions. The rate for paid drops has also remained the same over a six year period.
Over 25,000 daily drops were made by the riders before the dispute. Four rider reps were sacked outright by the Waterloo based company and the industrial action has been registered with the TUC, for what it's worth (probably not very much).
The fear is that being a low paid, un-regulated labour market, finding scab staff, legal or otherwise, will not be difficult. The irony in employing cheap, foreign labour is that SMS has recently won the contract to deliver passports on behalf of the Home Office.
The job description may not include death, but for an industry which involves such high risk, this is no way to treat your workforce. A date has been set for late November for the trial of a HGV driver who has been charged with driving without due care and attention in an incident which killed London messenger Sebastian Lukomski.
The punishment, if found guilty, is disqualification from driving for a 'short period of time,' and the possibility of having to re-sit the driving test.
The couriers testing the century old Herne Hill circuit on Sunday weren't motivated by a barley above the minimum wage pay packet; they weren't intimidated by a London transport infrastructure that squeezes cyclists out into the periphery where they are most vulnerable. Cycling is their life and they pedal for pleasure. Admittedly there is pain in that pleasure but it sure beats being a Johnny at the bus stop.
*yes I know, weak...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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london messengers
speed skill & sausages
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That Loving Feeling
The memory of seeing Anfield transformed from a football ground to a mass shrine in '89 still remains strong within me. The City Ground is never going to 'compete' with that tribute, although mourning is not exactly a competition. But I like to think that the people of the Fair City have done Cloughie proud.
Reports from the 2-1 win over West Ham this afternoon suggest that a celebration, not a wake, was the order of the day. With the top heavy trophy cabinet from Clough's triumphant reign filling the centre circle before kick off, it's a good job that the space was almost as big as Brian's head.
Up until last Monday I had never known what motivated fans to dig out old replica tops from seasons gone by and line them up as football tombstones. Ebay always seemed a better resting home for memorabilia and has served me well over the years. It now seems fitting though that you package up a part of your history for the man who made it all possible. I can't help thinking though that the club must be doing a roaring trade right now and I trust a donation to Cancer Research is being arranged.
I love the idea of hanging up a washing line outside the Main Stand and allowing the Garibaldi Red to fly with pride. I was particularly impressed with a Notts County '91 kit making an appearance on the Cloughie line, a man who was never afraid to wash his dirty linen in public. I also own one of the Harp Lager endorsed (again very apt) black and white striped tops, an item that confused friends not from Nottingham for many years.
Old timer Notts fans (it’s part of the County job description to be over 65, a bit like the Hamlet Wall of Death) hate the fact that Forest fans like Notts, more than they actually HATE Forest itself. Notts County Wembely away days in the late '80s (did I really eulogise Neil Warnock?) had a higher turn out of red Forest tops than the Barcode Boys.
Now is not the time to talk of hatred, but Derby are still distrusted down the A52. Which for me makes the suggestion of re-naming the road in memory of Clough a crap idea. Rivalry is healthy, backslapping isn't.
Plus the people of Derby smell of tramp's wee.
| Sunday 26 September, 2004 |
The memory of seeing Anfield transformed from a football ground to a mass shrine in '89 still remains strong within me. The City Ground is never going to 'compete' with that tribute, although mourning is not exactly a competition. But I like to think that the people of the Fair City have done Cloughie proud.
Reports from the 2-1 win over West Ham this afternoon suggest that a celebration, not a wake, was the order of the day. With the top heavy trophy cabinet from Clough's triumphant reign filling the centre circle before kick off, it's a good job that the space was almost as big as Brian's head.
The Fair City has done Cloughie proud |
I love the idea of hanging up a washing line outside the Main Stand and allowing the Garibaldi Red to fly with pride. I was particularly impressed with a Notts County '91 kit making an appearance on the Cloughie line, a man who was never afraid to wash his dirty linen in public. I also own one of the Harp Lager endorsed (again very apt) black and white striped tops, an item that confused friends not from Nottingham for many years.
Old timer Notts fans (it’s part of the County job description to be over 65, a bit like the Hamlet Wall of Death) hate the fact that Forest fans like Notts, more than they actually HATE Forest itself. Notts County Wembely away days in the late '80s (did I really eulogise Neil Warnock?) had a higher turn out of red Forest tops than the Barcode Boys.
Now is not the time to talk of hatred, but Derby are still distrusted down the A52. Which for me makes the suggestion of re-naming the road in memory of Clough a crap idea. Rivalry is healthy, backslapping isn't.
Plus the people of Derby smell of tramp's wee.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Sunday 26 September, 2004 |
Haringey Greyhounds 0 Streatham Redskins 7, 25/09/04
Red faces ahead of face off; nope, not a figure dancing display by Haringey's Dave Richards, but I arrived at Ally Pally with precisely £1.32 in my pocket, a slight oversight after a spending spree at Sainsbury's earlier. 'The Mouth' may be a cheap skate, so to speak, but I'm not. The friendly folk on the door allowed me in on credit as I searched for a familiar face to beg, steal or borrow from. I thought perhaps it was pushing it too far to ask for a programme on tab too.
Redskins returned to Ally Pally for this league match, two weeks after a 7-1 away Cup victory against the Greyhounds. Last season's inspirational captain Joe Johnston was icing for the first time after being unavailable since the start of the new campaign because of work commitments.
Richards was daydreaming about his double pirouette |
Streatham did well to survive the first half of the opening period with the side still to find their flowing form of recent weeks. Communication wasn't that clear on the bench with line changes causing confusion.
'Right wing! F-ING RIGHT WING!!!!' declared an angry Captain Quiney as he retuned to the bench to rest his legs. I don't think he was making a political statement either ahead of the Labour Party Conference.
Running repairs were required to the Captain to keep his frame upright. Viagra should do the job for the old man, but there was already enough little pricks on the ice wearing the Haringey jersey.
Redskins rode out a powerplay at 8:18, penalised for having too many men on the ice. Unlike Haringey who had too many moaners. The biggest cheer came when 'The Mouth' Richards was caught daydreaming about his double pirouette and was landed with a full body check mid-ice.
Two minutes remaining in the first and Redskins almost paid the price with a defensive misunderstanding. James Tanner stood strong between the pipes to clear up the mess. As the period came to a close, Greyhounds showed all their 'class' by picking a fight with the Redskins' youngsters. Under-19 Perry Richardson handled himself with more grace.
A trip to the toilet at the break and I stumbled on the remains of an unfinished party buffet held at the rink before the hockey. Having already blagged myself in for free, now was the time to prove that there IS such a thing as a free dinner. I dipped my bread, cake and peanuts, pretneding to be a steward and telling some kids to keep away, before leaving pleased with my penny pinching find.
Redskins returned to the ice in the second period playing the free flowing hockey from the previous matches. The first goal was scored after a face off was won at 21:11 and Steve Paris hit the puck under the diving Haringey net minder. A minute later and Johnston skated the length of the ice, went wide and then hit home with a well placed shot. Welcome back Joe.
The Greyhounds then went on the powerplay to the sound of the Star Wars Death Star battle music. Head Coach Adam Goldstone ordered his own big guns out with Captain Quiney controlling the play. Feel the force, mind the zimmer frame.
It was at this point in play that Haringey no doubt had problems with skid marks on their bench, worrying times ahead etc. Not to be outdone, Streatham had their own skid marks, but not of the brown pant variety; a stray puck was fired into the away bench. OK Koral? Poor Ed didn't so much take it on the chin as on the arse. Rubber? Bottoms? The puck bunnies ear pricked up.
Rivalry between the Redskins and our North London neighbours is starting to grow strong and both organisations weren't exactly singing from the same hymn sheet. Or team sheet, as the case was. Mrs Greyhound PA woman (avoids obvious dog joke) had the wrong names and numbers for the Redskins, leading to net minder Tanner being credited as the top assist and Luke 'Voice of an Angel' Fitzmaurice being the biggest goon.
Johnston set himself up for a hat trick with his second goal scored on the powerplay midway in the second, returning to the Streatham bench with the look of a man who was clearly happy to be back wearing a Redskins jersey. This was the best period in play for Streatham with passes finding their player and each line working well as a unit.
At 36:36 the Greyhounds net minder was left stranded outside the crease and Quiney pounced to tap home and make it 4-0. The home team hit back on a three on one breakaway but Tanner made a superb glove save in the Redskins net.
The final twenty four seconds of the period saw Haringey's Brian Clarke going on a one man crusade to try and take out anyone under the age of nineteen wearing a Redskins jersey. On his way to the box to serve a 2+5+20 penalty, Clarke then challenged the entire Redskins bench. Streatham kept their cool as Clarke's cowardice was to hit his team hard.
The two teams returned to the ice for the third period with blue collar music for a blue collar team as Born to Run blasted out around Ally Pally. Born to Brawl Like a Baby would have been more appropriate for a home team that talks a good fight but fails to follow through.
With a four goal advantage, the task ahead of the Redskins was to give Tanner a shut out in goal. Greyhounds had by now given up all hope of a win and were happy to try and rough up the Redskins, but even this task proved too much for them with the South London team remaining strong.
A fifth goal was added with a goal match scramble at 51:19, and then Simon Greaves grabbed his first goal for the club six minutes later with a classic D-man one timer that burst the back of the net. A thoughtful ref presented the player with the puck for posterity. The magnificent seven was complete seconds later when another defence player, Warren Trunchion, saw his shot ping the pipes and then into the net for a final score line of 7-0.
And so what almost started as a shut out for me before face off became a shut out for Tanner. He reward was the Man of the Match crate of beer.
As for the puck bunnies? I contemplated sitting with them in the third period, talking about the tactics of the Streatham trapping game. I became very aware though of an unsavoury body odour within my radius, not the ideal conditions for a conversation starter with a set of young ladies on a Saturday night. As the final buzzer went and the Redskins filed past, Hockey Jock Strap Syndrome filled the Ally Pally air. The dirty dogs (players, not bunnies). Still, if that's what the ladies like then I'm happy to remain unwashed until next Sunday.
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crap match report compendium
streatham redskins official site
redskins forum
| #permalink |
Evening Mass
READ ALL ABOUT IT:
'Hallelujah' sounded out from St Mary's as the September Critical Mass made slow progress down Fleet Street on Friday night. Rejoice indeed as the E4 area was cleared of cars, High Court judges and no more knobber journos after The Digger long did the dirty back in the '80s.
It was a different tune altogether as we weaved our way towards St Paul's; a Cathedral Chorister chorus? Some late September Psalms to assist with the peddling? Or maybe just some happy clappy hippy shit? True to form, the Mass sound system made the most of the religious overtones, booming out some bass heavy ode to Jah, dub stylee. The good time dub vibrations and sight of five hundred or so cyclists even managed to raise a smile from the nearby Sub-Standard seller, a rare sight indeed.
Past St Paul's and towards the Museum of London; quite apt given the broad church of riders that Critical Mass attracts with a number of riders precariously perched on machines that wouldn't look out of place in a museum. But all are welcome of course, LAST FRIDAY OF THE MONTH, 6.30 WATERLOO BRIDGE blah blah blah.
The beast of Old Street roundabout was next to be tamed blocking off routes to The City, West End and north towards Islington. And once more round for luck of course. The process would have been speeded up if we had not had to stop to listen to the superb sounds coming from below the Old Street underpass of a busking bongo man.
I'm all for taking the Mass out to the regions, if only to keep the Bobbies on Bikes on their toes. Shitty Shoreditch wouldn't be high up on my list though with the South and Brixton (yet to be visited in my six years of Friday night fun) beckoning.
A rather strange meeting of the clans then took place; dedicated followers of two wheels fashion (a kind of anti-fashion that involves a pair of old shorts and a hoodie) being greeted by the dedicated followers of any scene that happens to pass through Shoreditch fashion. The Clerkenwell Crowd seemed impressed with the style but the political point was probably lost on them. Too busy adding the finishing touches to their fin.
Out of Shoreditch and another stand-off was soon set up outside the Duke of York pub on Clerkenwell Road. No culture clash this time, just mutual admiration with the big red boozer being the spiritual home of the London courier community.
Passing through Holborn and then heading towards the West End and Roni Size was representing the Mass as the dub gave way to some D 'n B. Oxford Street greeted us with plenty of smiles and a couple of energetic young ladies enjoying the choons as we paused for effect at Oxford Circus.
Fourteen miles in total and it was here that I headed back down to Sunny Stockwell. A relatively trouble free Mass although the knobber element in the Bobbies of Bikes is a worrying trend, with one fresh faced fuckspud plod pushing a female off her bike as she stopped by the side of the road.
Halloween Mass next month, although to be honest, cycling the streets of London on a daily basis is scary enough as it is.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 25 September, 2004 |
READ ALL ABOUT IT:
'Hallelujah' sounded out from St Mary's as the September Critical Mass made slow progress down Fleet Street on Friday night. Rejoice indeed as the E4 area was cleared of cars, High Court judges and no more knobber journos after The Digger long did the dirty back in the '80s.
It was a different tune altogether as we weaved our way towards St Paul's; a Cathedral Chorister chorus? Some late September Psalms to assist with the peddling? Or maybe just some happy clappy hippy shit? True to form, the Mass sound system made the most of the religious overtones, booming out some bass heavy ode to Jah, dub stylee. The good time dub vibrations and sight of five hundred or so cyclists even managed to raise a smile from the nearby Sub-Standard seller, a rare sight indeed.
Once more round for luck |
The beast of Old Street roundabout was next to be tamed blocking off routes to The City, West End and north towards Islington. And once more round for luck of course. The process would have been speeded up if we had not had to stop to listen to the superb sounds coming from below the Old Street underpass of a busking bongo man.
I'm all for taking the Mass out to the regions, if only to keep the Bobbies on Bikes on their toes. Shitty Shoreditch wouldn't be high up on my list though with the South and Brixton (yet to be visited in my six years of Friday night fun) beckoning.
A rather strange meeting of the clans then took place; dedicated followers of two wheels fashion (a kind of anti-fashion that involves a pair of old shorts and a hoodie) being greeted by the dedicated followers of any scene that happens to pass through Shoreditch fashion. The Clerkenwell Crowd seemed impressed with the style but the political point was probably lost on them. Too busy adding the finishing touches to their fin.
Out of Shoreditch and another stand-off was soon set up outside the Duke of York pub on Clerkenwell Road. No culture clash this time, just mutual admiration with the big red boozer being the spiritual home of the London courier community.
Passing through Holborn and then heading towards the West End and Roni Size was representing the Mass as the dub gave way to some D 'n B. Oxford Street greeted us with plenty of smiles and a couple of energetic young ladies enjoying the choons as we paused for effect at Oxford Circus.
Fourteen miles in total and it was here that I headed back down to Sunny Stockwell. A relatively trouble free Mass although the knobber element in the Bobbies of Bikes is a worrying trend, with one fresh faced fuckspud plod pushing a female off her bike as she stopped by the side of the road.
Halloween Mass next month, although to be honest, cycling the streets of London on a daily basis is scary enough as it is.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Fore! (skins)
At the risk of upsetting the Burberry brigade at the golf clubs of Bromley, but did anyone actually get excited about the Ryder Cup? I've felt more anticipation waiting for the No 37 bus on the way home from the Hamlet. The highlight of course had to be the irony of reading Euro bashing tabloid writers eulogise over a German captain. They don't like it up 'em, these hacks.
Put simply, golf is not a city sport. The only birdie you are likely to see in South London will be wearing a mini skirt at the local meat market on a Friday night. And as for a hole in one? You will probably find that somewhere around the rough at the same establishment.
For the Ryder Cup to become more relevant then it needs to be switched to a venue that holds more sway. Such as the streets of South London. Urban golf is where it's at, dahhhling. No membership fee (apart from the Congestion Charge on the Kennington fairway), no Men's Room (although some rather excellent gay clubs) and definitely no Alan Partridge style smart-casual slacks. We'll leave that to our north London neighbours in their Shoreditch nightspots.
Just picture the scene: 2006 and Tiger Woods brings his swing to South London. Highlights of the urban course include the Lambeth Walk (no golf buggies allowed), the giant hole in one at Vauxhall Cross (the roadworks still won't be finished in two years time) and of course the challenging 18th hole that involves crossing the water hazard, also known as the Thames. The perfect way to get golfers out of South London.
| Friday 24 September, 2004 |
At the risk of upsetting the Burberry brigade at the golf clubs of Bromley, but did anyone actually get excited about the Ryder Cup? I've felt more anticipation waiting for the No 37 bus on the way home from the Hamlet. The highlight of course had to be the irony of reading Euro bashing tabloid writers eulogise over a German captain. They don't like it up 'em, these hacks.
Put simply, golf is not a city sport. The only birdie you are likely to see in South London will be wearing a mini skirt at the local meat market on a Friday night. And as for a hole in one? You will probably find that somewhere around the rough at the same establishment.
For the Ryder Cup to become more relevant then it needs to be switched to a venue that holds more sway. Such as the streets of South London. Urban golf is where it's at, dahhhling. No membership fee (apart from the Congestion Charge on the Kennington fairway), no Men's Room (although some rather excellent gay clubs) and definitely no Alan Partridge style smart-casual slacks. We'll leave that to our north London neighbours in their Shoreditch nightspots.
Just picture the scene: 2006 and Tiger Woods brings his swing to South London. Highlights of the urban course include the Lambeth Walk (no golf buggies allowed), the giant hole in one at Vauxhall Cross (the roadworks still won't be finished in two years time) and of course the challenging 18th hole that involves crossing the water hazard, also known as the Thames. The perfect way to get golfers out of South London.
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Sun, Sand & Dogshit
The event was billed as Reclaim the Beach, something that the late September rapidly approaching high tide eventually achieved down at Bankside on Sunday. Staged as part of the Thames Festival, the mini-Margate under the Festival Pier made the most of London's own little oasis of sand and dogshit as the weekend drew to a close.
Reclaim the Beach are seasoned South Bank party organisers with the high peak of summer drawing in crowds of two thousand plus. Celebrating the sand between the dirty old river and the DO NOT ENTER signs is not an illegal act. Enter act your own risk etc and just hope that you catch the Transport Cops on a good day.
The success of the monthly parties has led Reclaim the Beach towards the mainstream with official recognition from the Thames Festival organisers. The Sunday soiree was themed more of a kids day out in the fading late summer sun. Instead of piercing techno we had Punch and Judy. The Class A's were replaced with Class one, two, three etc, leaving me with little escape from the day job.
There's something very English about sitting around on a patch of damp sand. By which of course I mean that it wasn't exactly Mediterranean conditions. Most people saw it as an opportunity to take time out from the busy Bankside festivities, drop the brats off and then read the Sunday papers lazing on a sunny(ish) afternoon sitting on a deckchair.
Ken Campbell was the highlight of the performers, delivering a physics lecture that seemed to cover the area of the syllabus that was forgotten at my school. Time travel made possible with the aid of hallucinogenic substances and a dig at foreigners at the same time.
Fight them on the beaches etc.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 22 September, 2004 |
The event was billed as Reclaim the Beach, something that the late September rapidly approaching high tide eventually achieved down at Bankside on Sunday. Staged as part of the Thames Festival, the mini-Margate under the Festival Pier made the most of London's own little oasis of sand and dogshit as the weekend drew to a close.
Reclaim the Beach are seasoned South Bank party organisers with the high peak of summer drawing in crowds of two thousand plus. Celebrating the sand between the dirty old river and the DO NOT ENTER signs is not an illegal act. Enter act your own risk etc and just hope that you catch the Transport Cops on a good day.
Fight them on the beaches |
There's something very English about sitting around on a patch of damp sand. By which of course I mean that it wasn't exactly Mediterranean conditions. Most people saw it as an opportunity to take time out from the busy Bankside festivities, drop the brats off and then read the Sunday papers lazing on a sunny(ish) afternoon sitting on a deckchair.
Ken Campbell was the highlight of the performers, delivering a physics lecture that seemed to cover the area of the syllabus that was forgotten at my school. Time travel made possible with the aid of hallucinogenic substances and a dig at foreigners at the same time.
Fight them on the beaches etc.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Shoreditch Twat (freezone)*
I never knew Old Street could be such fun. The shitty streets around EC2 were made slightly less shitty on Sunday with the Shoreditch Car Free Day. Which apart from the obvious purging of petrol pollutants, seemed to amount to a sound system being placed on every street corner. What else would you expect from Shoreditch?
Cynicism aside, the annual event did transform the streets of Shoreditch. It's surprising how much more 'happy' a place can appear to be without running the risk of having your head decapitated by a ten ton truck as you cross the road. Humans are social animals by instinct. If we're not shagging then we're talking, and the removal of obstacles from the middle of the road enables us to talk. Or shag. But never both at the same time.
The Old Street shindig was part of the wider European Mobility Week with 1,000 similar events all taking place last Sunday. More on the Greenwich green get together HERE. Plus if you like the idea of cycling around the city in a safe environment with a thousand or so other similar souls, then Critical Mass hits the streets of London this Friday.
*Shoreditch Twat
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 22 September, 2004 |
I never knew Old Street could be such fun. The shitty streets around EC2 were made slightly less shitty on Sunday with the Shoreditch Car Free Day. Which apart from the obvious purging of petrol pollutants, seemed to amount to a sound system being placed on every street corner. What else would you expect from Shoreditch?
Cynicism aside, the annual event did transform the streets of Shoreditch. It's surprising how much more 'happy' a place can appear to be without running the risk of having your head decapitated by a ten ton truck as you cross the road. Humans are social animals by instinct. If we're not shagging then we're talking, and the removal of obstacles from the middle of the road enables us to talk. Or shag. But never both at the same time.
The Old Street shindig was part of the wider European Mobility Week with 1,000 similar events all taking place last Sunday. More on the Greenwich green get together HERE. Plus if you like the idea of cycling around the city in a safe environment with a thousand or so other similar souls, then Critical Mass hits the streets of London this Friday.
*Shoreditch Twat
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Liberal Love
Gotta love the LibDems. Well, not literally, unless you are weathergirl Sian Lloyd whose own little ray of sunshine each morning is the rather peculiarly shaped faced LibDem MP Lembit Opik.
Nope, the love for the Libs comes from their misguided policy proposal to deal with car theft. Below I have banged on about bastard bike thieves who only understand the language of a bike lock wrapped around their face. Not very liberal of me I agree but I'm rather pleased to be able to spout out such right wing rhetoric if only to let my pinko reputation slip slightly.
In-between sessions of shopping for new sandals and coming up with crackpot policies that they will never get the chance to put into practise, the wishy washy ones have laid down the law at their conference in how they will reform car crime.
Typical LibDems – always the reformers, never the revolutionaries.
And the Grand Plan? Take all the ratboys off the streets of South London and train them to... become PROFESSIONAL ratboys. Incarceration is not for car theft, an ideal that I would hope all in a liberal democracy would subscribe to. But a lengthy stretch of community service should serve the purpose. Wiping the arse of some senile serial shitter in an elderly home should make the little sods think twice before breaking into a Sierra.
Love me I'm a Liberal comes the call though from the Bournemouth coast. Car thieves need 'educating.' Carry on, I'm listening here... They need to be educated in... car mechanics.
Eh????!!!!
Ah, just what we need; rather than return to your Rover and find a crowbar through the windscreen, the ratboy pack will now come armed with a HND or BTEC in burglary, reformed enough to understand how to jump-start a Jag from cold using an old margarine container, a magnifying glass and a length of fuse wire.
Shouldn't we be educating criminals on the outcome of their actions? This is a lesson of course that the loveable LibDems would do well to sit in on. Caught between the Devil and the deep blue Tory rinse Right Wing Sea, and the LibDems just look on from the sidelines, dreaming of power but never really believing in it.
And that was me just being liberal by the way.
| Wednesday 22 September, 2004 |
Gotta love the LibDems. Well, not literally, unless you are weathergirl Sian Lloyd whose own little ray of sunshine each morning is the rather peculiarly shaped faced LibDem MP Lembit Opik.
Nope, the love for the Libs comes from their misguided policy proposal to deal with car theft. Below I have banged on about bastard bike thieves who only understand the language of a bike lock wrapped around their face. Not very liberal of me I agree but I'm rather pleased to be able to spout out such right wing rhetoric if only to let my pinko reputation slip slightly.
Always the reformers, never the revolutionaries |
Typical LibDems – always the reformers, never the revolutionaries.
And the Grand Plan? Take all the ratboys off the streets of South London and train them to... become PROFESSIONAL ratboys. Incarceration is not for car theft, an ideal that I would hope all in a liberal democracy would subscribe to. But a lengthy stretch of community service should serve the purpose. Wiping the arse of some senile serial shitter in an elderly home should make the little sods think twice before breaking into a Sierra.
Love me I'm a Liberal comes the call though from the Bournemouth coast. Car thieves need 'educating.' Carry on, I'm listening here... They need to be educated in... car mechanics.
Eh????!!!!
Ah, just what we need; rather than return to your Rover and find a crowbar through the windscreen, the ratboy pack will now come armed with a HND or BTEC in burglary, reformed enough to understand how to jump-start a Jag from cold using an old margarine container, a magnifying glass and a length of fuse wire.
Shouldn't we be educating criminals on the outcome of their actions? This is a lesson of course that the loveable LibDems would do well to sit in on. Caught between the Devil and the deep blue Tory rinse Right Wing Sea, and the LibDems just look on from the sidelines, dreaming of power but never really believing in it.
And that was me just being liberal by the way.
| #permalink |
Wood for the Trees
With Brian's body still warm (that's the booze for you) and it's back to business as usual. Where to turn to find out what's happening back in Nottingham and any plans that the club may have to remember the great man? The official Forest website of course.
Except instead of a front page paying respect to the manager who delivered TWO European Cups and financed the re-development of the City Ground, instead I am presented with the prospect of forking out £34.99 for the privilege of seeing Joe Kinnear (the anti-Forest beast personified) talk some bollocks on a hit and miss streaming connection about why Forest are so piss poor and play to draw, not to win.
Never mind, a click here, a navigation going slightly astray there and I'm through to the PREVIEW section of the site so I can find out at least when the next home match is as I plan a pilgrimage back home. But of course the fixture list is for MEMBERS ONLY.
For fuck's sake!
How the hell am I going to plan my trip if I have to splash out each time I want to see when a game is taking place?
Hey, hoe, so it's up the metaphorical online A52 then towards Pride Park (Shit Park more like) to see what Derby County are doing to honour their greatest ever manger. And lookey here...
For £34.99 a month, guess what I can look at until I've sent my brain into some sort of spazoid attack that I end up counting not sheep to sleep but Dean Saunders, Mark Wright and Peter the keeper Shilton? Pictures of George Burley buggering a ram? Well it might as well be seeing as though all I want is a snippet of a news story and not some 'must see content is king' crap video file of a manager so piss poor in ideas that he makes even clogger Kinnear seem slightly less than crap.
Premium TV, an arm of NTL, is of course responsible for all of this nu media nonsense. In the days of the dot com gold rush, the Football League / Championship / Coca Cola Conference East Premier League signed away its soul to allow these generic goons to bland out any original ideas that the individual clubs may have had for their websites.
What we're left with is an identikit branded site across all Football League clubs that is about as 'local' as the Pitcher & Piano 'pub' in Piccadilly Circus. Control of the content is obviously centralised with the purpose of screwing supporters for video content instead of offering a personal perspective.
In this week of all weeks, I really don't want to enter the Nationwide Financial Zone or take out a Capital One Forest credit card. The irony isn't lost either on a club that is £10m plus in debt.
Reality was almost restored when I heard that Burton Albion had won 3-2 away at Barnet last night in a match that I really should have gone to. The No 9 was there of course, picking himself as a sub and going about his trade.
Cliche cliche blah blah blah, more important than life or death, something which Nigel understands all too well.
| Wednesday 22 September, 2004 |
With Brian's body still warm (that's the booze for you) and it's back to business as usual. Where to turn to find out what's happening back in Nottingham and any plans that the club may have to remember the great man? The official Forest website of course.
Except instead of a front page paying respect to the manager who delivered TWO European Cups and financed the re-development of the City Ground, instead I am presented with the prospect of forking out £34.99 for the privilege of seeing Joe Kinnear (the anti-Forest beast personified) talk some bollocks on a hit and miss streaming connection about why Forest are so piss poor and play to draw, not to win.
Reality restored - Burton beat Barnet |
For fuck's sake!
How the hell am I going to plan my trip if I have to splash out each time I want to see when a game is taking place?
Hey, hoe, so it's up the metaphorical online A52 then towards Pride Park (Shit Park more like) to see what Derby County are doing to honour their greatest ever manger. And lookey here...
For £34.99 a month, guess what I can look at until I've sent my brain into some sort of spazoid attack that I end up counting not sheep to sleep but Dean Saunders, Mark Wright and Peter the keeper Shilton? Pictures of George Burley buggering a ram? Well it might as well be seeing as though all I want is a snippet of a news story and not some 'must see content is king' crap video file of a manager so piss poor in ideas that he makes even clogger Kinnear seem slightly less than crap.
Premium TV, an arm of NTL, is of course responsible for all of this nu media nonsense. In the days of the dot com gold rush, the Football League / Championship / Coca Cola Conference East Premier League signed away its soul to allow these generic goons to bland out any original ideas that the individual clubs may have had for their websites.
What we're left with is an identikit branded site across all Football League clubs that is about as 'local' as the Pitcher & Piano 'pub' in Piccadilly Circus. Control of the content is obviously centralised with the purpose of screwing supporters for video content instead of offering a personal perspective.
In this week of all weeks, I really don't want to enter the Nationwide Financial Zone or take out a Capital One Forest credit card. The irony isn't lost either on a club that is £10m plus in debt.
Reality was almost restored when I heard that Burton Albion had won 3-2 away at Barnet last night in a match that I really should have gone to. The No 9 was there of course, picking himself as a sub and going about his trade.
Cliche cliche blah blah blah, more important than life or death, something which Nigel understands all too well.
| #permalink |
Wanted: Little Shits
Time to name and shame the Brick Lane Bike Thief SCUM. Strangely the appearance of a Sony F717 camera and a couple of chatty coppers seemed to disperse the little shits on Sunday morning. But they will be back. Just don't feed their seedy little economy by buying stolen bikes off the pricks.
| Tuesday 21 September, 2004 |
Time to name and shame the Brick Lane Bike Thief SCUM. Strangely the appearance of a Sony F717 camera and a couple of chatty coppers seemed to disperse the little shits on Sunday morning. But they will be back. Just don't feed their seedy little economy by buying stolen bikes off the pricks.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Tuesday 21 September, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 8 Basingstoke Buffalo 3, 19/09/04
Streatham Redskins got their English National League season off to a winning start on Sunday with an impressive 8-3 home victory over Basingstoke Buffalo, a team that challenged in the play-offs back in April. With Redskins missing some key players, this was expected to be a real test as Buffalo were pre-season favourites to finish in a top four play off spot.
In a weekend where the London Racers of the Elite League overcame Basingstoke Bison 4-2, it was a case of anything out North London neighbours can do, Redskins can do better. Crap transport links? That will be Streatham High Road. Inability to face off on time? Just drop the bloody puck. Failure to find any ice time beyond the first two fixtures of the season? Forget that – credit the Redskins with some class.
Aint you heard of contraception? |
Redskins didn't waste any time in showing their new spirit of resilience in season two for the club. Fifty three seconds into the game and with the first break down the ice, David Smith went wide along the boards and then shot across the goal and placed the puck in the corner of the net.
Straight from the face off fourteen seconds later and the old Redskins goal horn was sounding off again. Victor Somfaleanu gained control of the puck and shot home high. The noisy home crowd didn't have to wait long for a third with Wayne Trunchion hitting home a carbon copy of the first goal but from the opposite wing.
With Buffalo boasting plenty of experience on their bench, it was clear that Redskins have toughened up from last season, yet have managed to lose the tendency to take cheap penalties that cost them so dearly. Sadly for the home team is was Buffalo who benefited from their own lack of discipline with Drew Campbell scoring a shorthanded goal at 15:48.
Somfaleanu soon restored the three goal lead, stealing the puck and then unleashing his slapshot to send Streatham in at the end of the first with a 4-1 lead.
During the first period break I noticed that a local wag / bored rink employee had left a series of motivational messages etched into various plexi pieces around the old barn. It wasn't quite in the same style as US locker room jock jostling stuff but the principle remains the same:
'Mind the Puck!'
'Keep your head below or lose it!'
And positioned directly in front of Puck Bunny Corner:
'Will PUCK players.'
At least I think it said puck.
Nine minutes after the re-start and a goal net scramble left Vicky Robbins in-between the Buffalo pipes not knowing where the puck was. Redskins captain Peter Quiney took advantage and fired home for a 5-1 lead.
Just like Haringey the week before, Basingstoke tried to unsettle Streatham with some hard hits in the corner. Brothers grim Wayne and Warren Trunchion were wise to this, charming the visitors with their cherubic good looks, schoolboy smiles and sticks up the arse. Welcome to the High Road.
The main difference this season for Streatham compared to last year is that the players now work together as a team with each line linking up well. The 'kids' line featuring sixteen-year-old Luke Fitzmaurice and Perry Billowes gave reason for Head Coach Adam Goldstone to feel proud when Billowes battled well behind the net to set up his team mate to score his second ever goal for the club at 32:35.
Now it was the turn of Basingstoke to score straight from the face off but the Buffalo stampede was short lived as Captain Quiney restored the five goal gap using his skill, agility and walking frame to fire home.
Redskins then continued to shake off their Granddads on Ice reputation with Fitzmaurice scoring a second at 35:32 after further solid work from behind the net.
8-2 down then for Buffalo, an identical score line that the DUlwich Hamlet Supporters' Team had to come to terms with last weekend. If our changing room experience was repeated behind closed doors for the Buffalo, I can personally vouch for plenty of swearing, ferocious finger pointing and some poor unfortunate Basingstoke chap being forced to wear a sweaty jock strap on his head just to complete the humiliation. Not that I'm a bitter, just still a bit sweaty and smelly.
'You don't win anything with kids' as Alan Hansen was once famously proved wrong. You try telling that to a fresh faced Fitzmaurice who was last off the ice and first back on for the start of the third period. Too Much Too Young was the appropriately themed choice of song to greet the hat trick hero in waiting.
'Aint you heard of contraception?' is of course the next line in The Specials ode to loose women. Ah, and bang on cue, who's this I see sprinting to take up their seats... the loveable Puck Bunnies of course. If the cap fits, boom boom.
Redskins sustained the pressure applied by Buffalo at the start of the third who were now playing for pride. Concentration was lost momentarily at 47:08 with Drew Campbell scoring his second of the night for the visitors.
No surprises that young Fitzmaurice was named as Man of the Match and his elder statesmen team mates rightfully ambushed the young star mid ice to deprive him of any under age drinking after he was presented with his crate of lager.
An 8-3 win against a strong Buffalo side shows how far the Redskins have come since the club re-launched last summer. This is a winning team playing strong attacking hockey and already the Redskins look like genuine contenders for silver wear this season.
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crap match report compendium
streatham redskins official site
redskins forum
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Life of Brian
I'm not a believer in heroes and I don't like obituaries much. But Brian is different. No doubt you will read and watch elsewhere in the next twenty fours about how Clough was a one-off, the best England manager that never was and how he suffered from 'problems' in later life.
Bollocks to all of that. It means Jack Shit to me. The Brian Clough that I grew up admiring, despairing and laughing at was quite simply my football education. And I like to think that I passed the exams rather well thank you very much.
Clough introduced me to football. If it wasn't for Forest's rapid rise up Division One in the autumn of '76 then I fear that fishing would have characterised the father and son relationship back home for me in Nottingham. With a family friend unable to make use of his season ticket in the old Main Stand, my old man me dragged me down to the Trent one week for an experience that although was utterly unique to me, was probably repeated in households throughout the East Midlands.
I still remember having to 'dress up' for the Main Stand in my best trousers and coat as it was where all the 'posh people' sit. Wearing my Sunday Best on a Saturday didn't feel that strange for what soon became a religious experience. As for the posh folk? Well, I had never heard the professional classes swear like that before. I was hooked.
It soon became clear that Forest were just an ordinary football club with an extraordinary young manager. Cliche number one but tell it like it is etc. And the bubble never did burst, did it Bob Wilson?
What happened over the next five years was remarkable. You can read all the football history books and see how a City that was struggling to find an identity outside of men in green tights was transformed by one man. And the new messiah was a man of the people as well.
Promotion to the old First Divison, Champions and League Cup winners the next season, European Cup winners a year later knocking out champions Liverpool in the first round, retaining the League Cup, retaining the European Cup (dream on Sir Alex) and a hat trick of League Cups.
It's not the kind of run that you would expect from Stoke City in 2004 is it?
The overriding achievement wasn't measured in the trophy cabinet though. Clough personified Forest. He wasted no time in stamping his identity at all levels of the club taking on an almost dictator like role. This was a figure that I could look up to, see how he treated others around him (players, family, striking miners) and how football was the method by which he delivered his message.
Having introduced me to football back in '76, bugger me but Old Big 'Ead was still there seventeen years later. I like to think that there was a parallel in our lives which led to my 'grey' period away from the game. The trophies dried up in the mid-'80s and so did my interest in football. Fair weather supporter maybe, but teenage girls and The Specials were more appealing to me at the time than Justin Fashanu.
And then just as I returned one New Year's Day with a mate out of boredom, looking down from high up in the old Executive Stand (now rightfully renamed the Clough Stand), I could see that eleven men wearing red and passing the ball around offered me more answers than two timing girlfriends and a piss poor late '80s music scene.
This was the era of Neil Webb and Harry Hodge stroking the ball around midfield, young Nigel up front and with Des Walker beating all challengers back in defence and Stuart Pearce decapitating any stray Derby County winger in front of the Main Stand for fun. Whenever I feel down then I have two options: A Smiths album to cheer me up or the '88-'89 season Goals video, just to see Ted McMinn being slashed in half by Psycho.
A return to form brought more trophies and many a happy Wembley away day as the young boys in their Sunday Best back in the Main Stand in '76 had now all grown up and were driving down the M1 leaving the old men back home, probably fishing.
Clough was the one constant in all of this. We knew he was a fruitcake yet still he offered guidance.
The missed opportunities were endless – the England job, the blocking of the proposed job share for the Wales managerial position by the Forest board and of course a Knighthood. But Clough was never an Establishment man and such doffing of the cap was never really his scene.
Despite the messy end with relegation in '93, I like to think that Clough was happy in later life. He certainly made me happy thinking back on all the memories. Watching the 'No 9' managing Burton Albion became his love and on the few occasions that I have seen the Brewers play, it was wonderful not only to see Brian up in the stands smiling away with his grandchildren, but also to see the footballing legacy that he has passed onto his son.
That legacy also remains with Matin O'Neill and John Roberston of course throughout their rapid rise in management. The comparisons with Clough and Taylor are obvious with an unorthodox chalk and cheese couple. Clough never really got over the loss of his great mate Taylor, a relationship that was ironically soured when Taylor signed Robertson behind his back when he returned to manage Derby County.
There's also the personal legacy that he has left me as I struggle more each year to keep up with the pace of my five-a-side team. Pass the ball, don't foul and have fun. It really is as simple as that.
As for particular memories of the great man, three distinct eras stand out; I was at Coventry away in '77 when we won the Championship; I was at Hillsborough in '89 when it all went tragically wrong. The most emotion I ever saw from Clough though was at Ipswich away in '93 – his final game in charge and with relegation already confirmed.
Individual anecdotes are legendary and will probably be overplayed over the next few days; signing Sir Trev for £1m and then playing him in the stiffs the following week; demanding his players go out on the piss the night before a European Cup final to calm their nerves and my personal favourite, refusing to sign Gary McAllister from Leicester because he turned up at the City Ground wearing cowboy boots.
'Who do you think you are young man? Bloody John Wayne?'
My personal memories are of seeing him as a red faced broken old man during that terrible final relegation season trying to keep his dignity in tact at reserve matches. With his world about to fall in on him, Clough still found the time to invite the young kids into the dug out and watch the game with him. Even if they didn't learn about the game of football, they probably went away with a lesson learnt in the dangers of alcohol.
If nothing else then at least this sad news should mean that we get to see some classic archive footage on TV over the next few days. Kermit McGovern hoisting the European Cup in Munich; Cloughie landing a left hook on the stray supporters at the City Ground in '89 and that much overused but still relevant manual in man management when the then fresh faced Derby County manager calls his team 'a bloody disgrace.'
No one can compare to him in the modern day. Ah, different era and all that and Clough would have failed in modern management etc. Think again. Winning and defending the European Cup when it was a KNOCK OUT tournament – one mistake and you're out, as Liverpool found out at Anfield in '78.
At his peak and Clough would probably have been the only manager able to wind up Sir Alex Ferguson. There is a fantastic tale in the Walking on Water book when in response to Manchester United's decision (OK, the FA's decision) for the then FA Cup winners not to defend their trophy and play in Brazil instead, Clough states:
'I hope they all get diarrhoea.'
It pains me to say but Derby was probably the spiritual home of Clough. It was here where he made his mark in management (although only a European Cup SEMI, ha ha), it was down the A52 where his sacking almost provoked a player's strike and sadly it was here where he died as well.
I Lost That Loving Feeling a long time ago in pursuit of the pink 'n blue. The main reason being a victim of geography, but in recent years I have come to realise that without Brian, the bond had been broken.
I remember exactly where I was back in '93 when he was forced out at Forest for being an alcoholic (in a Sainsbury car park in Colchester loading up a car boot with cheap booze strangely enough). I shall remember how I felt at four o' clock today for a very long time to come.
Five-a-side football for me tonight. I shall be wearing my Forest top with pride.
Always look on the bright side.
| Monday 20 September, 2004 |
I'm not a believer in heroes and I don't like obituaries much. But Brian is different. No doubt you will read and watch elsewhere in the next twenty fours about how Clough was a one-off, the best England manager that never was and how he suffered from 'problems' in later life.
Bollocks to all of that. It means Jack Shit to me. The Brian Clough that I grew up admiring, despairing and laughing at was quite simply my football education. And I like to think that I passed the exams rather well thank you very much.
I hope they all get diarrhoea |
I still remember having to 'dress up' for the Main Stand in my best trousers and coat as it was where all the 'posh people' sit. Wearing my Sunday Best on a Saturday didn't feel that strange for what soon became a religious experience. As for the posh folk? Well, I had never heard the professional classes swear like that before. I was hooked.
It soon became clear that Forest were just an ordinary football club with an extraordinary young manager. Cliche number one but tell it like it is etc. And the bubble never did burst, did it Bob Wilson?
What happened over the next five years was remarkable. You can read all the football history books and see how a City that was struggling to find an identity outside of men in green tights was transformed by one man. And the new messiah was a man of the people as well.
Promotion to the old First Divison, Champions and League Cup winners the next season, European Cup winners a year later knocking out champions Liverpool in the first round, retaining the League Cup, retaining the European Cup (dream on Sir Alex) and a hat trick of League Cups.
It's not the kind of run that you would expect from Stoke City in 2004 is it?
The overriding achievement wasn't measured in the trophy cabinet though. Clough personified Forest. He wasted no time in stamping his identity at all levels of the club taking on an almost dictator like role. This was a figure that I could look up to, see how he treated others around him (players, family, striking miners) and how football was the method by which he delivered his message.
Having introduced me to football back in '76, bugger me but Old Big 'Ead was still there seventeen years later. I like to think that there was a parallel in our lives which led to my 'grey' period away from the game. The trophies dried up in the mid-'80s and so did my interest in football. Fair weather supporter maybe, but teenage girls and The Specials were more appealing to me at the time than Justin Fashanu.
And then just as I returned one New Year's Day with a mate out of boredom, looking down from high up in the old Executive Stand (now rightfully renamed the Clough Stand), I could see that eleven men wearing red and passing the ball around offered me more answers than two timing girlfriends and a piss poor late '80s music scene.
This was the era of Neil Webb and Harry Hodge stroking the ball around midfield, young Nigel up front and with Des Walker beating all challengers back in defence and Stuart Pearce decapitating any stray Derby County winger in front of the Main Stand for fun. Whenever I feel down then I have two options: A Smiths album to cheer me up or the '88-'89 season Goals video, just to see Ted McMinn being slashed in half by Psycho.
A return to form brought more trophies and many a happy Wembley away day as the young boys in their Sunday Best back in the Main Stand in '76 had now all grown up and were driving down the M1 leaving the old men back home, probably fishing.
Clough was the one constant in all of this. We knew he was a fruitcake yet still he offered guidance.
The missed opportunities were endless – the England job, the blocking of the proposed job share for the Wales managerial position by the Forest board and of course a Knighthood. But Clough was never an Establishment man and such doffing of the cap was never really his scene.
Despite the messy end with relegation in '93, I like to think that Clough was happy in later life. He certainly made me happy thinking back on all the memories. Watching the 'No 9' managing Burton Albion became his love and on the few occasions that I have seen the Brewers play, it was wonderful not only to see Brian up in the stands smiling away with his grandchildren, but also to see the footballing legacy that he has passed onto his son.
That legacy also remains with Matin O'Neill and John Roberston of course throughout their rapid rise in management. The comparisons with Clough and Taylor are obvious with an unorthodox chalk and cheese couple. Clough never really got over the loss of his great mate Taylor, a relationship that was ironically soured when Taylor signed Robertson behind his back when he returned to manage Derby County.
There's also the personal legacy that he has left me as I struggle more each year to keep up with the pace of my five-a-side team. Pass the ball, don't foul and have fun. It really is as simple as that.
As for particular memories of the great man, three distinct eras stand out; I was at Coventry away in '77 when we won the Championship; I was at Hillsborough in '89 when it all went tragically wrong. The most emotion I ever saw from Clough though was at Ipswich away in '93 – his final game in charge and with relegation already confirmed.
Individual anecdotes are legendary and will probably be overplayed over the next few days; signing Sir Trev for £1m and then playing him in the stiffs the following week; demanding his players go out on the piss the night before a European Cup final to calm their nerves and my personal favourite, refusing to sign Gary McAllister from Leicester because he turned up at the City Ground wearing cowboy boots.
'Who do you think you are young man? Bloody John Wayne?'
My personal memories are of seeing him as a red faced broken old man during that terrible final relegation season trying to keep his dignity in tact at reserve matches. With his world about to fall in on him, Clough still found the time to invite the young kids into the dug out and watch the game with him. Even if they didn't learn about the game of football, they probably went away with a lesson learnt in the dangers of alcohol.
If nothing else then at least this sad news should mean that we get to see some classic archive footage on TV over the next few days. Kermit McGovern hoisting the European Cup in Munich; Cloughie landing a left hook on the stray supporters at the City Ground in '89 and that much overused but still relevant manual in man management when the then fresh faced Derby County manager calls his team 'a bloody disgrace.'
No one can compare to him in the modern day. Ah, different era and all that and Clough would have failed in modern management etc. Think again. Winning and defending the European Cup when it was a KNOCK OUT tournament – one mistake and you're out, as Liverpool found out at Anfield in '78.
At his peak and Clough would probably have been the only manager able to wind up Sir Alex Ferguson. There is a fantastic tale in the Walking on Water book when in response to Manchester United's decision (OK, the FA's decision) for the then FA Cup winners not to defend their trophy and play in Brazil instead, Clough states:
'I hope they all get diarrhoea.'
It pains me to say but Derby was probably the spiritual home of Clough. It was here where he made his mark in management (although only a European Cup SEMI, ha ha), it was down the A52 where his sacking almost provoked a player's strike and sadly it was here where he died as well.
I Lost That Loving Feeling a long time ago in pursuit of the pink 'n blue. The main reason being a victim of geography, but in recent years I have come to realise that without Brian, the bond had been broken.
I remember exactly where I was back in '93 when he was forced out at Forest for being an alcoholic (in a Sainsbury car park in Colchester loading up a car boot with cheap booze strangely enough). I shall remember how I felt at four o' clock today for a very long time to come.
Five-a-side football for me tonight. I shall be wearing my Forest top with pride.
Always look on the bright side.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
West Indies Vs South Africa ICC Champions Trophy, 19/09/04 (don't give a toss about the result to be honest)
The ultimate in Crap Match Reports, so crap that I didn't even get past the main gates. With less than one hour remaining of play and the Windies cruising to victory in a ground only a third full, no freebie Seats of No Shame at The Oval this afternoon. I wasn't too fussed as I had more pressing engagements, such as re-mortgaging my flat so I can afford a ticket for the final.
I did feel sorry though for the father with his three young boys who was quoted a price of £20 a head to see their South African heroes. Eighty quid for about ten overs of cricket? Blimey Charlie, it would be cheaper watching Chelsea, and with just as many foreigners on the field as well.
As if the food fascist ground entry policy of only Walkers' and Pepsi products wasn't bad enough, the ICC is being over protective in what ultimately is a crappy competition anyway. With the English weather washing out any significant action during the fag end of the summer, there's more interest in the 2.40 from Haydock Park.
Knob jockeys.
crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
| Sunday 19 September, 2004 |
West Indies Vs South Africa ICC Champions Trophy, 19/09/04 (don't give a toss about the result to be honest)
The ultimate in Crap Match Reports, so crap that I didn't even get past the main gates. With less than one hour remaining of play and the Windies cruising to victory in a ground only a third full, no freebie Seats of No Shame at The Oval this afternoon. I wasn't too fussed as I had more pressing engagements, such as re-mortgaging my flat so I can afford a ticket for the final.
I did feel sorry though for the father with his three young boys who was quoted a price of £20 a head to see their South African heroes. Eighty quid for about ten overs of cricket? Blimey Charlie, it would be cheaper watching Chelsea, and with just as many foreigners on the field as well.
As if the food fascist ground entry policy of only Walkers' and Pepsi products wasn't bad enough, the ICC is being over protective in what ultimately is a crappy competition anyway. With the English weather washing out any significant action during the fag end of the summer, there's more interest in the 2.40 from Haydock Park.
Knob jockeys.
knobbers |
crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
| #permalink |
Riverside Ranking Full Stop
Two Tone was all about black and white but I don't think Jerry Dammers meant black and white September skies back in the day.
Forget about the various splits, forget about the long list of splinter groups (General Public, Fine Young Cannibals (!), International Beat, Special Beat) – a man who can't dance to ska is a man who probably owns a Rick Wakeman album.
This must have been the first time that West Midlands' finest ska skankers have had a Marilyn Munroe tribute act strumming a ukulele as the support act though. Still, at least the Marilyn masquerader managed to strum out a ska tinged Message To You Rudy.
And so what kind of crowd do The Beat bring to the party in 2004? Old school skanking rude boys in the 30-40 demographic (hands up from onionbagblog HQ) who have strangely deserted the skinhead in favour of dreads seemed a strong contingent.
Sadly there was no Saxa, the ska DNA that glues it all together. For a man that claimed to be sixty back in '79 (and that was using the Joan Collins method of calculation), the September Bankside chill was probably pushing it a bit.
As you would expect from a Saturday night of South Bank fun, all the hits were there: Hands Off She's Mine, Tears of a Clown, Rough Rider, Big Shot, Too Nice To Talk To, Best Friend, Ranking Full Stop and Mirror in the Bathroom, demonstrating why The Beat were up there with Madness and The Jam as permanent fixtures on TOTP in the early '80s.
The highlight of course was Stand Down Margaret, a tune that remains the only political song that allows you to revel in the rocksteady and dance like a twat. Which I duly did. You try moonstomping to Billy Bragg. With Westminster across the Thames providing a fitting backdrop, better late than never with the message. Just as the original vinyl version seamlessly slips from Whine and Grind into the warning for the Wicked Witch, the riverside rendition changed the lyrics to 'Stand down George, stand down Tony.'
Ranking Roger of course ranked like a mad fucker, even with the rivalry from his young son (TRUE!) Ranking Junior. The Ranking father and son relationship was reason enough to head for the river on a rain filled Saturday night. The fight to reclaim the rightful RUDE BOY reputation from the rat boy imitators starts right here.
*footnote – and so back to Sunny Stockwell and on goes the Saturday night TV as I stuff my face with shit. Lionel fucking Ritchie bawling out Hello on BBC1, Donny arsehole Osmond and Puppy Love on ITV. In 2004. What the fuck?*
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 18 September, 2004 |
Two Tone was all about black and white but I don't think Jerry Dammers meant black and white September skies back in the day.
Stand down George, stand down Tony |
This must have been the first time that West Midlands' finest ska skankers have had a Marilyn Munroe tribute act strumming a ukulele as the support act though. Still, at least the Marilyn masquerader managed to strum out a ska tinged Message To You Rudy.
And so what kind of crowd do The Beat bring to the party in 2004? Old school skanking rude boys in the 30-40 demographic (hands up from onionbagblog HQ) who have strangely deserted the skinhead in favour of dreads seemed a strong contingent.
Sadly there was no Saxa, the ska DNA that glues it all together. For a man that claimed to be sixty back in '79 (and that was using the Joan Collins method of calculation), the September Bankside chill was probably pushing it a bit.
As you would expect from a Saturday night of South Bank fun, all the hits were there: Hands Off She's Mine, Tears of a Clown, Rough Rider, Big Shot, Too Nice To Talk To, Best Friend, Ranking Full Stop and Mirror in the Bathroom, demonstrating why The Beat were up there with Madness and The Jam as permanent fixtures on TOTP in the early '80s.
The highlight of course was Stand Down Margaret, a tune that remains the only political song that allows you to revel in the rocksteady and dance like a twat. Which I duly did. You try moonstomping to Billy Bragg. With Westminster across the Thames providing a fitting backdrop, better late than never with the message. Just as the original vinyl version seamlessly slips from Whine and Grind into the warning for the Wicked Witch, the riverside rendition changed the lyrics to 'Stand down George, stand down Tony.'
Ranking Roger of course ranked like a mad fucker, even with the rivalry from his young son (TRUE!) Ranking Junior. The Ranking father and son relationship was reason enough to head for the river on a rain filled Saturday night. The fight to reclaim the rightful RUDE BOY reputation from the rat boy imitators starts right here.
*footnote – and so back to Sunny Stockwell and on goes the Saturday night TV as I stuff my face with shit. Lionel fucking Ritchie bawling out Hello on BBC1, Donny arsehole Osmond and Puppy Love on ITV. In 2004. What the fuck?*
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Tell It Like It Is
The very last word on the 'act of defiance for THE PEOPLE' as carried out by five Establishment buffoons with links to not only the aristocracy (worrying) but also the ROCK aristocracy (just plain weird).
And who better to allow the last word than professional Knobber Media Whore Nicky Knobstick Campbell?
Speakers down if at work, pumped up high if not, etc.
ENJOY
BIG UP the Holy Moly collective for unearthing these wise words of wisdom.
| Friday 17 September, 2004 |
The very last word on the 'act of defiance for THE PEOPLE' as carried out by five Establishment buffoons with links to not only the aristocracy (worrying) but also the ROCK aristocracy (just plain weird).
And who better to allow the last word than professional Knobber Media Whore Nicky Knobstick Campbell?
Speakers down if at work, pumped up high if not, etc.
ENJOY
BIG UP the Holy Moly collective for unearthing these wise words of wisdom.
| #permalink |
Strange Brew
I once held the more glamorous (yet soulless) position where I was expected to entertain 'contacts' (PR knobbers) in London’s 'glittering' (piss stained) West End. Fried egg and chips at the New Piccadilly it is then. I made many friends in the accounts department, but few from the ranks of the corporate boys I was supposed to be wining and dining.
The New Piccadilly cafe on Denman Street W1 has been serving economy' food for over fifty years. This genuine London landmark could soon be about to prepare steak, chips and spaghetti (my fave at £4.99) for the final time. There is just over a year left on the lease but rising rents within the West End as the fake coffee kids move in makes it difficult for an independent cafe to compete.
It is highly unlikely that the New Piccadilly is ever going to win any food critic awards but that's not the appeal of the place. A family run business with the friendliest waiters in the West End, generous portions, even more generous prices and a Bring Your Own Booze policy with no cork charge helps a lot.
Most satisfying though is knowing that just around the corner there is an identikit of fast food, pizza or coffee shops where you really wouldn't know one week from the next which one you are sitting in.
Eating at the New Piccadilly feels like your own little London secret, although probably half the population of the capital have frequented it over the years. A glance around at the other customers confirms this; single spindly looking blokes who haven't eaten for a couple of days; arty types and business people doing lunch. All are equal in the New Piccadilly, which you would hope so too given the pricing policy.
The interior isn't the greatest but give me Formica fittings over branded burger bars any day. Behind the food counter is testament to the success of the New Piccadilly with the wall covered with postcards sent in from around the world from happy punters. In an area that tries to eulogise the London picture postcard landscape, it would be a shame if one of the few remaining genuine postcard places of interest packs it all in.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 16 September, 2004 |
I once held the more glamorous (yet soulless) position where I was expected to entertain 'contacts' (PR knobbers) in London’s 'glittering' (piss stained) West End. Fried egg and chips at the New Piccadilly it is then. I made many friends in the accounts department, but few from the ranks of the corporate boys I was supposed to be wining and dining.
The New Piccadilly cafe on Denman Street W1 has been serving economy' food for over fifty years. This genuine London landmark could soon be about to prepare steak, chips and spaghetti (my fave at £4.99) for the final time. There is just over a year left on the lease but rising rents within the West End as the fake coffee kids move in makes it difficult for an independent cafe to compete.
A Bring Your Own Booze policy helps |
Most satisfying though is knowing that just around the corner there is an identikit of fast food, pizza or coffee shops where you really wouldn't know one week from the next which one you are sitting in.
Eating at the New Piccadilly feels like your own little London secret, although probably half the population of the capital have frequented it over the years. A glance around at the other customers confirms this; single spindly looking blokes who haven't eaten for a couple of days; arty types and business people doing lunch. All are equal in the New Piccadilly, which you would hope so too given the pricing policy.
The interior isn't the greatest but give me Formica fittings over branded burger bars any day. Behind the food counter is testament to the success of the New Piccadilly with the wall covered with postcards sent in from around the world from happy punters. In an area that tries to eulogise the London picture postcard landscape, it would be a shame if one of the few remaining genuine postcard places of interest packs it all in.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Kennington Capers
War – what is it good for? Absolutely nothing if you were living in South London in 1854 and the highlight of your social calendar was the opening ceremony for Kennington Park. The Crimean War put paid to any celebrations with a one hundred and fifty year wait for the official opening. Here's me thinking that the Vauxhall Cross hub link was a little lapse in being on time and on budget.
And so what has changed in that century and a half? Not a great deal in terms of the landscape. London's first municipal park (i.e. not owned by some landed gentry knobber wanting to keep the oiks out) remains a flat piece of land with the odd rose garden here and there. I bet the monthly fun fare didn't blast out a bit of drum 'n bass back in the day though.
Despite the uniform blandness, Kennington Park stands proud as a turning point in the political history of the UK. Charles Wesley preached on a spot here in 1739 with estimated crowds of 50,000 plus. Public hangings took place on the land up until 1799. Six years prior to the park being granted municipal status the land was used for the first meeting place for the Charter movement in the campaign for political reform. The political links remain today with many central London demos using the park as a starting point ahead of marches on Westminster.
Tolerance remains a theme in the twenty first century with Kennington Park providing some much needed public open space in a busy South London interchange. With transport links providing routes towards the West End, East towards Camberwell and looking South to Clapham and beyond, there is a wonderful ambience offering escape for all.
Park football matches are frequent at the weekends, the hidden gardens give the perfect spot to sit out and read in the sun and the South London yoof can do their yoof thing at the skateboard park.
The official opening of Kennington Park took place at the start of this month with a sizeable crowd taking time out to celebrate the land. No public hangings or preaching this time, but plenty of filthy drum 'n bass with a little bit of politics thrown in. Well, there was a wonderful Sunday afternoon mad as a wet hen soapbox preacher putting across his point, in-between swigs of Special Brew.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 15 September, 2004 |
War – what is it good for? Absolutely nothing if you were living in South London in 1854 and the highlight of your social calendar was the opening ceremony for Kennington Park. The Crimean War put paid to any celebrations with a one hundred and fifty year wait for the official opening. Here's me thinking that the Vauxhall Cross hub link was a little lapse in being on time and on budget.
And so what has changed in that century and a half? Not a great deal in terms of the landscape. London's first municipal park (i.e. not owned by some landed gentry knobber wanting to keep the oiks out) remains a flat piece of land with the odd rose garden here and there. I bet the monthly fun fare didn't blast out a bit of drum 'n bass back in the day though.
Plenty of filthy drum 'n bass |
Tolerance remains a theme in the twenty first century with Kennington Park providing some much needed public open space in a busy South London interchange. With transport links providing routes towards the West End, East towards Camberwell and looking South to Clapham and beyond, there is a wonderful ambience offering escape for all.
Park football matches are frequent at the weekends, the hidden gardens give the perfect spot to sit out and read in the sun and the South London yoof can do their yoof thing at the skateboard park.
The official opening of Kennington Park took place at the start of this month with a sizeable crowd taking time out to celebrate the land. No public hangings or preaching this time, but plenty of filthy drum 'n bass with a little bit of politics thrown in. Well, there was a wonderful Sunday afternoon mad as a wet hen soapbox preacher putting across his point, in-between swigs of Special Brew.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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South London Squares
Two minutes away from the hustle and bustle of Elephant & Castle (you go around one roundabout and then... you do it all over again) is Cleaver Square, a lovely little homage to Georgian town planning.
Cleaver Square is a community within itself, although sadly, given the desirability of the property within, it has become something of a gated enclosure. A three bedroomed town house can expect to reach £700,000 whilst down the road just past the Elephant, a similar size property on the Aylesbury will set you back £150, 000.
All of which is slightly more than the annual 1794 rent of 28 shillings, as documented by William Brooks, the architect of Cleaver Square. Brooks was commissioned to build Prince's Square (as it was known at the time) following the construction of the nearby Westminster Bridge. Cleaver was the first example of a Georgian Square in South London, an early indicator that even two hundred years ago the poncy North London types were trying to infiltrate us with their Timothy and Tallulah lifestyles.
As with most communities, at the heart of the square is the Prince of Wales pub. The gravel covered square also doubles up as a Mediterranean style boules court with all comers welcome to challenge the locals.
BBC4 bosses could do a lot worse than to base a highbrow Gruaniad style soap around Cleaver; storylines centred around the Prince of Wales running out of guacamole, a reading group that leads to out of marriage relationships and an outsider who enters the square on his bicycle, takes a few dodgy pictures and causes the local Neighbourhood Watch curtain twitcher to calls the cops.
I know just who to cast in this role.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 14 September, 2004 |
Two minutes away from the hustle and bustle of Elephant & Castle (you go around one roundabout and then... you do it all over again) is Cleaver Square, a lovely little homage to Georgian town planning.
Cleaver Square is a community within itself, although sadly, given the desirability of the property within, it has become something of a gated enclosure. A three bedroomed town house can expect to reach £700,000 whilst down the road just past the Elephant, a similar size property on the Aylesbury will set you back £150, 000.
All of which is slightly more than the annual 1794 rent of 28 shillings, as documented by William Brooks, the architect of Cleaver Square. Brooks was commissioned to build Prince's Square (as it was known at the time) following the construction of the nearby Westminster Bridge. Cleaver was the first example of a Georgian Square in South London, an early indicator that even two hundred years ago the poncy North London types were trying to infiltrate us with their Timothy and Tallulah lifestyles.
As with most communities, at the heart of the square is the Prince of Wales pub. The gravel covered square also doubles up as a Mediterranean style boules court with all comers welcome to challenge the locals.
BBC4 bosses could do a lot worse than to base a highbrow Gruaniad style soap around Cleaver; storylines centred around the Prince of Wales running out of guacamole, a reading group that leads to out of marriage relationships and an outsider who enters the square on his bicycle, takes a few dodgy pictures and causes the local Neighbourhood Watch curtain twitcher to calls the cops.
I know just who to cast in this role.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report
| Monday 13 September, 2004 |
Haringey Greyhounds 1 Streatham Redskins 7, 11/09/04
Streatham Redskins got off to a winning start in the English National League Cup away to new boys Haringey Greyhounds at Alexander Palace on Saturday. Icing for the South London team was new recruit Simon Greaves, a 'stay at home' D-man who has played at the highest level with the Nottingham Panthers.
This was the first game for the re-birth of the Haringey Greyhounds and looking around the old barn on opening night, it wasn't difficult to see why our North London neighbours have chosen a canine name for their team; something to do with the appearance of their female fans I assume. As ever the Redskins were roared on by the adorable South London puck bunnies. This was to be one occasion where the hound didn't catch the hare. Sadly neither did the Crap Match Report writer.
Smith silenced 'The Mouth' |
Dave Smith soon followed with a short handed effort at 8.09, breaking away down the ice and waiting for the Greyhounds netminder to make the first move, and then placing the puck in the corner. Octavia Sersea set up a 3:0 scoreline five minutes later slotting home on the end of a cross.
Having received high praise for their efforts the previous week against Premier League side Slough Jets, the Redskins defence was confident to soak up the home team attack and hit the Greyhounds on the break. A fourth soon followed when Greyhounds netminder fumbled and failed to freeze the puck. Victor Somfaleanu was at hand to fire home from just outside the crease.
The Greyhounds came out pumped up at the start of the second period, determined not to be humiliated in the first game for the new club. Redskins responded though with a fifth goal at 24:07 with Somfaleanu hitting home a blue liner that clipped the inside of the pipe before bouncing out of the back of the net.
Time for new tactics for the Greyhounds and Dave 'The Mouth' Richards was called on to try and disrupt the flow of the game. He chose the wrong Redskins player to pick a fight with though as Dave Smith silenced The Mouth, not to mention probably cutting it up as well.
Redskins' netminder Adam Noctor faced plenty of rubber midway into the second period, leaving Coach Adam Goldstone with two in form goalies after the fine display by James Tanner against Slough. Greyhounds finally managed to find a breakthrough at 27:41 with a shot just trickling under Noctor's pads.
As the match officials took to the ice ahead of the third period, it is with some regret that I have to announce that ex-onionbagblogger ice maiden, stripey Tottman, has gone to seed over the summer months, doubling her figure and going bald. Oh, it's her old man you say...? I live in hope that one day Joy will get to see my old man.
Luke Fitzmaurice added a sixth for the Redskins after a goal mouth scramble at 42.56 which was the signal for 'The Mouth' Richards to once again be all fur coat and no knickers. Wayne Trunchion took his turn this time to give Richards a glove face wash. Can't win, can't fight and the Greyhounds agitator ended up with a ten minute misconduct penalty for his troubles. A reserved seat in the penalty box has already been arranged for Richards down at the High Road rink when the Redskins are the hosts in November.
With the result never really in any doubt, Redskins gave their entire roster plenty of ice time in what ended up as a confidence boosting 7-1 road victory after old timer Peter Quiney tapped home towards the end.
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streatham redskins official site
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Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Burgess Hill Town 2, 11/09/04
Having spent the morning wearing the pink 'n blue and having my arse kicked around the park by the Fulham Cottagers, the last thing I want in the afternoon is to turn up at Champion Hill and be kicked out of my seat my by a set of Burgess Hill supporters who make The Rabble look like shandy tasters.
'If you're proud to come from Sussex clap your hands...' went the chant. Excuse me, but 1066 and all that - maybe if you all weren't so pissed back in the day then I wouldn't be subjected to death by garlic bread every time I put my tongue down the throat of some slapper on a Saturday night.
Roles were being revered on the pitch with the Dulwich defenders emulating King Harold and offering little resistance. One nil down with less than fifteen minutes on the clock from a penalty, although the law change concerning a spot kick being conceded if the ball is handled OFF the pitch passed me by.
The Burgess Hill barmy army were blasting their bleedin' air horn three minutes later when a free header looped over Paul Seuke in goal for Dulwich
'We all live in a yellow shirted dream' chirped the away fans. Another Hard Day's Night for the Hamlet though, We CAN'T Work it Out and of course... Help!
With nutmegs, step overs and back heels, Burgess Hill were having a laugh at the Hamlet's expense. And so were the away fans; nursery rhyme terrace chants are barely tolerable first time round, but come their second and third recitals, you start to question the merits of the Sussex education system.
It wasn't the most inspiring first half from Dulwich and the young girl sitting in front of me seemed to have the right idea, repeatedly banging the head of her toy doll on the concrete floor. Oh to swap places with the seven inch plastic figurine.
And so Dulwich emerged out of the tunnel after the break once again having to cum from behind, something which they have had to do this season more frequently than the actress in the cult film Butt Bitches Bend Over.
Sebastian Schoburg replaced captain David Moore who was stretchered off, and the pace of the rising Champion Hill star soon silenced the Sussex school playground chanting. Pete Garland got his weight behind the ball to blast home a penalty after 68 minutes when Ronnie Green fooled his defender, and the ref.
Hamlet 'keeper Paul Seuke may have all the looks of a Spice Boy but a Calamity James waiting to happen the No 1 isn't. Don't panic then Mr Mainwairng when in the space of a minute the ball bounced off the underside of the crossbar and then seconds later, Seuke was left back paddling to stop the ball creeping over the line.
Burgess Hill hung on for the three points and I was left to compare and contrast the respective team physios; the Dulwich bouncing ball of fun has recently had a Beckham style mohican bleached into his barnet. I can only dream about the possibility of the fit female Burgess bag carrying babe having a Brazilian.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Sunday 12 September, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Burgess Hill Town 2, 11/09/04
Having spent the morning wearing the pink 'n blue and having my arse kicked around the park by the Fulham Cottagers, the last thing I want in the afternoon is to turn up at Champion Hill and be kicked out of my seat my by a set of Burgess Hill supporters who make The Rabble look like shandy tasters.
'If you're proud to come from Sussex clap your hands...' went the chant. Excuse me, but 1066 and all that - maybe if you all weren't so pissed back in the day then I wouldn't be subjected to death by garlic bread every time I put my tongue down the throat of some slapper on a Saturday night.
Oh to be a seven inch plastic figurine |
The Burgess Hill barmy army were blasting their bleedin' air horn three minutes later when a free header looped over Paul Seuke in goal for Dulwich
'We all live in a yellow shirted dream' chirped the away fans. Another Hard Day's Night for the Hamlet though, We CAN'T Work it Out and of course... Help!
With nutmegs, step overs and back heels, Burgess Hill were having a laugh at the Hamlet's expense. And so were the away fans; nursery rhyme terrace chants are barely tolerable first time round, but come their second and third recitals, you start to question the merits of the Sussex education system.
It wasn't the most inspiring first half from Dulwich and the young girl sitting in front of me seemed to have the right idea, repeatedly banging the head of her toy doll on the concrete floor. Oh to swap places with the seven inch plastic figurine.
And so Dulwich emerged out of the tunnel after the break once again having to cum from behind, something which they have had to do this season more frequently than the actress in the cult film Butt Bitches Bend Over.
Sebastian Schoburg replaced captain David Moore who was stretchered off, and the pace of the rising Champion Hill star soon silenced the Sussex school playground chanting. Pete Garland got his weight behind the ball to blast home a penalty after 68 minutes when Ronnie Green fooled his defender, and the ref.
Hamlet 'keeper Paul Seuke may have all the looks of a Spice Boy but a Calamity James waiting to happen the No 1 isn't. Don't panic then Mr Mainwairng when in the space of a minute the ball bounced off the underside of the crossbar and then seconds later, Seuke was left back paddling to stop the ball creeping over the line.
Burgess Hill hung on for the three points and I was left to compare and contrast the respective team physios; the Dulwich bouncing ball of fun has recently had a Beckham style mohican bleached into his barnet. I can only dream about the possibility of the fit female Burgess bag carrying babe having a Brazilian.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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hamletweb
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Cottaging
As if an 8-2 hammering by the Fulham Supporters' Team wasn't bad enough, the boys from Dulwich had to endure a three mile walk back to Brentford on Saturday morning with the clock counting down to the first team fixture back in South London later in the afternoon. That was until the friendly Fulham 'keeper offered a lift to eleven sweaty men wearing pink and blue. Turns out that his day job involves industrial cleaning but it would take more than the bottles of bleach in the back of his van for the Dulwich back four to clean up their act.
Just as we were making polite conversation with our chauffer about the cut and thrust of the cleaning industry, he dropped it into the conversation that he has a weekend job as well; a bit of variety in the workplace does wonders which is why he wears a giant rubber costume cut in the style of a computer and struts around Craven Cottage as the Fulham mascot.
The concept of a mascot is a new phenomena down at Dulwich. He had a captive audience and suddenly the six foot Hoover pipe poking close to my backside didn't seem as burdensome as we headed towards Brentford.
Why does he dress as a computer? It's to do with sponsorship; is the man behind the mascot allowed to talk? Not likely with Al Fayed as a boss; and did Michael Jackson mistake him for a REAL computer and try and download some rather unsavoury stuff during his visit to Craven Cottage?
The basic marketing concept seems to be that the mascot imitates the corporate sponsor. Here's hoping Fulham never get into bed with Durex, although he is already half way there with the rubber suit.
Before we knew it we were back at Brentford and boarded the train back to South London. It was full of Fulham fans of course on their way down to The Cottage. A nicer set of fans you couldn't wish to meet but the atmosphere had all the excitement of a computer software conference.
| Sunday 12 September, 2004 |
As if an 8-2 hammering by the Fulham Supporters' Team wasn't bad enough, the boys from Dulwich had to endure a three mile walk back to Brentford on Saturday morning with the clock counting down to the first team fixture back in South London later in the afternoon. That was until the friendly Fulham 'keeper offered a lift to eleven sweaty men wearing pink and blue. Turns out that his day job involves industrial cleaning but it would take more than the bottles of bleach in the back of his van for the Dulwich back four to clean up their act.
Just as we were making polite conversation with our chauffer about the cut and thrust of the cleaning industry, he dropped it into the conversation that he has a weekend job as well; a bit of variety in the workplace does wonders which is why he wears a giant rubber costume cut in the style of a computer and struts around Craven Cottage as the Fulham mascot.
Here's hoping Fulham never get into bed with Durex |
Why does he dress as a computer? It's to do with sponsorship; is the man behind the mascot allowed to talk? Not likely with Al Fayed as a boss; and did Michael Jackson mistake him for a REAL computer and try and download some rather unsavoury stuff during his visit to Craven Cottage?
The basic marketing concept seems to be that the mascot imitates the corporate sponsor. Here's hoping Fulham never get into bed with Durex, although he is already half way there with the rubber suit.
Before we knew it we were back at Brentford and boarded the train back to South London. It was full of Fulham fans of course on their way down to The Cottage. A nicer set of fans you couldn't wish to meet but the atmosphere had all the excitement of a computer software conference.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Sunday 12 September, 2004 |
London Racers 1 NHL Charity Team 4, 10/09/04
New flash Walthamstow Bus Garage, same old crap No 48 bus service; new flash Racers hockey, same old... hold your breath right there young man. A bus garage is more than the sum of its parts. It's a living, breathing public space full of bag ladies peeing their pants at the rare site of a big red No 48. A hockey team meanwhile should be rightfully judged on the flashness of its new jersey design. Welcome to the Walthamstow Winners then.
With face off being closer to 8pm Pacific Eastern Time rather than GMT, I finally managed to make it to the Bike Shed with time to spare and catch up with some familiar faces. Pleased to report that the Lady of the Lamp behind the goal hasn't lost any of her radiance over the summer months.
Insert your own five hole joke |
Racers survived an early powerplay after Pope was penalised (does he attend confession?), but then went 1:0 down with just over six minutes on the clock. Darren Cotton soon responded hitting home a blue liner - gawblimey, as his dear ol' ma Dorothy might say. With three minutes remaining in the first period, Sylvain Daigle made a superb pad save but failed to stop the rebound being slotted home.
Daigle already looks like being a demigod down at the Bike Shed if the young boy sitting in front of me is any indication; I admit to once watching Match of the Day kitted out in a pair of shinpads and 'feeling' every tackle, but that was behind closed doors of course. Respect then to the young fella was sensing every save made by Sylvain wearing his very own catching glove with no shame. The glove saw plenty of action in the second with Sylvain making a series of stunning saves.
With an NHL lock out looking likely this year, it was with no great surprise that the first strike (boom boom) was struck by the touring team; Steve Gainey tried to take out Jason Robinson later in the period but the only concession that he won was a good old fashioned glove face wash and seven hundred or so Limeys labelling him a loser as he headed to the box.
The Voice of the Bike Shed encouraged us all to give 'a big cheer' to welcome the officials back onto the ice at the start of the third. This was of course met with a stone silence response. 'They’re quite nice really...' pleaded the Voice. So is the feeling of relieving yourself of a curry the morning after, but I wouldn't want to make a big song and dance about it.
Sitting behind the NHLers bench was some confused poor bloke wearing a Bracknell Bees jersey. Talk about team hopping. The closest our Berkshire friends are ever going to get to the NHL is sitting in front of their Playstation.
Daigle kept up his high standard in the third, although Justin Cox was able to shoot his load right down the centre of the ice to edge ahead 3:1. A fourth followed with just over a minute remaining in the game to give a flattering 4:1 final score to the boys from The Show.
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london racers vid clips
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Hat Trick!
A hat trick of Hamlet Bloggers (which is roughly a ratio of one blog for every dozen blokes in the crowd):
gawblimeyguv
noemotionsplease (currently with a few technical problems thanks to Blogger, but stick with it) and
se22
Back of the net!
Oh, and Timmy choked it of course...
| Saturday 11 September, 2004 |
A hat trick of Hamlet Bloggers (which is roughly a ratio of one blog for every dozen blokes in the crowd):
gawblimeyguv
noemotionsplease (currently with a few technical problems thanks to Blogger, but stick with it) and
se22
Back of the net!
Oh, and Timmy choked it of course...
| #permalink |
Highly Strung
Cough cough choke choke – whisper it gently: The Great Choker has spluttered his way into the semis of the US Open. Yes, that's right, Little England's Little Timmy, the man-boy with a voice strung higher than his racket, 007 meets Rick Astley via the classified in the Daily Mail is in the FUCKING SEMIS of the US OPEN!!!!
Which must be a real bummer (snigger, eh Timmy?) for all the flag wavers who won't be able to have their fun on account of the distance between SW19 and Flushing Meadows, although the protocol of turning up at Wimbledon and parking their arse in front of a large TV to watch tennis should soften the blow slightly. Still, there's always Knobber's Night over at the Royal Albert to look forward to this weekend.
The US Open is not a real sporting event of course; it is a mass gathering of fast food freaks who compete with each other in stuffing lard down their necks as some limey gets a licking (ooh, Timmy, again...) before overdosing on Lucozade.
Tiger Tim (probably the great toothless variety) will now be fed to the lions in the form of Roger Federer on 'Super Saturday,' although I fail to see what is so super about sitting next to sixteen stone sweatbox who thinks that a side salad is something best eaten buried away under ten layers of beef and cheese.
My own Super Saturday suggests a superior sporting sensation; London Racers Vs NHL All Stars (yeah, right...) up at the Lee Valley badlands late on Friday night (and I mean LATE), the Supporters'Team away to Fulham Saturday morning; a mad dash and over reliance on public transport to make the first team fixture of Dulwich Hamlet Vs Burgess Hill in the afternoon, and then laying myself (and others deluded fools) open to yet more public transport misery by attempting to get from South East London up to Ally Pally in the north in under thirty minutes for Streatham Redskins first away fixture of the season.
'It's awesome' squeaked the choir boy racket swinger, suggesting a cheeseburger too many for Timmy. I think he was referring to the Super Saturday semi rather than the Supporters Team heading out to Syon Lane on the 8.45 out of Waterloo on Saturday morning.
C'mon TIMMMAYYY!!!
| Thursday 9 September, 2004 |
Cough cough choke choke – whisper it gently: The Great Choker has spluttered his way into the semis of the US Open. Yes, that's right, Little England's Little Timmy, the man-boy with a voice strung higher than his racket, 007 meets Rick Astley via the classified in the Daily Mail is in the FUCKING SEMIS of the US OPEN!!!!
Which must be a real bummer (snigger, eh Timmy?) for all the flag wavers who won't be able to have their fun on account of the distance between SW19 and Flushing Meadows, although the protocol of turning up at Wimbledon and parking their arse in front of a large TV to watch tennis should soften the blow slightly. Still, there's always Knobber's Night over at the Royal Albert to look forward to this weekend.
It's awesome! |
Tiger Tim (probably the great toothless variety) will now be fed to the lions in the form of Roger Federer on 'Super Saturday,' although I fail to see what is so super about sitting next to sixteen stone sweatbox who thinks that a side salad is something best eaten buried away under ten layers of beef and cheese.
My own Super Saturday suggests a superior sporting sensation; London Racers Vs NHL All Stars (yeah, right...) up at the Lee Valley badlands late on Friday night (and I mean LATE), the Supporters'Team away to Fulham Saturday morning; a mad dash and over reliance on public transport to make the first team fixture of Dulwich Hamlet Vs Burgess Hill in the afternoon, and then laying myself (and others deluded fools) open to yet more public transport misery by attempting to get from South East London up to Ally Pally in the north in under thirty minutes for Streatham Redskins first away fixture of the season.
'It's awesome' squeaked the choir boy racket swinger, suggesting a cheeseburger too many for Timmy. I think he was referring to the Super Saturday semi rather than the Supporters Team heading out to Syon Lane on the 8.45 out of Waterloo on Saturday morning.
C'mon TIMMMAYYY!!!
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Hill Street Blues
HELLOOOOO!!!!
I'm all for a better geographical understanding of your city but tourists, romantic fools and elite athletes rather spoil it up Primrose Hill for a notebook obsessive blogger trying his hardest to fight the elements of the wind, let alone some lovestruck Germans practising a bit of How's Your Vater, in-between sprints up and down the hill.
Bog off, I’m trying to bloody blog.
I can think of more suitable situations to be stuck up Primrose Hill; the eclipse of '99 would have been perfect. I was stuck searching in vein around Brockwell Park at the time for the failed appearance of the promise of 'free hippy love' during that particular August afternoon.
The solstice each year also brings out the hippy shit crowd to Primrose Hill, as well as the excellent London Solstice Cycle Ride. I have tried (and failed) on four consecutive occasions to make the 2am start at Greenwich. Too busy dreaming of free love down at Brockwell Park.
Within walking distance of both Hamstead and Camden (although sadly not Sunny Stockwell), Primrose Hill is indeed caught between a rock and a hard place. Understanding this geographical stranglehold and you can see why Primrose Hill is so popular with its escapism.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 8 September, 2004 |
HELLOOOOO!!!!
I'm all for a better geographical understanding of your city but tourists, romantic fools and elite athletes rather spoil it up Primrose Hill for a notebook obsessive blogger trying his hardest to fight the elements of the wind, let alone some lovestruck Germans practising a bit of How's Your Vater, in-between sprints up and down the hill.
Bog off, I’m trying to bloody blog.
I can think of more suitable situations to be stuck up Primrose Hill; the eclipse of '99 would have been perfect. I was stuck searching in vein around Brockwell Park at the time for the failed appearance of the promise of 'free hippy love' during that particular August afternoon.
The solstice each year also brings out the hippy shit crowd to Primrose Hill, as well as the excellent London Solstice Cycle Ride. I have tried (and failed) on four consecutive occasions to make the 2am start at Greenwich. Too busy dreaming of free love down at Brockwell Park.
Within walking distance of both Hamstead and Camden (although sadly not Sunny Stockwell), Primrose Hill is indeed caught between a rock and a hard place. Understanding this geographical stranglehold and you can see why Primrose Hill is so popular with its escapism.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Journo
Sniffin out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
Speed Freak*
This man should NEVER be let behind the steering wheel of a car ever again. Crap music aside (although I admit such sludge as Underground makes it difficult not to take in extenuating circumstances) Jay Kay is a serial speeder. He has a problem; he has an illness. Just as we should address alcoholism as an illness that requires help, the Twat in the Hat needs helps to try and ditch his cars, so to speak. Not perhaps the most fortunate choice of phrase given recent events.
*thinly veiled narcotic reference – just look at the geezer’s nose for Christ's sake...
Taking Care
And so on to the football word association game. I come up with a name or phrase and you need to say the first word that comes into your head:
'Robbie Savage...'
PONCE
'Michael Owen...'
CROCK
'Tony Parkes...'
CARETAKER
Poor old Parkes is now in his SIXTH stint as caretaker boss at Blackburn. You almost expect the bloke to walk around in grubby brown overalls carrying a large set of keys around his neck and chasing after Tucker Jenkins. Blank looks from the under '30s.
As for Souness at Newcastle? Bit of a strange one. I kind of respect the guy. More to do with being a grumpy old arse, and a Scottish Sweaty one at that. Not too sure about his man management skills although he has got a top bird for a wife. Plus anyone who has ever appeared in Boys From the Black Stuff is of course immortalised for life.
Give him a year and they'll be wanting back Gullit.
| Tuesday 7 September, 2004 |
Sniffin out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
Speed Freak*
This man should NEVER be let behind the steering wheel of a car ever again. Crap music aside (although I admit such sludge as Underground makes it difficult not to take in extenuating circumstances) Jay Kay is a serial speeder. He has a problem; he has an illness. Just as we should address alcoholism as an illness that requires help, the Twat in the Hat needs helps to try and ditch his cars, so to speak. Not perhaps the most fortunate choice of phrase given recent events.
*thinly veiled narcotic reference – just look at the geezer’s nose for Christ's sake...
Taking Care
And so on to the football word association game. I come up with a name or phrase and you need to say the first word that comes into your head:
'Robbie Savage...'
PONCE
'Michael Owen...'
CROCK
'Tony Parkes...'
CARETAKER
Poor old Parkes is now in his SIXTH stint as caretaker boss at Blackburn. You almost expect the bloke to walk around in grubby brown overalls carrying a large set of keys around his neck and chasing after Tucker Jenkins. Blank looks from the under '30s.
As for Souness at Newcastle? Bit of a strange one. I kind of respect the guy. More to do with being a grumpy old arse, and a Scottish Sweaty one at that. Not too sure about his man management skills although he has got a top bird for a wife. Plus anyone who has ever appeared in Boys From the Black Stuff is of course immortalised for life.
Give him a year and they'll be wanting back Gullit.
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Crap Match Report| Monday 6 September, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 2 Slough Jets 5, 05/09/04
Two familiar rituals, one not so; The Boys are Back in Town blasting out around the old barn and the team cry of 'SKINS!!!!' as the pre-game huddle heralded the start of a new season down at the High Road. But wait - what's this great tub of lard doing on centre ice? Oh, that's just the pieman Nicky Chinn icing for the Jets. Sadly the Streatham DJ was unprepared with no Fast Food Song to greet the ageing dough boy.
Seems like Chinn has decided to skate with the most appropriate team this season as well; fans get the players they deserve and although we welcome all away fans down at the High Road, I sincerely hope that the Two Fat Ladies wearing XXXXXXXXL Jets jerseys had paid fifteen quid apiece considering their triple arse seating arrangements that were required. I don't think the they appreciated my 'Clickety Click' comment either as they spent the entire warm up period trying to park their posteriors. It's a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.
A nicer set of girls you couldn't wish to take home... |
Taking up my seat behind the home bench and the issue wasn't so much ice time as seat time. Old timer Pete Quiney (or Captain Rockin' Robin as he now needs to be known wearing THOSE stockings) was making the most of the bench in-between shifts. Still, even with the full padding of a puffed up hockey kit, the Rockin' Robin had at least half the body mass of the Jets' jelly belly fans.
Linesman Holtham had been taken out of storage for yet another year and we once again baffled by the capabilities of cryogenics, allowing an 867 year-old bloke to still be able to officiate a hockey match.
This was never going to be an easy pre-season stroll for the Redskins with Slough Jets finishing as finalists in the Premier League last year. The first goal came for the visitors with 3:17 on the clock when the Jets won a face off and Matt Foord fired home straight in front of the net.
The Redskins competed well in the opening ten minutes and even survived a Jets powerplay, hustling well for the puck. Minutes later and it was the turn of the home team to skate five on four with Octavian Sersea testing Mike Plenty in the Jets net with his pace.
With five minutes remaining in the first period, Redskins were give a five on three powerplay, the signal for the Dulwich Hamlet / Redskins alliance on the far side of the rink to bang the plexi and do their best at dismantling the old building. I've always had The Rabble down as slappers. Jets killed the penalty and came close to scoring a short-handed effort but were stopped thanks to a brave intervention from Wayne Trunchion.
Come the first period break and What's Up Doc? I was cornered like a 30-something male caught with his pants down, so to speak, by the (only just) pubescent Puck Bunnies. A nicer set of girls you couldn't wish to take home to introduce to your dear old mum, although the sight of me pointing my seven inch super zoom in the face of some fresh faced girls did generate the odd tut tut, mostly from mrs onionbagblogger.
Redskins rode out a powerplay at the start of the second with James Tanner between the pipes making a superb glove save. Perry Billowes then gave away a cheap 2+2 penalty for butt ending and I glanced over to give the Puck Bunnies a cheeky grin. Poor little innocent lost souls – the moment was lost on then.
Four minutes into the second period and Brent Goldie found himself on the end of a cross to shoot home upstairs giving Jets a 2-0 lead. Redskins then lost their concentration as a series of penalty calls were worked out by the referee, and when the game finally re-started, Zoran Kozic slotted home for the away team.
Just over half an hour on the clock and the sound of the Streatham old school goal horn blasted around the old barn as Nicholas Bigwood won the puck on the blue line and battled hard to get a shot in. Looks like the sound a great big bleeping horn did the trick, giving the Puck Bunnies the... horn as they edged ever closer to the home team bench.
A minute later and the Redskins had a goal washed out, despite another blast on the horn. It was too late for the Puck Bunnies though who were now in wet dreamland. Is that a puddle of melting ice or are you just pleased to have seen James Tanner again after a long hot summer?
The best period in play for the Redskins followed with the home team fighting well in the corners. Despite their efforts, Jets added a fourth at 35:59 with a sky high shot from Goldie dislodging Tanner's water bottle resting from the roof of the net.
A brief trip to the as ever excellent Supporters Club stall during the second period break and it was there that I saw the first Must Have fashion item of the new season. You may not see it being worn on the catwalks of Paris and Milan but what self-respecting Dulwich Hamlet / Redskins fan could resist the exclusively tailored pink 'n blue style Dulwich top with a Redskins badge added for that authentic South London sporting feel? It's on the Christmas present list already.
Actually, now is the time to formalise the already healthy alliance between the two clubs. Redskins should run hockey schools down at Dulwich with an exchange system set up for the football boys to return the favour. Dulwich could teach the Redskins about the finer art of swearing whilst the hockey boys could dish out some fighting tips, although to be honest, the Hamlet are already a bit handy in that department.
With less than a minute into the third and it was a family affair as Warren Trunchion assisted brother Wayne to set up a 4:2 scoreline. Adam Bicknell then forced the puck over the line for the Jets but the goal was disallowed as the referee spotted the use of his glove. Hand of God? Hand of Dog more like with a bull terrier face like that.
Captain Rockin' Robin stepped in to sort out Nicky Double Chinn later in the period as the pieman used his usual bully boy tactics on Sersea. Zoran Kozic sold Tanner a dummy with five minutes remaining leaving a 5-2 final score. The Redskins netminder learnt from his mistake only minutes later making a save which should set up the young player as the starting choice for the start of the season away at Haringey next Saturday.
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London Lycra Luvvies
The roads were blocked off around Westminster on Sunday. Why? 'Cos the cycling crew hit the capital.
'What do we want?'
'A sustainable integrated public transport policy preferably involving two wheels and a pair of pedals.'
'How are we going to get it?'
'By blocking off the roads to cause gridlock on a Sunday afternoon...'
Still, the Tour de GB has got to beat the F1 folly when the fuelheads fucked up the West End. Not literally of course, but economically, aesthetically and in terms of the ratio between bare flesh and mechanical beast.
The sight of a great mass of metal rapidly approaching you can be slightly unnerving at first. Fifty cyclists with a seemingly collective conscious cornering Whitehall and the Embankment with little regard for the red lights.
This was paradise for any keen amateur cyclist and photographer, of which many of the 30-something males en route clearly were. Bet they all blog as well. Take away the wheels and what you were left with was a Westminster lycra convention. And that was just the cycling freaks in the crowd.
The Tour de GB came to a climax in central London on Sunday with the finish line strategically situated right outside Mr Tony's gaff. With a wink to the London 2012 Olympic bid, the main thrust of the race was to gain recognition so that the Tour de France can cross the Channel and try to colonise us to become a nation of tight short wearers. They'll have to get past the blockading French lorry drivers first of course.
What was truly fascinating was seeing professional Tour riders take on the mean streets of MY city. I know that a sharp right up from Whitehall into Northumberland Avenue is ridden with pot holes but how would triple Olympic medal winner Bradley Wiggins navigate the commuter circuit?
A little bit better than me as it turns out and with considerably more speed. But then again he didn't have to deal with any cut 'em up cabbies or four wheel drive dickheads.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 5 September, 2004 |
The roads were blocked off around Westminster on Sunday. Why? 'Cos the cycling crew hit the capital.
'What do we want?'
'A sustainable integrated public transport policy preferably involving two wheels and a pair of pedals.'
'How are we going to get it?'
'By blocking off the roads to cause gridlock on a Sunday afternoon...'
Still, the Tour de GB has got to beat the F1 folly when the fuelheads fucked up the West End. Not literally of course, but economically, aesthetically and in terms of the ratio between bare flesh and mechanical beast.
The sight of a great mass of metal rapidly approaching you can be slightly unnerving at first. Fifty cyclists with a seemingly collective conscious cornering Whitehall and the Embankment with little regard for the red lights.
This was paradise for any keen amateur cyclist and photographer, of which many of the 30-something males en route clearly were. Bet they all blog as well. Take away the wheels and what you were left with was a Westminster lycra convention. And that was just the cycling freaks in the crowd.
The Tour de GB came to a climax in central London on Sunday with the finish line strategically situated right outside Mr Tony's gaff. With a wink to the London 2012 Olympic bid, the main thrust of the race was to gain recognition so that the Tour de France can cross the Channel and try to colonise us to become a nation of tight short wearers. They'll have to get past the blockading French lorry drivers first of course.
What was truly fascinating was seeing professional Tour riders take on the mean streets of MY city. I know that a sharp right up from Whitehall into Northumberland Avenue is ridden with pot holes but how would triple Olympic medal winner Bradley Wiggins navigate the commuter circuit?
A little bit better than me as it turns out and with considerably more speed. But then again he didn't have to deal with any cut 'em up cabbies or four wheel drive dickheads.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Burnham 1, 04/09/04
Millwall may have gone all the way last May but I didn't see laughing boy Denny and the rest of the Bermondsey boys battling it out against the likes of Burnham whilst the cricket season was still in progress. Actually it would be nice for once if Dulwich's FA Cup dream could still be alive before the umpire knocks the bails off at The Oval for the last time this summer.
As for all this 'concentrate on the league' crap, I was rather hoping that a decent Cup run would help us to forget about that.
Live the dream my friend...
Wheeling my Marin into Champion Hill just as the teams were taking to the pitch and I to take off my spoddy fluorescent cycling top even quicker than usual. Turns out that Burnham are either keen amateur cyclists themselves or their kit man spotted a bargain at a car boot sale. I'm not normally into replica kits, especially if they resemble a builder's Day-Glo top and are worn by the opposition.
The collective pre-game huddle (what is this – a Nu Man convention?) from the Burnham bobby dazzlers was more like a Pink Floyd lightshow in the centre circle at Champion Hill. Dulwich aren't great man huggers, and hurrah for that. But anything a team tarted up like a railway navvy gang can do, we can do better. I counted a full five second longer group get together which I'm sure the REAL men (um, wearing pink 'n blue...) of Dulwich took great delight in doing.
Any team with a geezer called Tommy Nutter running around the park like a mad man is going to be a bit tasty. Early tackles from the boys from Burnham had more bite than Dennis Wise hailing a cab.
After thirteen minutes of Nutter nonsense, Mark Barclay tapped home for Burnham as the Dulwich defence froze and waited for the offside flag. Up for the cup? Cup of tea more like.
Dulwich's best chance in the first half was a free kick from Lee Akers on the edge of the area. The ball ballooned over the bar, with the Burnham wall looking more like a police riot squad.
Half time and my attention turned towards Badge Man, a demonstrable Dulwich legend whose appearance I would be honoured to emulate in forty years time. Gone though was the usual headwear adorned with badges documenting non-league away days of seasons past. Instead the Badger had a new headpiece with only a solitary badge attached. If a Badge Man is no long wearing his badges, is he still a Badge Man? Don’t pin me down on that one.
A bit of morose music from Radiohead during the break didn’t exactly raise morale, but even Russ Abbot's Atmosphere would have bombed after the first half performance. As Dulwich emerged out of the tunnel after the break, the body language suggested that they had been listening to Leonard Cohen in the dressing room. The Voice of Champion Hill demonstrated his sense of humour by playing miserablist Morrissey just before the re-start.
The mood of the morgue was lifted five minutes in when Terry Bowes was hacked to the ground in the box, leading to Lee Akers blasting the ball high and hard into the back of the net from the spot.
'He's smokin' was the verdict from a yoof team yoof sitting to my left as Ronnie Green ran wild down the wing. I certainly hope not, despite the proud tradition of woodbines and wingers. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right - for the second consecutive match the geezer next to me managed to snooze off for the entire ninety minutes. Just wait until the winter months with my legendary ability to spill an entire flask of boiling tea over the nearest naked flesh.
Sebastian Schoburgh was subbed on for his pace and immediately went to task to tear apart the Burnham defence. Has there been a more exciting player to watch at Dulwich in the past couple of seasons? With eleven minutes in the tie remaining, Seb beat three men for pace and then delivered a sweet cross for Ronnie Green to head home the winner. Easily the best move of the season so far.
Jason Curnow was sent off with a second yellow card after following through on the 'keeper. Dulwich didn't really test the outfield player in goal but kept possession to set up an away tie in the next round with our old friends the Met Police.
Evening all, evening all – time has yet to be called on the Cup run.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Saturday 4 September, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Burnham 1, 04/09/04
Millwall may have gone all the way last May but I didn't see laughing boy Denny and the rest of the Bermondsey boys battling it out against the likes of Burnham whilst the cricket season was still in progress. Actually it would be nice for once if Dulwich's FA Cup dream could still be alive before the umpire knocks the bails off at The Oval for the last time this summer.
As for all this 'concentrate on the league' crap, I was rather hoping that a decent Cup run would help us to forget about that.
Live the dream my friend...
Live the dream… |
The collective pre-game huddle (what is this – a Nu Man convention?) from the Burnham bobby dazzlers was more like a Pink Floyd lightshow in the centre circle at Champion Hill. Dulwich aren't great man huggers, and hurrah for that. But anything a team tarted up like a railway navvy gang can do, we can do better. I counted a full five second longer group get together which I'm sure the REAL men (um, wearing pink 'n blue...) of Dulwich took great delight in doing.
Any team with a geezer called Tommy Nutter running around the park like a mad man is going to be a bit tasty. Early tackles from the boys from Burnham had more bite than Dennis Wise hailing a cab.
After thirteen minutes of Nutter nonsense, Mark Barclay tapped home for Burnham as the Dulwich defence froze and waited for the offside flag. Up for the cup? Cup of tea more like.
Dulwich's best chance in the first half was a free kick from Lee Akers on the edge of the area. The ball ballooned over the bar, with the Burnham wall looking more like a police riot squad.
Half time and my attention turned towards Badge Man, a demonstrable Dulwich legend whose appearance I would be honoured to emulate in forty years time. Gone though was the usual headwear adorned with badges documenting non-league away days of seasons past. Instead the Badger had a new headpiece with only a solitary badge attached. If a Badge Man is no long wearing his badges, is he still a Badge Man? Don’t pin me down on that one.
A bit of morose music from Radiohead during the break didn’t exactly raise morale, but even Russ Abbot's Atmosphere would have bombed after the first half performance. As Dulwich emerged out of the tunnel after the break, the body language suggested that they had been listening to Leonard Cohen in the dressing room. The Voice of Champion Hill demonstrated his sense of humour by playing miserablist Morrissey just before the re-start.
The mood of the morgue was lifted five minutes in when Terry Bowes was hacked to the ground in the box, leading to Lee Akers blasting the ball high and hard into the back of the net from the spot.
'He's smokin' was the verdict from a yoof team yoof sitting to my left as Ronnie Green ran wild down the wing. I certainly hope not, despite the proud tradition of woodbines and wingers. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right - for the second consecutive match the geezer next to me managed to snooze off for the entire ninety minutes. Just wait until the winter months with my legendary ability to spill an entire flask of boiling tea over the nearest naked flesh.
Sebastian Schoburgh was subbed on for his pace and immediately went to task to tear apart the Burnham defence. Has there been a more exciting player to watch at Dulwich in the past couple of seasons? With eleven minutes in the tie remaining, Seb beat three men for pace and then delivered a sweet cross for Ronnie Green to head home the winner. Easily the best move of the season so far.
Jason Curnow was sent off with a second yellow card after following through on the 'keeper. Dulwich didn't really test the outfield player in goal but kept possession to set up an away tie in the next round with our old friends the Met Police.
Evening all, evening all – time has yet to be called on the Cup run.
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hamletweb
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Goosegate
Blogs are going to 'change the world' according to our American 'friends.' The ability to cut and paste some crap copy onto a poorly designed webshite doesn't make for a cultural revolution I'm afraid Seany.
Back in Blightly we are slightly less boastful of the power of the blog. If the mainstream media can get away with being so persistently inaccurate, dull and downright crap, then why can't we? In the kingdom of the blind, the man with the broadband connection is King.
Big up Inspector Sands who is rapidly rising to become something of a local legend around Lewisham, even though technically he doesn't actually blog about Lewisham. The Petts Wood-based free newspaper the News Shopper (snappy title) not only nicked a story from Casino Avenue but surprisingly in an industry with little ethics, actually credited the Inspector for the tip off.
Now I'm a man who likes to blow his own trumpet at every available opportunity, and twice a night if I'm feeling particularly energetic.
News reaches onionbagblog HQ courtesy of everyone’s favourite geezer mr gawblimeyguv that a Crap Pic has been plastered all over the back pages of the Southwark News (now that's what I call a proper title) this week. Don't even bother searching for a website for the Southwark News - it's probably still laid out by hand each week by the venerable Mr Claxton.
And what great revelation of Watergate proportions have I unleashed on the good folk of Southwark? The epoch defining moment of a goose landing on the pitch during Dulwich's 2-0 stroll against Croydon Athletic last week. It has long been an ambition of mine to be able to boast that I photograph 'birds' for newspapers. Sadly I wasn't expecting a goose, let alone the Southwark News.
Whereas blogs are never going to 'change the world,' at least it seems that they are making meagre inroads into feeding lazy arse local journos. Makes a difference from feeding lazy arse US Imperialist empire building bloggers (read: crap site, jack shit for ideas, let's leach off the limeys) who go around on an online global tour pimping out for posts.
I'm not a great fan of blogging about blogs; blogs will eat themselves and all that. But I can make an exception to bang on about a bird being oblivious to eleven men wearing pink and blue.
Blogs should be all about what ISN'T out there in mainstream Roger Melly media land. WHY is this fact being left out of a local news story? Hunt it down and tell it like it is. Which is exactly what I did with the great Goosegate story.
When asked if the Pistols spoke for the man on the street, Sid Vicious once famously replied: 'I've spoken to the man on the street and he's a CUNT.' This seems to be the editorial policy of the Evening Sub-Standard.
Infiltration via the blog is needed.
Over to you mr gawblimeyguv.
| Friday 3 September, 2004 |
Blogs are going to 'change the world' according to our American 'friends.' The ability to cut and paste some crap copy onto a poorly designed webshite doesn't make for a cultural revolution I'm afraid Seany.
Back in Blightly we are slightly less boastful of the power of the blog. If the mainstream media can get away with being so persistently inaccurate, dull and downright crap, then why can't we? In the kingdom of the blind, the man with the broadband connection is King.
Big up Inspector Sands who is rapidly rising to become something of a local legend around Lewisham, even though technically he doesn't actually blog about Lewisham. The Petts Wood-based free newspaper the News Shopper (snappy title) not only nicked a story from Casino Avenue but surprisingly in an industry with little ethics, actually credited the Inspector for the tip off.
The man with broadband is King |
News reaches onionbagblog HQ courtesy of everyone’s favourite geezer mr gawblimeyguv that a Crap Pic has been plastered all over the back pages of the Southwark News (now that's what I call a proper title) this week. Don't even bother searching for a website for the Southwark News - it's probably still laid out by hand each week by the venerable Mr Claxton.
And what great revelation of Watergate proportions have I unleashed on the good folk of Southwark? The epoch defining moment of a goose landing on the pitch during Dulwich's 2-0 stroll against Croydon Athletic last week. It has long been an ambition of mine to be able to boast that I photograph 'birds' for newspapers. Sadly I wasn't expecting a goose, let alone the Southwark News.
Whereas blogs are never going to 'change the world,' at least it seems that they are making meagre inroads into feeding lazy arse local journos. Makes a difference from feeding lazy arse US Imperialist empire building bloggers (read: crap site, jack shit for ideas, let's leach off the limeys) who go around on an online global tour pimping out for posts.
I'm not a great fan of blogging about blogs; blogs will eat themselves and all that. But I can make an exception to bang on about a bird being oblivious to eleven men wearing pink and blue.
Blogs should be all about what ISN'T out there in mainstream Roger Melly media land. WHY is this fact being left out of a local news story? Hunt it down and tell it like it is. Which is exactly what I did with the great Goosegate story.
When asked if the Pistols spoke for the man on the street, Sid Vicious once famously replied: 'I've spoken to the man on the street and he's a CUNT.' This seems to be the editorial policy of the Evening Sub-Standard.
Infiltration via the blog is needed.
Over to you mr gawblimeyguv.
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Village People
As every Walter Mitty fantasist knows, Gulliver travelled to Lilliput and not Vauxhall Park. How then to explain the estate of sculptured cottages that are scattered around one corner of the SW8 public space? Freak dwarf Kylie's new South London pad?
Vauxhall Village (it's not REAL you know...) was built in 1949 by local Norwood model maker Edgar Wilson. The little splendour in South London is the only remaining testimony of Wilson's work in the UK, with the only other surviving village down under in Australia.
Having made the decision to construct Little England nearby to Little Porto, what is so puzzling is the conformity on offer. Brookside Close resembles Costain Homes 'cos it’s the cheap option. You would have thought that the budget for these matchstick models would have at least stretched to some originality.
But maybe we all feel safe in our identikit little castles? If after being cast for Honey I Shrunk the Kids and I was put up in Vauxhall Park for the night, I would feel anything but safe with the constant stream of dog's piss being rained down on your front windows from above.
With London property prices still failing to find their level, what chances a For Sale sign outside one of the miniature models within the next six months? £50,000 for a flat fit for a dwarf, slightly urine stained frontage with similar property backing on.
Fantasy land.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 2 September, 2004 |
As every Walter Mitty fantasist knows, Gulliver travelled to Lilliput and not Vauxhall Park. How then to explain the estate of sculptured cottages that are scattered around one corner of the SW8 public space? Freak dwarf Kylie's new South London pad?
Vauxhall Village (it's not REAL you know...) was built in 1949 by local Norwood model maker Edgar Wilson. The little splendour in South London is the only remaining testimony of Wilson's work in the UK, with the only other surviving village down under in Australia.
It's not REAL you know... |
But maybe we all feel safe in our identikit little castles? If after being cast for Honey I Shrunk the Kids and I was put up in Vauxhall Park for the night, I would feel anything but safe with the constant stream of dog's piss being rained down on your front windows from above.
With London property prices still failing to find their level, what chances a For Sale sign outside one of the miniature models within the next six months? £50,000 for a flat fit for a dwarf, slightly urine stained frontage with similar property backing on.
Fantasy land.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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