onionbagblog
Shit Patrol
Following on from the Keane crap of last week: Snow Patrol, selling out the Academy tonight?
SHIT...
Maybe I should start an Academy Rubbish Watch as I cycle past every evening.
One Jo Wiley endorsed arsewipe of a single shouldn't make for a capacity crowd down at Brixton. With that in mind, I note Kings of Leon are playing next month.
| Monday 29 November, 2004 |
Following on from the Keane crap of last week: Snow Patrol, selling out the Academy tonight?
SHIT...
Maybe I should start an Academy Rubbish Watch as I cycle past every evening.
One Jo Wiley endorsed arsewipe of a single shouldn't make for a capacity crowd down at Brixton. With that in mind, I note Kings of Leon are playing next month.
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Crap Match Report| Monday 29 November, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 10 (TEN) Bracknell Hornets 1, 28/11/04
Streatham Redskins returned to the High Road rink on Sunday night after a bruising 2-2 draw at Cardiff twenty four hours earlier. A win against Bracknell Hornets was essential for the Redskins if they were to stay in contention at the top of the English National Ice Hockey League Division One with the high flying Invicta Dynamos.
Two years ago and the bloated ISL was boring British hockey into oblivion with the Bracknell BEES being the worst offenders for NOT putting bums on seats. Hopes weren't high then as the Bracknell HORNETS took to the ice wearing the old Bees jerseys. The Bracknell black and yellow looked bloody balmy back in the day, and despite three years of changing trends in the fashion world, you should still put a call into the Style Police if you see a grown man wearing a black and yellow top in a public arena.
 Don't eat yellow ice |
Redskins lit the goal lamp for the first at 5:24 with a power play effort from Joe Johnston after Victor Somfaleanu battled well at the face off. Hornets were buzzing though (like flies around a shit kit) and Streatham took some big hits throughout the first period. A double save from James Tanner in the Streatham nets frustrated the Bracknell attack.
Reliable Redskins D man Simon Greaves showed his experience in matching a hard checking Bracknell team. It wasn't for the faint hearted but referee Hayden was more concerned with a big drip on the ice. Not the return of a whingeing Basingstoke player but a steady stream of drips from the old roof above the blue line. With the ice below turning a shade of yellow (don't eat it and all that), it was hard to tell whether if it was cause for genuine concern or simply one of the Bracknell boys having a little accident after coming face to face with Warren Trunchion.
Bracknell were caught out on the power play at 16:53, losing the puck in their defensive zone as Johnston skated down on Matt Cameron between the pipes and had time to place his shot under the net minder. With another assist from Somfaleanu, it looked like being one of those glorious nights for Streatham hockey that the old rink has been waiting for since the eleven year break.
Seconds later and Streatham added a third with Warren Trunchion scoring an unassisted goal, battling hard in front of the net.
I came close to wetting my own pants at the first period break with the injured Captain Quiney maintaining a dignified presence around the sub-zero rink wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts last seen in a Wham! video. Streatham born, Streatham bred, strong in the arm, thick in the head? Thick in the trouser snake department as well apparently as mrs onionionbagblogger later informed me.
An explosive start to the second period with Greaves having his invitation to drop the gloves with a late checking Bracknell forward declined. Streatham wanted to show their own strength and let the Hornets know that they wouldn't be intimidated by the cheap shot tactics. Josh Allam picked up a 2+2 roughing penalty, a price worth paying for laying out Hornets chief agitator Chris West flat on the ice.
Streatham soon found their skill when under-19 star Luke Fitzmauirice made a pass from behind the net that was deflected in by the hapless Hornets net minder. Watch out, it's behind you. And I don't mean Captain Quiney.
Having failed to draw Streatham into a dirty game, Bracknell then tried to disrupt the Redskins rhythm with a stop and start game. Having personally seen the Streatham movers and groovers in action on a South London dance floor, I can confirm that it will take a lot more than a whistle happy referee to break up the Redskins' rhythm.
Steve Paris was handed out a ten minute misconduct penalty for a cross check to the head. Checking? Head? No comment as to what you might find in there, but he does have a lovely smile...
A further ten minute penalty to Nicholas Bigwood left Streatham skating two men down, an opportunity that Hornets had to make the most of if they wanted to get back in the game. With seven seconds remaining in the period, the two man advantage powered through the home defence, setting up a 4-1 score line at the start of the third period.
Less than two minutes into the final period and the Streatham lead was stretched again with a slap shot power play goal from Steve Dulmage. A sixth was added at 44:41 with Robert Formisano scoring his debut goal for Streatham, taking the puck wide and hitting home in off the pipes. There's no sweeter sound in ice hockey than the puck pinging off the pipes. Apart from the drumming Invicta dolly bird having it shoved up from behind.
Sensing double figures, the Magnificent Seven went in at 48:52 as Formisano grabbed his second goal of the night on the power play. The Bracknell goal was now under constant siege and it was no surprise when Paris scored the eighth goal of the game with seven minutes left on the clock.
Another wonderful piece of wing play from Dulmage made it nine, and minutes later the old rink scoreboard was showing double figures for the first time this season as a short handed goal gave Johnston his hat trick as Streatham skated out 10-1 winners.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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streatham redskins official site
redskins forum
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Hey Big Spender
Blimey, you wouldn't have thought yesterday was Buy Nothing Day if you were one of the buggers getting in my way during a West End blogging photo frenzy. I can't help thinking that all this anti-consumerism must have left the Anarchist Book Fair over at Mallet Street a little screwed though.
But what's the point of Buy Nothing Day? It simply means that you buy what you need the day before or the day after. I was almost (ALMOST) caught short on the shitter on Friday with the onionbagblog bog roll resources drying up. Unlike my arse. A quick trip to Costcutters cut the crap, so to speak.
Now I can be a black flag waving public nuisance agitator around any anarchist cause, but there's no way that I'm allowing my arse to hit skid row for the sake of a symbolic shop free day.
No coverage of Buy Nothing Day in Time Out, the VOICE of London least we forget. Perhaps London's voice is the sound of spend, spend spend? Or maybe Time Out has been reduced to just another irrelevant lifestyle arsewipe? It certainly got me out of a messy situation on Friday evening with the Consume section soaking up the shit (not a metaphor, but then again I really think that a London magazine deserves better than a feature on 'tips on how to glitz up your gifts from Head Wrapper-Upper at John Lewis...').
To label a day as Buy Nothing Day is all bit Big Brother anyway and who has the right to tell someone how to spend their leisure time and money? If you don't want to waste your wages on consumer crap then stay out of the West End.
Think of the effect of a boycott on the poor buggers having to work in the stores on a Saturday as well. There was a definite festive feel around town yesterday which really was quite wonderful, and that's coming from someone whose Christmas highlight is the Buy One Get One Free Sainsbury microwave Turkey Platter meal.
What type of economy would we have as an alternative in the Buy Nothing boys had their way? A return to bartering? Brixton tried this a few years back with the alternative BRIX (pdf file) currency. The concept was that you dealt with a paper free monetary exchange.
If I need my washing machine fixed (which I do actually), Mr Washing Machine Man comes round, gives it a good kicking and deducts some Brix from my account. Now he's feeling hungry and so he buys some spuds off Mr Spud Grower and his account is debited. The beauty is that it keeps the Iron Fisted One at bay. In reality though life is much more complicated than just washing machines and spuds and the Brixton economy may be smoking, so to speak, but I bet you'd be hard pushed to find someone whose speciality is hanging net curtains, which one day you might actually need.
Back to John Lewis then. But I wouldn't advise it on the first Saturday afternoon of Advent.
| Sunday 28 December, 2004 |
Blimey, you wouldn't have thought yesterday was Buy Nothing Day if you were one of the buggers getting in my way during a West End blogging photo frenzy. I can't help thinking that all this anti-consumerism must have left the Anarchist Book Fair over at Mallet Street a little screwed though.
I'm not allowing my arse to hit skid row |
Now I can be a black flag waving public nuisance agitator around any anarchist cause, but there's no way that I'm allowing my arse to hit skid row for the sake of a symbolic shop free day.
No coverage of Buy Nothing Day in Time Out, the VOICE of London least we forget. Perhaps London's voice is the sound of spend, spend spend? Or maybe Time Out has been reduced to just another irrelevant lifestyle arsewipe? It certainly got me out of a messy situation on Friday evening with the Consume section soaking up the shit (not a metaphor, but then again I really think that a London magazine deserves better than a feature on 'tips on how to glitz up your gifts from Head Wrapper-Upper at John Lewis...').
To label a day as Buy Nothing Day is all bit Big Brother anyway and who has the right to tell someone how to spend their leisure time and money? If you don't want to waste your wages on consumer crap then stay out of the West End.
Think of the effect of a boycott on the poor buggers having to work in the stores on a Saturday as well. There was a definite festive feel around town yesterday which really was quite wonderful, and that's coming from someone whose Christmas highlight is the Buy One Get One Free Sainsbury microwave Turkey Platter meal.
What type of economy would we have as an alternative in the Buy Nothing boys had their way? A return to bartering? Brixton tried this a few years back with the alternative BRIX (pdf file) currency. The concept was that you dealt with a paper free monetary exchange.
If I need my washing machine fixed (which I do actually), Mr Washing Machine Man comes round, gives it a good kicking and deducts some Brix from my account. Now he's feeling hungry and so he buys some spuds off Mr Spud Grower and his account is debited. The beauty is that it keeps the Iron Fisted One at bay. In reality though life is much more complicated than just washing machines and spuds and the Brixton economy may be smoking, so to speak, but I bet you'd be hard pushed to find someone whose speciality is hanging net curtains, which one day you might actually need.
Back to John Lewis then. But I wouldn't advise it on the first Saturday afternoon of Advent.
| #permalink |
Pop Will Eat Itself
...as promoted by Frank Warren (site stuck in '98 - don't bother opening, it will crash yer browser). Fantastic taste in music, funny old game though this boxing promoting. Never really sure who is being promoted, the athlete or the agent?
| Sunday 28 November, 2004 |
...as promoted by Frank Warren (site stuck in '98 - don't bother opening, it will crash yer browser). Fantastic taste in music, funny old game though this boxing promoting. Never really sure who is being promoted, the athlete or the agent?
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Southside
Just as you can always rely on being cut up as you attempt to cycle through Vauxhall Cross, it is a certainty that Critical Mass always rides late. Six O' Clock under Waterloo Bridge of course means a Seven O' Clock start at the earliest, and even then we never set off until the good Professor Kayoss is kitted out with his flags, inflatables and funny looking things that twirl at the top of his mean machine.
And so on Friday night I played a game of Frogger at Vauxhall Cross, made my way to Waterloo and arrived at the NFT at five past seven. Um, this is the LAST Friday of the month isn't it? Bugger. The Mass had moved on without me.
I wasn't alone though as seconds later I was joined by another latecomer, a young lady who was also on the lookout for a few hundred cyclists making a lot of noise and waving at cabbies. Can't be that hard to find in this city, can it?
We cycled off in unison, knowing that the Mass ALWAYS heads northbound along Waterloo Bridge, with a 60% chance of heading off to High Holborn, and 40% for the Charring Cross option.
Conversation can be a little confused cycling in the rush hour behind a relative stranger, but we seemed to hit it off. Well, if you can call such social graces as 'left or right?' passing for intelligent comment. Maybe this could be a new role for Critical Mass? Matching up lonely (and late) cyclists?
It was speed dating of sorts, in the sense that my new friend certainly had the peddling power and left me trailing. With no sign of the Mass, we went our separate ways at High Holborn. As with all relationships, we had no distance left to run. Well, convincing me to cycle north of High Holborn is always going to lead to a love 'em and leave 'em situation.
Nice girl though.
Back Southbound it was for me then, taking in Westminster for an impromptu moonlit photo session. Thank fuck it was the weekend and Michael Howard wasn't in town.
Ten years of cycling Critical Mass though and the sight and sound of a two wheel roadblock running off the energy of some dub heavy bloke blasting out from behind on his bike still remains an eye opener. If the Blogger won't come to the Mass (I did bloody try) then the Mass will come to the Blogger. How considerate of them to track me down at Parliament Square as I picked up the pace (yeah, right...)
Professor Kayoss kicked off with the Critical Mass Rap on the PA and any thoughts of the ride being lost to a lonely hearts for cycling freaks were soon forgotten.
It got better with the Mass moving slowly further due South with what looked like a Brixton bound ride. Has this ever happened before? The rat run of Vauxhall Cross had to be overcome first, although having a couple of hundred cyclists either side of you makes navigation of the Devil's Junction not such a death trap.
The Mass moved Westwards along the Thames, taking the wrong turning for me if my photo collection of the Olympic flame passing outside obb HQ was to be added with Critical Mass cycling past my front door. Bugger. Brixton is a Critical Mass waiting to happen. And that's not a quote by an Officer from the Lambeth Division.
And so I took the South Lambeth Road option and headed home. My tea refuelling session (me, not the Marin) was interrupted by a bass heavy vibration that was on par with the damn washing machine rocking the flat walls whenever it throws a wobbly.
Bloody wideboys I thought, not another 4x4 on the Friday night South London cruise circuit, pumping out some shitty R 'n B. A peep through the blinds revealed... not another 4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4 bunch of cyclists on the Friday night South London cruise circuit, pumping out some, um, shitty R 'n B to be honest.
Damn. The Mass had bloody backtracked, Brixton bound and was making slow progress through Sunny Stockwell. But by now it was too late. Tea in hand, ten miles of cycling and I had lead legs.
All back to mine? Which is probably what I should have said back up at High Holborn.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 27 November, 2004 |
Just as you can always rely on being cut up as you attempt to cycle through Vauxhall Cross, it is a certainty that Critical Mass always rides late. Six O' Clock under Waterloo Bridge of course means a Seven O' Clock start at the earliest, and even then we never set off until the good Professor Kayoss is kitted out with his flags, inflatables and funny looking things that twirl at the top of his mean machine.
And so on Friday night I played a game of Frogger at Vauxhall Cross, made my way to Waterloo and arrived at the NFT at five past seven. Um, this is the LAST Friday of the month isn't it? Bugger. The Mass had moved on without me.
All back to mine |
We cycled off in unison, knowing that the Mass ALWAYS heads northbound along Waterloo Bridge, with a 60% chance of heading off to High Holborn, and 40% for the Charring Cross option.
Conversation can be a little confused cycling in the rush hour behind a relative stranger, but we seemed to hit it off. Well, if you can call such social graces as 'left or right?' passing for intelligent comment. Maybe this could be a new role for Critical Mass? Matching up lonely (and late) cyclists?
It was speed dating of sorts, in the sense that my new friend certainly had the peddling power and left me trailing. With no sign of the Mass, we went our separate ways at High Holborn. As with all relationships, we had no distance left to run. Well, convincing me to cycle north of High Holborn is always going to lead to a love 'em and leave 'em situation.
Nice girl though.
Back Southbound it was for me then, taking in Westminster for an impromptu moonlit photo session. Thank fuck it was the weekend and Michael Howard wasn't in town.
Ten years of cycling Critical Mass though and the sight and sound of a two wheel roadblock running off the energy of some dub heavy bloke blasting out from behind on his bike still remains an eye opener. If the Blogger won't come to the Mass (I did bloody try) then the Mass will come to the Blogger. How considerate of them to track me down at Parliament Square as I picked up the pace (yeah, right...)
Professor Kayoss kicked off with the Critical Mass Rap on the PA and any thoughts of the ride being lost to a lonely hearts for cycling freaks were soon forgotten.
It got better with the Mass moving slowly further due South with what looked like a Brixton bound ride. Has this ever happened before? The rat run of Vauxhall Cross had to be overcome first, although having a couple of hundred cyclists either side of you makes navigation of the Devil's Junction not such a death trap.
The Mass moved Westwards along the Thames, taking the wrong turning for me if my photo collection of the Olympic flame passing outside obb HQ was to be added with Critical Mass cycling past my front door. Bugger. Brixton is a Critical Mass waiting to happen. And that's not a quote by an Officer from the Lambeth Division.
And so I took the South Lambeth Road option and headed home. My tea refuelling session (me, not the Marin) was interrupted by a bass heavy vibration that was on par with the damn washing machine rocking the flat walls whenever it throws a wobbly.
Bloody wideboys I thought, not another 4x4 on the Friday night South London cruise circuit, pumping out some shitty R 'n B. A peep through the blinds revealed... not another 4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4x4 bunch of cyclists on the Friday night South London cruise circuit, pumping out some, um, shitty R 'n B to be honest.
Damn. The Mass had bloody backtracked, Brixton bound and was making slow progress through Sunny Stockwell. But by now it was too late. Tea in hand, ten miles of cycling and I had lead legs.
All back to mine? Which is probably what I should have said back up at High Holborn.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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