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.
| #permalink |
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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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?
| #permalink |
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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Crap Match Report*
London Towers 74 UConn Huskies 88
I arrived at the Sauna later than a BBL fax giving Robert Youngblood clearance to play. But hey, at least I didn't walk out of Crystal Palace in protest.
You could tell that the touring Yanks were in town; a hastily assembled WILL CALL sign was placed in front of the ticket collection point. Will call what? Is this the introduction of a Towers Lonely Hearts service? If so, sign me up: Sweating, smelling bloke on a bike who has just cycled up South Norwood Hill would like to meet Towers Dancer for some dunking sessions.
'Look, do you want your bloody ticket or what?' was the response I got when I made the suggestion at WILL CALL.
A healthy turnout of South London yoof, if indeed South London yoof can be described as healthy. NASN were sponsoring the game, but I can't help but think that somewhere out in marketing land right now, a PR knobber for Oxy is staring at a lost opportunity in his own acne ridden little face. The Towers Dancers walked past the yoof, and yoof responded with some pre-adolescent grunts and groans and much hoodie posturing. It's a sure fire winner, eh ladies?
Huskies looked mighty impressive on court with more beefcakes on board than a Newcastle Eagles Supporters' Coach.
'The big man makes his intentions known' declared Match Announcer Matthew as some Huskie super jock jumped high and dunked straight from the tip off. With a wink and a nod directed towards one of the Towers Dancers mid air, the big man clearly had similar intentions as me.
A Michael Jordan style air dunk by the visitors almost ended in disaster with the backboard bending more than the Milton Keynes Lions trying to bend the rules. Just Do It though, as an Alled Jones Walking in the Air impression (they'll love me for that) ended in spectacular dunk in the very next attack.
Towers were phased by the physical approach of the Huskies, trailing 16-26 at the first buzzer.
Huskies hit the Towers for pace in the second quarter, stretching away with an eight point lead. The Towers attack was met with a strong D as the Huskies undid the great American obesity myth. Said the man who munched through THREE cheeseburgers during the game. Rod Brown kept Huskies at bay but it wasn't enough to prevent a Huskies half time lead of 48-34.
And then it was time for the REAL battle as the Huskies cheerleaders took to the Crystal Palace court to shake their Yankee ass. Pound for pound, dollar for dollar, there was certainly enough of it to shake. So what does your American dollar buy you? Lots of 'artistic interpretation' but sadly no Janet Jackson style 'costume malfunctions.' Which was a shame really as some of the girls were a top heavy mishap waiting to happen.
A twenty point lead in the third quarter was the signal for the Huskies to start show boating. And boy, they were bloody good at it, running away with a 69-49 lead going into the fourth.
'There's ten minutes to go and still time for Towers to get back in the game,' said Matthew, the ever optimistic game caller. Yeah, and even at the age of thirty four and with a dodgy knee, I may just make the NBA MVP this season.
Six minutes remaining and the lead was pegged back to 14 points, much in part due to Rod Brown's chasing of a lost cause. But the fat American imperialist pigs won the day, as they always do, with an 88-74 victory.
*Old habits die hard. It's wot I do, innit?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Saturday 27 November, 2004 |
London Towers 74 UConn Huskies 88
I arrived at the Sauna later than a BBL fax giving Robert Youngblood clearance to play. But hey, at least I didn't walk out of Crystal Palace in protest.
You could tell that the touring Yanks were in town; a hastily assembled WILL CALL sign was placed in front of the ticket collection point. Will call what? Is this the introduction of a Towers Lonely Hearts service? If so, sign me up: Sweating, smelling bloke on a bike who has just cycled up South Norwood Hill would like to meet Towers Dancer for some dunking sessions.
'Look, do you want your bloody ticket or what?' was the response I got when I made the suggestion at WILL CALL.
The fat American imperialist pigs won |
Huskies looked mighty impressive on court with more beefcakes on board than a Newcastle Eagles Supporters' Coach.
'The big man makes his intentions known' declared Match Announcer Matthew as some Huskie super jock jumped high and dunked straight from the tip off. With a wink and a nod directed towards one of the Towers Dancers mid air, the big man clearly had similar intentions as me.
A Michael Jordan style air dunk by the visitors almost ended in disaster with the backboard bending more than the Milton Keynes Lions trying to bend the rules. Just Do It though, as an Alled Jones Walking in the Air impression (they'll love me for that) ended in spectacular dunk in the very next attack.
Towers were phased by the physical approach of the Huskies, trailing 16-26 at the first buzzer.
Huskies hit the Towers for pace in the second quarter, stretching away with an eight point lead. The Towers attack was met with a strong D as the Huskies undid the great American obesity myth. Said the man who munched through THREE cheeseburgers during the game. Rod Brown kept Huskies at bay but it wasn't enough to prevent a Huskies half time lead of 48-34.
And then it was time for the REAL battle as the Huskies cheerleaders took to the Crystal Palace court to shake their Yankee ass. Pound for pound, dollar for dollar, there was certainly enough of it to shake. So what does your American dollar buy you? Lots of 'artistic interpretation' but sadly no Janet Jackson style 'costume malfunctions.' Which was a shame really as some of the girls were a top heavy mishap waiting to happen.
A twenty point lead in the third quarter was the signal for the Huskies to start show boating. And boy, they were bloody good at it, running away with a 69-49 lead going into the fourth.
'There's ten minutes to go and still time for Towers to get back in the game,' said Matthew, the ever optimistic game caller. Yeah, and even at the age of thirty four and with a dodgy knee, I may just make the NBA MVP this season.
Six minutes remaining and the lead was pegged back to 14 points, much in part due to Rod Brown's chasing of a lost cause. But the fat American imperialist pigs won the day, as they always do, with an 88-74 victory.
*Old habits die hard. It's wot I do, innit?
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london towers official
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whats bev - uk basketball forums
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The Blog that Bit its' Own Arse
A few days of turmoil.
And if you are still harboring hopes that I've been censored by myself, as stated above, that's probably FIVE words too many than you logged on to read.
Basically I hit a blogging block over the past week. Some might say that I have been on the ropes for the past six months. Keeping a daily diary is definitely only for a pedant such as Mr Pepys. Or a freak / loner / egotist. With a few notable exceptions. Oh go on then, YOU, YOU, YOU and why not YOU as well?
Those that know me outside of the onionbag bollocks would probably note that I'm not the most open of people. This blog was never going to be a kiss and tell effort. Probably because I never really get to kiss, let alone tell the random five strangers that may be reading.
My life is pretty much South London sport, South London landmarks and the odd foray into the Big City when anything involving two wheels takes my interest. In terms of a target audience, it's not exactly Heat magazine, but bugger me, it has kept me busy for the past twelve months.
There has been a few success stories (blagging a weekly print column HERE) on the back of this blog. But now it has come to the stage where my South London sport, scenery and cycling exploits have pretty much dried up.
It's all calendar based bollocks anyway. This time last year I was banging on about the arrival of the Stockwell Christmas Tree. And whadya know, unlike the Lambeth Recycling collectors, true to form, it's been erected again right on cue this week. And that is it in an essence really. I sat down to write some shit about it and then thought, mmm, haven't we been here before?
In a few weeks time I will probably go to The Globe's Winter Fair. Like I did twelve months ago. The New Year will bring the ice hockey Play Off's. Like last year. And then when we hit the summer stride I can be found lazing around at The Lido in-between such Summer Season highlights such as the Stockwell Festival or the Lambeth Show.
You've read One Year in the Life of Loser, why the hell would you want to do it all over again?
I was also starting to resent spending my weekends watching AND WRITING about non-league football, basketball and hockey. Highly entertaining though they are. That's the watching and not the reading.
But you know I've become a little attached to these parts, if only for the reason that I've paid up in full for this ill advised domain name for TWO years. The messages of support that I have received in the past twenty four hours have been truly humbling and I thank you all.
And so here's how I THINK things might pan out...
I'm going to give the Crap Match Reports a bit of an early bath. No one was reading the buggers anyway. I'd much rather spend my Saturday afternoons becoming agitated as to how The Hamlet have slipped into a relegation battle than worry myself silly about whether it was the 69th or 70th minute when the fourth goal went in. Sadly this has meant that I have had to surrender the South London Press gig as most of the stuff there was a cut and paste effort from around here anyway (shhh, don't tell the nice fellas over at Streatham High Road).
So I reckon I'm going to keep on blogging, but blogging about what I'm not exactly sure. Maybe I could become a Belle confessional? But would you really want to read about how I was once a very mucky pup as I spent a whole week getting my hands dirty building my own bike?
Quality not quantity of course, which really screws me up as I can bash them out with the best of them (on a KEYBOARD that is), but much like the masturbating metaphor, the quality is a bit hit and miss, not to mention messy.
So in summary, I may or may not be as regular as a bowl of Bran Flakes. No more non-league nonsense. Plenty of pics. Same old shit subject matter. If nothing else, a compare and contrast exercise of how the Brixton Windmill Festival of 2004 measures up to the 2005 effort may give you an insight into how limited my vocabulary and memory is.
I think that has been what is known as a Crisis of Confidence. It happens to me in my everyday life and maybe blogging was originally a means to escape it. Blogs will eat themselves of course and any blog that simply bangs on about blogging per se is a load of bollocks to me. Tell me something I don't already know, and not endless navel gazing about how blogs will change the world.
Better scratch this entire post then.
Yes, I've been a bit of a knobber, haven't I? This is probably as personal it gets. Back to business as usual. Bet you can't wait to read about Critical Mass on Friday...
| Thursday 25 November, 2003 |
A few days of turmoil.
And if you are still harboring hopes that I've been censored by myself, as stated above, that's probably FIVE words too many than you logged on to read.
Basically I hit a blogging block over the past week. Some might say that I have been on the ropes for the past six months. Keeping a daily diary is definitely only for a pedant such as Mr Pepys. Or a freak / loner / egotist. With a few notable exceptions. Oh go on then, YOU, YOU, YOU and why not YOU as well?
A Year in the Life of a Loser... |
My life is pretty much South London sport, South London landmarks and the odd foray into the Big City when anything involving two wheels takes my interest. In terms of a target audience, it's not exactly Heat magazine, but bugger me, it has kept me busy for the past twelve months.
There has been a few success stories (blagging a weekly print column HERE) on the back of this blog. But now it has come to the stage where my South London sport, scenery and cycling exploits have pretty much dried up.
It's all calendar based bollocks anyway. This time last year I was banging on about the arrival of the Stockwell Christmas Tree. And whadya know, unlike the Lambeth Recycling collectors, true to form, it's been erected again right on cue this week. And that is it in an essence really. I sat down to write some shit about it and then thought, mmm, haven't we been here before?
In a few weeks time I will probably go to The Globe's Winter Fair. Like I did twelve months ago. The New Year will bring the ice hockey Play Off's. Like last year. And then when we hit the summer stride I can be found lazing around at The Lido in-between such Summer Season highlights such as the Stockwell Festival or the Lambeth Show.
You've read One Year in the Life of Loser, why the hell would you want to do it all over again?
I was also starting to resent spending my weekends watching AND WRITING about non-league football, basketball and hockey. Highly entertaining though they are. That's the watching and not the reading.
But you know I've become a little attached to these parts, if only for the reason that I've paid up in full for this ill advised domain name for TWO years. The messages of support that I have received in the past twenty four hours have been truly humbling and I thank you all.
And so here's how I THINK things might pan out...
I'm going to give the Crap Match Reports a bit of an early bath. No one was reading the buggers anyway. I'd much rather spend my Saturday afternoons becoming agitated as to how The Hamlet have slipped into a relegation battle than worry myself silly about whether it was the 69th or 70th minute when the fourth goal went in. Sadly this has meant that I have had to surrender the South London Press gig as most of the stuff there was a cut and paste effort from around here anyway (shhh, don't tell the nice fellas over at Streatham High Road).
So I reckon I'm going to keep on blogging, but blogging about what I'm not exactly sure. Maybe I could become a Belle confessional? But would you really want to read about how I was once a very mucky pup as I spent a whole week getting my hands dirty building my own bike?
Quality not quantity of course, which really screws me up as I can bash them out with the best of them (on a KEYBOARD that is), but much like the masturbating metaphor, the quality is a bit hit and miss, not to mention messy.
So in summary, I may or may not be as regular as a bowl of Bran Flakes. No more non-league nonsense. Plenty of pics. Same old shit subject matter. If nothing else, a compare and contrast exercise of how the Brixton Windmill Festival of 2004 measures up to the 2005 effort may give you an insight into how limited my vocabulary and memory is.
I think that has been what is known as a Crisis of Confidence. It happens to me in my everyday life and maybe blogging was originally a means to escape it. Blogs will eat themselves of course and any blog that simply bangs on about blogging per se is a load of bollocks to me. Tell me something I don't already know, and not endless navel gazing about how blogs will change the world.
Better scratch this entire post then.
Yes, I've been a bit of a knobber, haven't I? This is probably as personal it gets. Back to business as usual. Bet you can't wait to read about Critical Mass on Friday...
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Crap Match Pics
London Towers 64 Brighton Bears 71, 20/11/04
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
london towers official
towers dancers
| Monday 22 November, 2004 |
London Towers 64 Brighton Bears 71, 20/11/04
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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london towers official
towers dancers
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Tunnel Vision
Back the Bid? Maybe.
BOLLOCKS to the branded City though.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 21 November, 2004 |
Back the Bid? Maybe.
BOLLOCKS to the branded City though.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Tricky Skills Jase Vs The Corporate Waltz
Everyone has their 'own band' who they grew up with. Mine was Diesel Park West. I've bought the bootlegs, seen them live far too many times and followed the boys around the country to some obscure venues (The Oliver Twist in Colchester anyone?). And they've never disappointed.
It was with some trepidation then that I ventured out last night to The Borderline to see the Diesels live for the first time in over five years. I needn't have worried - they ROCKED like a rocking horse being sat on by Vanessa Feltz.
DPW tried to escape the City of Death (Leicester) back in '88 with perhaps the best ever debut album. Released by a bunch of blokes with a Buffalo Springfield fixation that is.
Signed up to Food Records, an imprint of EMI (migraine of a website alert), great expectations awaited. This was the barren musical period of post-punk and pre-acid house. Five young gunslingers with a West Coast guitar heritage and a love of small town England were courted by the music press and given the red carpet treatment by the big boys at EMI.
They were even elevated to star billing on the Food Christmas EP of '89, with Jesus Jones (US No. 1 less than a year away) and also featuring the second best band from Leicester, Crazyhead (another blogging entry to come, I should probably warn you).
The Shakespeare Alabama debut sold in modest amounts and DPW then went for broke on the follow up with the Strings 'n All production of Decency. This didn't sit very well with the music press championing Madchester at the time.
And then the curse of Colchester struck with Blur coming up from behind as EMI priorities. Things all started to go a little baggy and the tight trousers of DPW were shafted and placed in the bargain bin.
But I still kept on believing, along with a small crowd of dedicated followers. DPW regrouped and returned with a wonderfully bitter tale of music biz excess on Diesel Park West Vs The Corporate Waltz. The title contained a bit of a clue to as what was contained with.
I use to laugh at the lyrics:
'And I'm ready to fight
And I'm ready to flow
You do what you ought to
I won't do the Corporate Waltz.'
But now I realise that's how I live my life.
DPW had dug their own grave, and the next decade saw them being handed down the Food chain (boom boom) from minor indie label to bedroom based indie label with each release.
They even released an album called Thought for Food. See what they've done there? The bitter experience from the EMI episode still haunts the band today.
'Personal problems' have restricted their activities over the past five years. I saw the song writing partnership of John Butler and Rick Wilson perform as a duet two years ago in an early evening support slot for The Men They Couldn't Hang at The Garage. For the first few songs I didn't even recognise Leicester's own Glimor Twins, showing how long my relationship with DPW had been neglected.
Fast forward to last month and imagine my surprise when Time Out proclaimed 'The return of the Great Rockers' at The Borderline, a venue across the road from the hub of Tin Pan Ally, London's music centre. Oh the irony of DPW being back in the Big City and on the very same patch where they were shafted all those years ago.
If it wasn't for some fake mockney geezers hitching a ride on Madchester back in '89, DPW would probably be selling out Wembley by now. This was the scale of their rock ambition. Instead they were playing to a modest sized crowd of balding blokes and the odd Grebo retro kid at The Borderline on a freezing cold Friday night.
'Christmas is coming and John Butler is getting fat.'
Which is exactly what I wrote when I last reviewed DPW ten years ago this month. They've probably aged better than I have though.
You can always spot an A & R arsehole a mile off at a gig; talks on his mobile throughout the set, drinks vodka and tonic and greets other A & R idiots with a ridiculous continental kiss. The Borderline had a fare share of vodka chasers last night, although sadly I think that they were there for the support act.
And then shortly after 9.15, the lights were dimmed (DPW in the cold light of day is not a pretty sight) and on walked the old timers. All proper bands have a gang mentality. There is a definite clique about them, usually displayed in the same style of clothing. Think The Clash, Mansun and even early Manics. DPW are no different. Now we know how Barnardos on Leicester High Street stays in business.
John Butler and Rick Wilson are one of the great surviving songwriting partnerships. Coming up with a quality album a year is no mean feat. It must be even more difficult when hardly anyone is listening.
Big JB wouldn't let the lost opportunities lie with his NY / East Midlands drawl referring to 'our great long lost single of '93. Or was it '94, Rick? One, two three - LET'S RAWK! ALRIGHT!'
Fantastic stuff and even the A & R arseholes were seen scribbling notes down. Or perhaps they are just bloggers as well?
Half of The Corporate Waltz was run through at the top of the set. This was my cue (or rather mrs onionbagblogger's) to go to the bar as I hit the booze big time twice in the space of a fortnight after seven years on the wagon. That's the healing power of West Coast riffs for you.
'Don't think twice you've just begun
The road is tough, but the road is fun
Your hour come baby then it's gone...'
...sang Big JB as Good Time Liberation Blues summed up life on the road for a jobbing muso.
An hour and a half later and they were gone. For how long this time I'm not really sure. There was even a scramble for a set list at the end. I bet you don't see that at a Scissor Sisters show. I was one of the lucky winners and with set list filed away with the others from beer stained gigs gone by, I headed off back out into the wet West End night.
See you in 2009. Wembley will be waiting.
| Saturday 20 November, 2004 |
Everyone has their 'own band' who they grew up with. Mine was Diesel Park West. I've bought the bootlegs, seen them live far too many times and followed the boys around the country to some obscure venues (The Oliver Twist in Colchester anyone?). And they've never disappointed.
It was with some trepidation then that I ventured out last night to The Borderline to see the Diesels live for the first time in over five years. I needn't have worried - they ROCKED like a rocking horse being sat on by Vanessa Feltz.
The return of the Great Rockers |
Signed up to Food Records, an imprint of EMI (migraine of a website alert), great expectations awaited. This was the barren musical period of post-punk and pre-acid house. Five young gunslingers with a West Coast guitar heritage and a love of small town England were courted by the music press and given the red carpet treatment by the big boys at EMI.
They were even elevated to star billing on the Food Christmas EP of '89, with Jesus Jones (US No. 1 less than a year away) and also featuring the second best band from Leicester, Crazyhead (another blogging entry to come, I should probably warn you).
The Shakespeare Alabama debut sold in modest amounts and DPW then went for broke on the follow up with the Strings 'n All production of Decency. This didn't sit very well with the music press championing Madchester at the time.
And then the curse of Colchester struck with Blur coming up from behind as EMI priorities. Things all started to go a little baggy and the tight trousers of DPW were shafted and placed in the bargain bin.
But I still kept on believing, along with a small crowd of dedicated followers. DPW regrouped and returned with a wonderfully bitter tale of music biz excess on Diesel Park West Vs The Corporate Waltz. The title contained a bit of a clue to as what was contained with.
I use to laugh at the lyrics:
'And I'm ready to fight
And I'm ready to flow
You do what you ought to
I won't do the Corporate Waltz.'
But now I realise that's how I live my life.
DPW had dug their own grave, and the next decade saw them being handed down the Food chain (boom boom) from minor indie label to bedroom based indie label with each release.
They even released an album called Thought for Food. See what they've done there? The bitter experience from the EMI episode still haunts the band today.
'Personal problems' have restricted their activities over the past five years. I saw the song writing partnership of John Butler and Rick Wilson perform as a duet two years ago in an early evening support slot for The Men They Couldn't Hang at The Garage. For the first few songs I didn't even recognise Leicester's own Glimor Twins, showing how long my relationship with DPW had been neglected.
Fast forward to last month and imagine my surprise when Time Out proclaimed 'The return of the Great Rockers' at The Borderline, a venue across the road from the hub of Tin Pan Ally, London's music centre. Oh the irony of DPW being back in the Big City and on the very same patch where they were shafted all those years ago.
If it wasn't for some fake mockney geezers hitching a ride on Madchester back in '89, DPW would probably be selling out Wembley by now. This was the scale of their rock ambition. Instead they were playing to a modest sized crowd of balding blokes and the odd Grebo retro kid at The Borderline on a freezing cold Friday night.
'Christmas is coming and John Butler is getting fat.'
Which is exactly what I wrote when I last reviewed DPW ten years ago this month. They've probably aged better than I have though.
You can always spot an A & R arsehole a mile off at a gig; talks on his mobile throughout the set, drinks vodka and tonic and greets other A & R idiots with a ridiculous continental kiss. The Borderline had a fare share of vodka chasers last night, although sadly I think that they were there for the support act.
And then shortly after 9.15, the lights were dimmed (DPW in the cold light of day is not a pretty sight) and on walked the old timers. All proper bands have a gang mentality. There is a definite clique about them, usually displayed in the same style of clothing. Think The Clash, Mansun and even early Manics. DPW are no different. Now we know how Barnardos on Leicester High Street stays in business.
John Butler and Rick Wilson are one of the great surviving songwriting partnerships. Coming up with a quality album a year is no mean feat. It must be even more difficult when hardly anyone is listening.
Big JB wouldn't let the lost opportunities lie with his NY / East Midlands drawl referring to 'our great long lost single of '93. Or was it '94, Rick? One, two three - LET'S RAWK! ALRIGHT!'
Fantastic stuff and even the A & R arseholes were seen scribbling notes down. Or perhaps they are just bloggers as well?
Half of The Corporate Waltz was run through at the top of the set. This was my cue (or rather mrs onionbagblogger's) to go to the bar as I hit the booze big time twice in the space of a fortnight after seven years on the wagon. That's the healing power of West Coast riffs for you.
'Don't think twice you've just begun
The road is tough, but the road is fun
Your hour come baby then it's gone...'
...sang Big JB as Good Time Liberation Blues summed up life on the road for a jobbing muso.
An hour and a half later and they were gone. For how long this time I'm not really sure. There was even a scramble for a set list at the end. I bet you don't see that at a Scissor Sisters show. I was one of the lucky winners and with set list filed away with the others from beer stained gigs gone by, I headed off back out into the wet West End night.
See you in 2009. Wembley will be waiting.
| #permalink |
VERY Crap Journo
Sniffin out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
Hundreds of CUNTryside Alliance protestor toffs have assembled outside Chequers to greet Mr Tony as he wines, dines (and probably the rest...) President Chirac.
And all on the worst weather day of the year so far.
Not so Great Outdoors now is it, you little inbreeding knobbers.
What's the Beef?
With Bovril there aint any anymore. With visions of broadening their appeal for the veggie market (didn't anyone tell them that Lady Linda is cold turkey?), manufacturers Unilever are extracting the beef (and the piss) in a new re-branded Bovril.
Respect to the veggies for forcing the change, but Bovril has and always will taste like drinking boiled bulls bollocks.
Fucking FA
Speaking on 5Live, former FA Chief Exec Mark Palios was asked to give advice to his soon to be appointed replacement.
Not shagging your secretary would be a good start.
Cocky Palios (don't even go there) even suggested that he has 'unfinished business' at the FA. I only hope that FA is not an acronym for foxy Faria Alam (oh come on, there's something of a man seducer about her...)
| Friday 19 November, 2004 |
Sniffin out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
Hundreds of CUNTryside Alliance protestor toffs have assembled outside Chequers to greet Mr Tony as he wines, dines (and probably the rest...) President Chirac.
And all on the worst weather day of the year so far.
Not so Great Outdoors now is it, you little inbreeding knobbers.
What's the Beef?
With Bovril there aint any anymore. With visions of broadening their appeal for the veggie market (didn't anyone tell them that Lady Linda is cold turkey?), manufacturers Unilever are extracting the beef (and the piss) in a new re-branded Bovril.
Respect to the veggies for forcing the change, but Bovril has and always will taste like drinking boiled bulls bollocks.
Fucking FA
Speaking on 5Live, former FA Chief Exec Mark Palios was asked to give advice to his soon to be appointed replacement.
Not shagging your secretary would be a good start.
Cocky Palios (don't even go there) even suggested that he has 'unfinished business' at the FA. I only hope that FA is not an acronym for foxy Faria Alam (oh come on, there's something of a man seducer about her...)
| #permalink |
Keane-O!
Blimey, 'they're keen' I thought as I cycled past Brixton Academy in the pissing rain at 4.30 this afternoon and a bunch of bedwetters were queuing up early for the evening entertainment. But it wasn't Keane of course, the whiney miserablists who really should just get over their last heartache. Instead it was an assortment of whiney miserablists who really should just get over their last heartache, waiting for Keane to take to the big stage about five hours later.
Keane. FUCKING KEANE! Slap me on the buttocks. Why would any semi-literate music fan feel the need to be on the front row to watch a band that look like Dave, Andy and Matt from down your local boozer?
I then realised that it has taken decades of music industry indifference to promoting anything significantly NEW that has turned me into such an introverted arse of a music snob.
Confession time: I have never actually heard any music by Keane. Not knowingly anyway. mrs onionbagblogger gave up waiting for me to download their album and bit the bullet and bought the bugger. I bought her a pair of headphones as her reward.
In a jingly jangly way Keane are probably about as harmless as Aztec Camera were twenty years ago. And how I adored the Boy Wonder Roddy back in the day. I really just can't be arsed to actively seek out Coldplay clones and listen to anything with the Next Great Thing tag labelled to it right now.
The chase is always better than the kill (ers) etc and with 40 fat gigs of iPod indulgence to pass away the winter months, it's all gone a bit 1985 around here. Or at least it was last night with The Jesus and Mary Chain and the Wedding Present. The ska revival is pencilled in for tonight and the great Britfunk weekender looks like kicking in tomorrow.
Twenty years time and I might just make it to Keane. By then and the bum fluff boys may actually look or at least sound interesting.
In the meantime I'm saving myself for the Gig of the Year tomorrow night, or as Time Out described it, the 'Return of the Great Rockers'.
There's even talk of making it up to Highbury later for the North London leg of My New Favourite Club with the Boy Gedge the guest DJ.
In unrelated SW9 news...
The Sunny Stockwell Christmas Tree has arrived! Hurrah! No tinsel as yet, although one of the Porto pissheads was adding his own liquid decorations when I was cycling past. Further updates etc etc...
| Thursday 18 November, 2004 |
Blimey, 'they're keen' I thought as I cycled past Brixton Academy in the pissing rain at 4.30 this afternoon and a bunch of bedwetters were queuing up early for the evening entertainment. But it wasn't Keane of course, the whiney miserablists who really should just get over their last heartache. Instead it was an assortment of whiney miserablists who really should just get over their last heartache, waiting for Keane to take to the big stage about five hours later.
The ska revival is pencilled in for tonight |
I then realised that it has taken decades of music industry indifference to promoting anything significantly NEW that has turned me into such an introverted arse of a music snob.
Confession time: I have never actually heard any music by Keane. Not knowingly anyway. mrs onionbagblogger gave up waiting for me to download their album and bit the bullet and bought the bugger. I bought her a pair of headphones as her reward.
In a jingly jangly way Keane are probably about as harmless as Aztec Camera were twenty years ago. And how I adored the Boy Wonder Roddy back in the day. I really just can't be arsed to actively seek out Coldplay clones and listen to anything with the Next Great Thing tag labelled to it right now.
The chase is always better than the kill (ers) etc and with 40 fat gigs of iPod indulgence to pass away the winter months, it's all gone a bit 1985 around here. Or at least it was last night with The Jesus and Mary Chain and the Wedding Present. The ska revival is pencilled in for tonight and the great Britfunk weekender looks like kicking in tomorrow.
Twenty years time and I might just make it to Keane. By then and the bum fluff boys may actually look or at least sound interesting.
In the meantime I'm saving myself for the Gig of the Year tomorrow night, or as Time Out described it, the 'Return of the Great Rockers'.
There's even talk of making it up to Highbury later for the North London leg of My New Favourite Club with the Boy Gedge the guest DJ.
In unrelated SW9 news...
The Sunny Stockwell Christmas Tree has arrived! Hurrah! No tinsel as yet, although one of the Porto pissheads was adding his own liquid decorations when I was cycling past. Further updates etc etc...
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Must You Keep Rolling...
Another hidden London TV treasure buried away amongst the usual ten tons of shit on ITV: Tuesday evenings at 7.30 in the Carlton region (so bugger you, any non-metropolitan peasants) is The Thames Through Time. If you're a fan of the Dirty Old River and enjoy watching archive footage of men wearing flat caps smoking tabs, then this is for you.
Two weeks in to the series and it's all been promising stuff so far. Last week was a look at the history of sailing barges. Once the engine house of the Thames, the few remaining of these proud old boats largely operate now as working tourist attractions.
Tonight and the focus was on the demise of the docks. The main concentration of employment at the turn of the nineteenth Century was found from Bermondsey down to Docklands. And the main industry wasn't ice cream sellers.
Some salty sea dog old boys reminisced about the good old days of non-unionised labour with scant regard for health and safety. How times have changed then. Ha ha.
The theme throughout The Thames Through Time seems to be about the transition from trade to tourism, a feature that can be applied to London's other major industries.
This shift from is something that I understand all to well as I long to live on a houseboat. Whenever my land legs get restless, I often go on sortie mission to see what I can afford. Not a great deal to be honest. A much sought after Chelsea postcode (not by me I must add) can pull in a weekly rent of 625 quid for a houseboat harboured at Chelsea Embankment.
That's a lot of outlay for what is essentially a floating caravan. And what if you don't like the neighbours?
They'll be making TV programmes in fifty years time about how some Londoner's use to actually own residential home on the water, back in the good old days before it was privatised and sold off to multi-national floating hotel developers.
The Thames Through Time shows how the role of the river has been reduced over the past one hundred years. Asking a ten year-old in class today what is the name of the river that flows through London drew a perplexed look. And only last week we were sailing on a bloody big boat up and down Old Father Thames. Which made the setting of homework easier than usual: Watch more TV.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 16 November, 2004 |
Another hidden London TV treasure buried away amongst the usual ten tons of shit on ITV: Tuesday evenings at 7.30 in the Carlton region (so bugger you, any non-metropolitan peasants) is The Thames Through Time. If you're a fan of the Dirty Old River and enjoy watching archive footage of men wearing flat caps smoking tabs, then this is for you.
Two weeks in to the series and it's all been promising stuff so far. Last week was a look at the history of sailing barges. Once the engine house of the Thames, the few remaining of these proud old boats largely operate now as working tourist attractions.
That's a lot of cash for a floating caravan |
Some salty sea dog old boys reminisced about the good old days of non-unionised labour with scant regard for health and safety. How times have changed then. Ha ha.
The theme throughout The Thames Through Time seems to be about the transition from trade to tourism, a feature that can be applied to London's other major industries.
This shift from is something that I understand all to well as I long to live on a houseboat. Whenever my land legs get restless, I often go on sortie mission to see what I can afford. Not a great deal to be honest. A much sought after Chelsea postcode (not by me I must add) can pull in a weekly rent of 625 quid for a houseboat harboured at Chelsea Embankment.
That's a lot of outlay for what is essentially a floating caravan. And what if you don't like the neighbours?
They'll be making TV programmes in fifty years time about how some Londoner's use to actually own residential home on the water, back in the good old days before it was privatised and sold off to multi-national floating hotel developers.
The Thames Through Time shows how the role of the river has been reduced over the past one hundred years. Asking a ten year-old in class today what is the name of the river that flows through London drew a perplexed look. And only last week we were sailing on a bloody big boat up and down Old Father Thames. Which made the setting of homework easier than usual: Watch more TV.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report| Monday 15 November, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 5 Haringey Greyhounds 2, 14/11/04
Streatham Redskins remain second in the group stages of the English National Ice Hockey League Cup after a hard fought 5-2 home win over Haringey Greyhounds on Sunday. With two previous convincing wins over their local London rivals, Redskins were icing without influential forward Joe Johnston and the rising under-19 stars who had their own away match.
The Voice of the High Road Rink informed us before face off that one of the old boilers was out of action tonight. I looked around though and all the usual old girls seemed present and correct.
She may be an oldie but she's still a goodie |
'Get yourself to the High Road rink' said the South London Press. '6.45 face off.' I know this for a fact as a well informed, handsome young hockey writer penned the piece. But you shouldn't believe all that you read in the press of course. Especially when it is written by a bloke who makes it up as he goes along.
Finally we had a face off at 7.10 and Greyhounds took a shock lead after only 44 seconds when Craig Metcalf scored with only the second shot of the game. And I'm not making it up this time. Haringey were fired up to avenge the two previous heavy defeats by Streatham this season with Adam Noctor facing all the early rubber in the Streatham net.
A hooking penalty gave Redskins their first powerplay at the half way stage in the first period but the Greyhounds penalty killing unit was well organised. A hard hitting Haringey side was causing confusion in the Streatham defence, catching the home team supporters by surprise as the Streatham fans were expecting another one-sided game.
Redskins ended the first period back on the powerplay with a tripping penalty called, but it was Haringey who hit more shots on target during the five on four skate. With thirty seconds remaining in the period, a well placed pass from new signing Robert Kowalenko on the wing found Chris Rasmussen in front of the net who fired home.
1-1 at the first period break and unlike the old boilers (heat providing variety), Streatham were just warming up. The sub-zero temperatures had thankfully cooled things for me down below, and the oldie but goodie boilers were last seen hot footing it to linesman Holtham's locker room.
Haringey held out for another powerplay at the start of the second period and down the other end of the ice, the away attack was troubling the Streatham D. Redskins tried everything - passing hockey, physical hockey and even some blue line belters from Octavian Sersea, but still the scores remained level.
Finally the breakthrough came with some old time hockey at 26:48, scored not surprisingly by Redskins Captain, old timer Peter Quiney. An assist across the goal crease by Wayne Trunchion and Captain Quiney was there to hook home.
With a second goal behind them the confidence was now back in the Streatham game. The same can't be said of the Redskins skates, especially Wayne Trunchion who was having, ahem, problems in stopping himself on the ice, especially when a Haringey stooge was between him and the plexi.
Ouch.
A Haringey powerplay was killed off with ease and now it was the turn of Streatham to play possession hockey. But Haringey hit back at 36:13 with a rare breakaway down the ice and Andrzej Maslak finding his name on the score sheet.
That's easy for you to say...
Seconds later and an unassisted goal for Rasmussen had Streatham back in the lead once more when a weak shot sailed under Geoff Butterfield in the nets for Haringey.
A trip to the toilet at the break to get blown. By the hand dryer of course. Desperate times, desperate measures with my finger coming close to freezing on my seven inch super zoom.
A 3-2 shoreline and the game was up for grabs at the start of the third period. With London rivalries at stake, both sets of supporters added to the occasion.
Noctor soon found his net knocked off the moorings. Mindful of keeping an eye on the game with the puck still in play, the Redskins netminder alerted referee Samways. 'Put it back on then!' was the helpful reply from the official. I'm all for delegation in the workplace but that's a bit like asking Elton John to wipe his own arse; people are paid to do such tasks. Like the linesman (that's replacing goal moorings and not wiping the hairy backside of a lard arse diva in drag).
Redskins edged ahead at 48:03 when Quiney was left unmarked in front of the goal. A player with his experience needs no invitation to take advantage as he hit a one timer. Streatham's steady defence man Simon Greaves then picked up a ten minute misconduct penalty ruling him out for the rest of the game. I can only presume that the penalty was for having harsh words with the Streatham skate sharpener, seeing as though the #26 had been finding it hard to stay on his feet all evening.
Good team work around the net finished off Haringey with a powerplay goal from Wayne Trunchion with six minutes remaining, giving Redskins a well earned 5-2 victory.
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crap match report compendium
streatham redskins official site
redskins forum
| #permalink |
VERY Crap Match Report
London Towers 2 (TWO) Milton Keynes Lions 0, 13/11/04
My early arrival at the Crystal Palace Sauna was rewarded by catching the final quarter of the London Towers Ladies match against Southend Swifts. And no, the Essex girls didn't wear white stilettos on the court. The action had all the excitement of a male game with the added attraction of silk short wearing girls regularly falling on top of each other.
'Let's go ladies' was the call from the referee as a Time Out came to an end. Quite. Grab yer vest love, you've pulled.
I wasn't the only male sitting at the front of the house as an interested onlooker. Neil the DJ was also there, lost for words for once.
A convincing home win for the Ladies and then out came the Lions for the warm up. For Milton Keynes this involved an oversized basketball being bounced through the hoop. A reverse take on the fairground favourite of throwing an oversized hoop over a potential prize.
The swollen ball reminded me of the Ali G joke of 'me got balls bigger than melons, lucky me know a girl who likes fruit juice.'
Coincidence that Robert Youngblood was bouncing the ball the most? Youngblood? Oversized ego? Keep reading...
Just ahead of tip off and Neil the DJ gave us the run down for the evening: 'The Towers Dancers will be on court ten minutes before tip off; we'll introduce the teams five minutes after that.'
You could probably add 'five minutes into the game and the first critical cries from some silly fool in the crowd will first be heard.'
But wait, what's this? Boos BEFORE tip off? I know Towers weren't on top of their game last week but surly this is a little premature? It turns out that Youngblood has balls even bigger than his ego.
The Milton Keynes man wasn't given a licensed BBL number ahead of tip off and was ruled out of the game by the match officials. His response? To take his team off the court and forfeit the game. It's my oversized basketball and I'll do what I want etc. Don't suppose anyone fancies a suck on my fruit juice back in the locker room?
Boo, Boo and thrice BOO to you Sir.
Bring on Towlie I say.
A game of sorts tipped off with five man Towers lining up against a non-existent opposition. Jerry Williams dunked the easiest basket of his career, and this is a man who has dunked against Essex Leopards, least us not forget.
A 2-0 home win then and with the points on the board, the referee took the Towers off the court.
Cometh the hour, cometh the ladies. Hurrah for the Towers Dancers who actually showed a willingness to walk onto the court and perform. And most excellent they were too. Not sure if they are licensed for what I have in mind though.
Neil the DJ was the star of the show for simply keeping us informed. The music kept on pumping out and it was just a shame that his record collection doesn't include Carly Simon's You're So Vain, let alone the Happy Mondays. Twisting my melons, man etc.
Lots of confused looks during the delay. Will any game actually take place? Will the healthy crowd get a refund? And if so, will it be paid for by Milton Keynes Lions Basketball Club?
The longer the farce went on, the least likely it looked like we would get a game. Pity the poor children in the crowd, many of whom were out on a Saturday night to experience their first basketball game.
'Why not buy a raffle ticket?' suggested the ever cheerful Neil.
I did. It cost me eight quid and it said London Towers Vs Milton Keynes Lions on the stub.
Some of the dancers started dunking (not a euphemism), just as Neil delivered the final verdict: Match awarded to the Towers after the Lions forfeited the game.
At least I got to see some action watching the Ladies earlier. I left the Sauna early, on the look out for more of the same.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Sunday 14 November, 2004 |
London Towers 2 (TWO) Milton Keynes Lions 0, 13/11/04
My early arrival at the Crystal Palace Sauna was rewarded by catching the final quarter of the London Towers Ladies match against Southend Swifts. And no, the Essex girls didn't wear white stilettos on the court. The action had all the excitement of a male game with the added attraction of silk short wearing girls regularly falling on top of each other.
'Let's go ladies' was the call from the referee as a Time Out came to an end. Quite. Grab yer vest love, you've pulled.
I wasn't the only male sitting at the front of the house as an interested onlooker. Neil the DJ was also there, lost for words for once.
A convincing home win for the Ladies and then out came the Lions for the warm up. For Milton Keynes this involved an oversized basketball being bounced through the hoop. A reverse take on the fairground favourite of throwing an oversized hoop over a potential prize.
Grab yer vest love, you've pulled |
Coincidence that Robert Youngblood was bouncing the ball the most? Youngblood? Oversized ego? Keep reading...
Just ahead of tip off and Neil the DJ gave us the run down for the evening: 'The Towers Dancers will be on court ten minutes before tip off; we'll introduce the teams five minutes after that.'
You could probably add 'five minutes into the game and the first critical cries from some silly fool in the crowd will first be heard.'
But wait, what's this? Boos BEFORE tip off? I know Towers weren't on top of their game last week but surly this is a little premature? It turns out that Youngblood has balls even bigger than his ego.
The Milton Keynes man wasn't given a licensed BBL number ahead of tip off and was ruled out of the game by the match officials. His response? To take his team off the court and forfeit the game. It's my oversized basketball and I'll do what I want etc. Don't suppose anyone fancies a suck on my fruit juice back in the locker room?
Boo, Boo and thrice BOO to you Sir.
Bring on Towlie I say.
A game of sorts tipped off with five man Towers lining up against a non-existent opposition. Jerry Williams dunked the easiest basket of his career, and this is a man who has dunked against Essex Leopards, least us not forget.
A 2-0 home win then and with the points on the board, the referee took the Towers off the court.
Cometh the hour, cometh the ladies. Hurrah for the Towers Dancers who actually showed a willingness to walk onto the court and perform. And most excellent they were too. Not sure if they are licensed for what I have in mind though.
Neil the DJ was the star of the show for simply keeping us informed. The music kept on pumping out and it was just a shame that his record collection doesn't include Carly Simon's You're So Vain, let alone the Happy Mondays. Twisting my melons, man etc.
Lots of confused looks during the delay. Will any game actually take place? Will the healthy crowd get a refund? And if so, will it be paid for by Milton Keynes Lions Basketball Club?
The longer the farce went on, the least likely it looked like we would get a game. Pity the poor children in the crowd, many of whom were out on a Saturday night to experience their first basketball game.
'Why not buy a raffle ticket?' suggested the ever cheerful Neil.
I did. It cost me eight quid and it said London Towers Vs Milton Keynes Lions on the stub.
Some of the dancers started dunking (not a euphemism), just as Neil delivered the final verdict: Match awarded to the Towers after the Lions forfeited the game.
At least I got to see some action watching the Ladies earlier. I left the Sauna early, on the look out for more of the same.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Leatherhead 2, 13/11/04
I once went out with a girl whose nickname was Leather Head. And she wasn't much good at ball control either.
With enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of underpants (as long as that sailor isn't Pete Garland), the first half was played out in eye squinting conditions. Which is just as well as there wasn't a great deal to see or get excited about.
The highlights were the Ball Boy job spec being broadcast over the tannoy by The Voice of Champion Hill ('Ball Boys: Collect balls') and watching the Leatherhead 'keeper trying to cadge a cap off some local yoof after Dulwich's dirty tricks campaign of changing ends and playing with the sun on their backs after winning the toss.
Dulwich lived dangerously towards the end of the half with Leatherhead hitting the post, helped on by a lino who clearly didn't understand the offside laws of the game. Neither did my old girlfriend Leatherhead but at least she knew how to raise my flag post.
Never before has the half time Dulwich Hamlet Supporters Trust draw been met with so much enthusiasm. So what if it was rigged so that the committee members won - at least it meant that the Scissor Sisters shit was turned down on the tannoy.
The teams returned to the pitch for the second half at precisely five past four and the floodlights were turned on. Although to be honest, making both teams play in pitch black would have made for more enjoyable viewing.
Ten minutes into the half and a push forward up front from Lee Akers led to Terry Bowes hitting high into the net form the edge of the six yard box. Hamlet 'keeper Paul Seuke responded with a series of superb saves, only for Dulwich old boy Dave Stevens to score an equaliser with half an hour left to play.
After 67 minutes Stevens was setting himself up for a hat trick, scoring from the penalty spot after a Lee Akers foul. Never did that when he played for Dulwich, did he?
Sebastian Schoburgh was subbed on to stretch his long legs, and although he might fare well in a knobbly knees contest, that doesn't mean that opposition defenders can spend all afternoon knobbling his knees.
My ex-girlfriend Leather Head left me because: 'I wasn't good enough.' Which is how Leatherhead Football Club felt after leaving Champion Hill with the three points.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Sunday 14 November, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Leatherhead 2, 13/11/04
I once went out with a girl whose nickname was Leather Head. And she wasn't much good at ball control either.
With enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of underpants (as long as that sailor isn't Pete Garland), the first half was played out in eye squinting conditions. Which is just as well as there wasn't a great deal to see or get excited about.
The highlights were the Ball Boy job spec being broadcast over the tannoy by The Voice of Champion Hill ('Ball Boys: Collect balls') and watching the Leatherhead 'keeper trying to cadge a cap off some local yoof after Dulwich's dirty tricks campaign of changing ends and playing with the sun on their backs after winning the toss.
Ball Boys: Collect balls |
Never before has the half time Dulwich Hamlet Supporters Trust draw been met with so much enthusiasm. So what if it was rigged so that the committee members won - at least it meant that the Scissor Sisters shit was turned down on the tannoy.
The teams returned to the pitch for the second half at precisely five past four and the floodlights were turned on. Although to be honest, making both teams play in pitch black would have made for more enjoyable viewing.
Ten minutes into the half and a push forward up front from Lee Akers led to Terry Bowes hitting high into the net form the edge of the six yard box. Hamlet 'keeper Paul Seuke responded with a series of superb saves, only for Dulwich old boy Dave Stevens to score an equaliser with half an hour left to play.
After 67 minutes Stevens was setting himself up for a hat trick, scoring from the penalty spot after a Lee Akers foul. Never did that when he played for Dulwich, did he?
Sebastian Schoburgh was subbed on to stretch his long legs, and although he might fare well in a knobbly knees contest, that doesn't mean that opposition defenders can spend all afternoon knobbling his knees.
My ex-girlfriend Leather Head left me because: 'I wasn't good enough.' Which is how Leatherhead Football Club felt after leaving Champion Hill with the three points.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| #permalink |
Pictures of Starving Children...
...STILL sell records. And newspapers.
For every Bono there is a Chris.
For every Freddie there is a Justin.
And for every Marilyn there is a Will. And no, that's not a Bush-ism.
Twenty years on and the same old egos can sleep well again tonight. At least Wembley Stadium won't be available for the inevitable coke-fest of Live Aid II next summer.
From the BBC Band Aid blog:
'In the Hard Rock Cafe section of the studio, I grab an egg sandwich and put the first donation into two metal buckets that have been put out to raise more money for the Band Aid Trust.
Despite the presence of so many huge stars, the buckets - which had been out since 1200 - were empty except for an orange.'
Meanwhile the annual budget for the NHS is blown away overnight during the first night of bombing in Baghdad. But war is just a little TOO messy for the pop tarts and their PR pricks to take up the cause of, with a few notable exceptions.
| Sunday 14 November, 2004 |
...STILL sell records. And newspapers.
For every Bono there is a Chris.
For every Freddie there is a Justin.
And for every Marilyn there is a Will. And no, that's not a Bush-ism.
Twenty years on and the same old egos can sleep well again tonight. At least Wembley Stadium won't be available for the inevitable coke-fest of Live Aid II next summer.
From the BBC Band Aid blog:
'In the Hard Rock Cafe section of the studio, I grab an egg sandwich and put the first donation into two metal buckets that have been put out to raise more money for the Band Aid Trust.
Despite the presence of so many huge stars, the buckets - which had been out since 1200 - were empty except for an orange.'
Meanwhile the annual budget for the NHS is blown away overnight during the first night of bombing in Baghdad. But war is just a little TOO messy for the pop tarts and their PR pricks to take up the cause of, with a few notable exceptions.
| #permalink |
The Ol' Bastard
ODB - sadly missed. Hip hop has lost some of its humour without the 'ol bastard. Overweight Wu members munching away on cheeseburgers whilst on the run from the cops, signing autographs in a McDonalds car park only to find that the 'fan' is actually an undercover agent.
Gotta love the 'ol bastard. Just like his mum does:
'To the public he was known as Old Dirty Bastard, but to me he was known as Rusty.'
Another one bites the dust in a bad year for the obituraries.
| Sunday 14 November, 2004 |
ODB - sadly missed. Hip hop has lost some of its humour without the 'ol bastard. Overweight Wu members munching away on cheeseburgers whilst on the run from the cops, signing autographs in a McDonalds car park only to find that the 'fan' is actually an undercover agent.
Gotta love the 'ol bastard. Just like his mum does:
'To the public he was known as Old Dirty Bastard, but to me he was known as Rusty.'
Another one bites the dust in a bad year for the obituraries.
| #permalink |
In the Know
Proving that particular Premiership clubs attract a different type of personality, I have set out to prove that it's not what you know, but WHO you know. Partly inspired by nicking a set of Premiership club badges off the Sky website, and partly inspired out of too much time on my hands during the half term break, here's the onionionbagblog guide to Premiership Personalities.
When the classified are read out at 5 'O clock every Saturday (OK, Sunday afternoon, Monday evening), each time a club is name checked, I visualise someone I know who is a supporter of that team. How are they feeling at that particular moment?
For some of the more 'prestige' (glory hunting) clubs, there's more than one supporter that I can call up in my mind. If the team are on the end of a 6-0 thrashing then I allow myself a smug giggle if it's a previous foe. These are usually reserved for work related colleagues.
Much in the same way that if you don't like sport then you are a philistine, if you can't recall at least one acquaintance matching every Premiership club then you are a Johnny No Mates social hermit.
Names changed to protect the knobbers / protect my employment record etc.
Arsenal
Very LOUD typical diamond geezer Uni friend. Like most of us, he found drugs and lost football just as the big money moved into the game. We met up a few months back; proving that the Drugs Don't Work, he's been buzzin off his tits for the past five years, oblivious to the Gunners playing an attractive and winning style of football.
Aston Villa
A friend of a friend of a friend story. We exchange a nod and a smile whenever we're out, but much like Mr Arsenal, he's usually too monged to make any coherent conversation. And here comes the moral: Paul Merson has played for both Arsenal and Aston Villa. Fans of Walsall should tread carefully.
Birmingham City
A family of Brummies moved into our village during Sir Trev's heyday at St Andrews in the late '70s. Not one to stereotype but they all had bubble perms, found Jasper Carrot funny and were lifelong fans of ELO.
Blackburn Rovers
I watched Blackburn lose to Liverpool in May '94 and subsequently win the Premiership in the company of a Rovers fan. The club's proudest achievement and yet still the bugger was moaning. Maybe he could see into the future with Ray Hartford, Roy Hodgson, and Brian Kidd on the horizon.
Bolton Wanderers
Bloke who owns a season ticket for Stamford Bridge and also holds a soft spot for Southampton. Two out of three 'aint bad. Is probably the only person I know who wears a suit for work. Which explains why he can afford to watch Chelsea.
Charlton Athletic
Blogging South East London luminary. Doesn't like Metroknobbers. Bit like me, except from the wrong side of the South East / West side of town.
Chelsea
Knobber Supreme who moved to London for the big money and then chose to support Chelsea as 'they're my local team.' He was living in Clap'ham at the time. Has now moved out to the Kent countryside. Do you think he is a regular at Gillingham each week? Is he fuck.
Crystal Palace
Brief work colleague who seemed to base his bulging figure on Razor Ruddock who was playing for Pal-arse at the time. Was just as shit at his job as Ruddock was.
Everton
A 'lifelong' fan of the Toffees (roughly translated as she got into the team when Gary Crisp Face Lineker signed for them). Never been to Goodison. True loyalties exposed in '98 when Boy Owen emerged and she cheered him on because 'he's a cuite.'
Big wave to mrs onionbagblogger, the deluded bandwagon hopping fool.
Fulham
Friend who has a direct blood line to the highest level of Government. I can't comment further.
Liverpool
Half of the geezers I kick a ball around with at Brixton Rec on a Monday night wear Liverpool tops, the other half York City. I stand out in my Dulwich Pink 'n Blue. It's a cosmopolitan and forward looking five-a-side team for the 21st Century. Hopefully won't be too long before all three clubs are in the same league.
Manchester City
Ex-boyfriend of my sister. City at the time were weak, insecure and not the most aesthetically pleasing to look at. Just like the ex-bf.
Manchester United
I use to work with a thoroughly decent chap who was a genuine Manc, doing the Northerner in the Big Smoke routine. Fair play to the bloke, he really despised the Cockney Reds crowd. His only truly annoying trait was his telephone manner; he had the identical name of a Sex Pistol; keeping my options open, not wanting to finger the bloke, so to speak: When introducing himself to a new work contact over the phone, out came the line:
'My name's XXXX XXXXX... but I'm not a Sex Pistol!!!!'
Genuine look of astonishment around the office. Worked every time.
Middlesbrough
Baby face assassin back in the Uni days. A bit of an academic underachiever, not very fashionable and use to fall over quite a lot in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Much like Middlesbrough under Bryan Robson.
Newcastle United
A pair of repulsive and evil twins moved down from Newcastle to my local village in the early '80s. I knew they were bad news when BOTH of them nicked my girlfriend at the time (although that probably passes more judgememt on the little tart's personal peccadillos). The last I heard, one of them was doing life for murder. Not of my ex-gf.
Norwich City
A hippy chick college friend. Use to cop off with Arsenal diamond geezer druggie a lot. Thank god they didn't reproduce.
Portsmouth
Asexual friend who I was never really sure if he was Arthur or Martha. I think he felt the same. Whenever I see the Pompey Sailor Boy on TV I am often reminded of him.
Southampton
Very tenuous link; I was once net a couple of Saints supporters at a barbecue. They claimed to be partners, but I suspected brother and sister was probably the case. Down on the South Coast and this is not a contradictory observation.
Tottenham Hotspur
Spectacularly unfunny former work colleague who fancied himself as a bit of a comedian. The only amusing thing about him was that he thought Glenn Hoddle would be the saviour of Spuz.
West Brom
Bugger - I admit to being stumped here. But would you own up if you actually countered as an acquaintance someone from the Black County? Still, the Baggies aren't 'real' Premiership. Relegated before Christmas.
Apologies if you recognise yourself on the above list; of course it's not really you - every other supporter of your club is a clone of you.
Next week: Ryman League Division One South - To all the Girls I Loved Before. A different bird for every club.
| Saturday 13 November, 2004 |
Proving that particular Premiership clubs attract a different type of personality, I have set out to prove that it's not what you know, but WHO you know. Partly inspired by nicking a set of Premiership club badges off the Sky website, and partly inspired out of too much time on my hands during the half term break, here's the onionionbagblog guide to Premiership Personalities.
When the classified are read out at 5 'O clock every Saturday (OK, Sunday afternoon, Monday evening), each time a club is name checked, I visualise someone I know who is a supporter of that team. How are they feeling at that particular moment?
For some of the more 'prestige' (glory hunting) clubs, there's more than one supporter that I can call up in my mind. If the team are on the end of a 6-0 thrashing then I allow myself a smug giggle if it's a previous foe. These are usually reserved for work related colleagues.
Much in the same way that if you don't like sport then you are a philistine, if you can't recall at least one acquaintance matching every Premiership club then you are a Johnny No Mates social hermit.
Names changed to protect the knobbers / protect my employment record etc.
Arsenal
Very LOUD typical diamond geezer Uni friend. Like most of us, he found drugs and lost football just as the big money moved into the game. We met up a few months back; proving that the Drugs Don't Work, he's been buzzin off his tits for the past five years, oblivious to the Gunners playing an attractive and winning style of football.
Aston Villa
A friend of a friend of a friend story. We exchange a nod and a smile whenever we're out, but much like Mr Arsenal, he's usually too monged to make any coherent conversation. And here comes the moral: Paul Merson has played for both Arsenal and Aston Villa. Fans of Walsall should tread carefully.
Birmingham City
A family of Brummies moved into our village during Sir Trev's heyday at St Andrews in the late '70s. Not one to stereotype but they all had bubble perms, found Jasper Carrot funny and were lifelong fans of ELO.
Blackburn Rovers
I watched Blackburn lose to Liverpool in May '94 and subsequently win the Premiership in the company of a Rovers fan. The club's proudest achievement and yet still the bugger was moaning. Maybe he could see into the future with Ray Hartford, Roy Hodgson, and Brian Kidd on the horizon.
Bolton Wanderers
Bloke who owns a season ticket for Stamford Bridge and also holds a soft spot for Southampton. Two out of three 'aint bad. Is probably the only person I know who wears a suit for work. Which explains why he can afford to watch Chelsea.
Charlton Athletic
Blogging South East London luminary. Doesn't like Metroknobbers. Bit like me, except from the wrong side of the South East / West side of town.
Chelsea
Knobber Supreme who moved to London for the big money and then chose to support Chelsea as 'they're my local team.' He was living in Clap'ham at the time. Has now moved out to the Kent countryside. Do you think he is a regular at Gillingham each week? Is he fuck.
Crystal Palace
Brief work colleague who seemed to base his bulging figure on Razor Ruddock who was playing for Pal-arse at the time. Was just as shit at his job as Ruddock was.
Everton
A 'lifelong' fan of the Toffees (roughly translated as she got into the team when Gary Crisp Face Lineker signed for them). Never been to Goodison. True loyalties exposed in '98 when Boy Owen emerged and she cheered him on because 'he's a cuite.'
Big wave to mrs onionbagblogger, the deluded bandwagon hopping fool.
Fulham
Friend who has a direct blood line to the highest level of Government. I can't comment further.
Liverpool
Half of the geezers I kick a ball around with at Brixton Rec on a Monday night wear Liverpool tops, the other half York City. I stand out in my Dulwich Pink 'n Blue. It's a cosmopolitan and forward looking five-a-side team for the 21st Century. Hopefully won't be too long before all three clubs are in the same league.
Manchester City
Ex-boyfriend of my sister. City at the time were weak, insecure and not the most aesthetically pleasing to look at. Just like the ex-bf.
Manchester United
I use to work with a thoroughly decent chap who was a genuine Manc, doing the Northerner in the Big Smoke routine. Fair play to the bloke, he really despised the Cockney Reds crowd. His only truly annoying trait was his telephone manner; he had the identical name of a Sex Pistol; keeping my options open, not wanting to finger the bloke, so to speak: When introducing himself to a new work contact over the phone, out came the line:
'My name's XXXX XXXXX... but I'm not a Sex Pistol!!!!'
Genuine look of astonishment around the office. Worked every time.
Middlesbrough
Baby face assassin back in the Uni days. A bit of an academic underachiever, not very fashionable and use to fall over quite a lot in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Much like Middlesbrough under Bryan Robson.
Newcastle United
A pair of repulsive and evil twins moved down from Newcastle to my local village in the early '80s. I knew they were bad news when BOTH of them nicked my girlfriend at the time (although that probably passes more judgememt on the little tart's personal peccadillos). The last I heard, one of them was doing life for murder. Not of my ex-gf.
Norwich City
A hippy chick college friend. Use to cop off with Arsenal diamond geezer druggie a lot. Thank god they didn't reproduce.
Portsmouth
Asexual friend who I was never really sure if he was Arthur or Martha. I think he felt the same. Whenever I see the Pompey Sailor Boy on TV I am often reminded of him.
Southampton
Very tenuous link; I was once net a couple of Saints supporters at a barbecue. They claimed to be partners, but I suspected brother and sister was probably the case. Down on the South Coast and this is not a contradictory observation.
Tottenham Hotspur
Spectacularly unfunny former work colleague who fancied himself as a bit of a comedian. The only amusing thing about him was that he thought Glenn Hoddle would be the saviour of Spuz.
West Brom
Bugger - I admit to being stumped here. But would you own up if you actually countered as an acquaintance someone from the Black County? Still, the Baggies aren't 'real' Premiership. Relegated before Christmas.
Apologies if you recognise yourself on the above list; of course it's not really you - every other supporter of your club is a clone of you.
Next week: Ryman League Division One South - To all the Girls I Loved Before. A different bird for every club.
| #permalink |
Wonderful Walworth
Not much has changed since my last Wonderful Walworth bit of blogging; lack of funding, physical assault on the rise and incompetent Love Me I'm a Liberal types making all the wrong decisions for the locals. And that's just me stuck in the same old school job.
There's something about the sun and SE17 though that makes it all worthwhile. Some people long for a calming physical working environment. I just love the inner city. A walk around Walworth at lunchtime can calm a severe case of classroom stress. Blocks that stretch out as far as the sun on the horizon with every corner and angle offering a new insight as the Seasons change.
Progress on the regeneration of the Aylesbury is proving to take a little longer than expected. But when you're breathing new life into the biggest Council Estate in Europe then you have to be patient.
The estate has seemed more of a community in recent months. The dedicated coppers for the Aylesbury are regular friendly faces and even the school has found its 'Friends of...' voice once again with grand plans for a Christmas Fare. Great idea, it's just that I don't think their choice of a non league loving, random bollocks blogging, hit and miss photographer as the School Santa is a wise move.
Ho ho ho.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 11 November, 2004 |
Not much has changed since my last Wonderful Walworth bit of blogging; lack of funding, physical assault on the rise and incompetent Love Me I'm a Liberal types making all the wrong decisions for the locals. And that's just me stuck in the same old school job.
There's something about the sun and SE17 though that makes it all worthwhile. Some people long for a calming physical working environment. I just love the inner city. A walk around Walworth at lunchtime can calm a severe case of classroom stress. Blocks that stretch out as far as the sun on the horizon with every corner and angle offering a new insight as the Seasons change.
Progress on the regeneration of the Aylesbury is proving to take a little longer than expected. But when you're breathing new life into the biggest Council Estate in Europe then you have to be patient.
The estate has seemed more of a community in recent months. The dedicated coppers for the Aylesbury are regular friendly faces and even the school has found its 'Friends of...' voice once again with grand plans for a Christmas Fare. Great idea, it's just that I don't think their choice of a non league loving, random bollocks blogging, hit and miss photographer as the School Santa is a wise move.
Ho ho ho.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Lost in the Supermarket
I take crap pics at crap football matches once a week, so why not take crap pics during my crap weekly shop? Much like Dulwich Hamlet at Champion Hill, the view from the outside of Nine Elms Sainsbury is significantly better than the shit seen within.
With Battersea Power Station in the background at the SW8 store and South West Trains trundling into Waterloo, internal pictures of probably the least motivated employees in London would look a little less superior compared to the scenes outside. At least the Dulwich players sometimes smile. Still, you have to feel sorry for the poor Sainsbury sods - no Christmas bonus this year whilst their big boss bags 1.5m in share options.
Share and share alike? Tut tut. Get to the back of the check out queue, and preferably the one staffed by the mad rambling woman who offers me cooking advice each week, oblivious to the fact that I'm buying pre-processed food.
Supermarket design seems to have changed radically in the past ten years. I remember when an old warehouse stacked with aisles of out of date tins was something to get excited about each week. Or maybe I have just always been a boring git?
In its place now we have low ceiling corridors, stretching ever further out and all lined with a greater variety of choice. CHOICE - the buzz word in mass market retail. Why buy one brand of bland cheese when you can spend ten minutes being confused?
Supermarket exteriors aspire to originality but you suspect that a lot has to do with local planning permission. The Clapham High Street Sainsbury has the bright idea of hosting a permanent window display of the booze section. Which makes for a nice backdrop for all the Big Issue sellers outside to drum up their trade.
Nine Elms has attempted a clinical space station style. Plenty of white, which even if not the most aesthetically pleasing shop front, at least it does a good job of disguising the pigeon shit.
The corporate world isn't for me (something about how marketing reduces everything into shit) but I admit to being a big logo lover. Sainsbury has one of the best; a crisp, clean bright orange design which comes to life with a splash of deep blue. Not that I'm drawn inside by such shallow persuasion. Price is where it's at for me and Nine Elms is home to one of the BEST Gypo Corners that I have ever had the pleasure of discovering.
Of course if I wanted to combine a weekend of crap football and crap supermarket picture taking then I could always head next door to Sainsbury at Champion Hill. But watching a team throw away three points yet again is scant consolation in exchange for some shitty Nectar points. Cashback at Dulwich - now there's an idea...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 10 November, 2004 |
I take crap pics at crap football matches once a week, so why not take crap pics during my crap weekly shop? Much like Dulwich Hamlet at Champion Hill, the view from the outside of Nine Elms Sainsbury is significantly better than the shit seen within.
With Battersea Power Station in the background at the SW8 store and South West Trains trundling into Waterloo, internal pictures of probably the least motivated employees in London would look a little less superior compared to the scenes outside. At least the Dulwich players sometimes smile. Still, you have to feel sorry for the poor Sainsbury sods - no Christmas bonus this year whilst their big boss bags 1.5m in share options.
Price is where it's at |
Supermarket design seems to have changed radically in the past ten years. I remember when an old warehouse stacked with aisles of out of date tins was something to get excited about each week. Or maybe I have just always been a boring git?
In its place now we have low ceiling corridors, stretching ever further out and all lined with a greater variety of choice. CHOICE - the buzz word in mass market retail. Why buy one brand of bland cheese when you can spend ten minutes being confused?
Supermarket exteriors aspire to originality but you suspect that a lot has to do with local planning permission. The Clapham High Street Sainsbury has the bright idea of hosting a permanent window display of the booze section. Which makes for a nice backdrop for all the Big Issue sellers outside to drum up their trade.
Nine Elms has attempted a clinical space station style. Plenty of white, which even if not the most aesthetically pleasing shop front, at least it does a good job of disguising the pigeon shit.
The corporate world isn't for me (something about how marketing reduces everything into shit) but I admit to being a big logo lover. Sainsbury has one of the best; a crisp, clean bright orange design which comes to life with a splash of deep blue. Not that I'm drawn inside by such shallow persuasion. Price is where it's at for me and Nine Elms is home to one of the BEST Gypo Corners that I have ever had the pleasure of discovering.
Of course if I wanted to combine a weekend of crap football and crap supermarket picture taking then I could always head next door to Sainsbury at Champion Hill. But watching a team throw away three points yet again is scant consolation in exchange for some shitty Nectar points. Cashback at Dulwich - now there's an idea...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Flogging a Dead Crazy Horse
And so farewell then Emlyn Hughes, chunky, cheeky Scouse scamp who broke with Royal protocol and put his arm around Princess Anne. I'm not sure who came out worse there. mrs onionbagblogger's response upon hearing the news was a classic quote that sums up the passing of the ex-England captain for me:
'I once met him. He opened Walter Wilson up in Cockermouth.'
It's turning out not to be the best of years; Clough, Peel and a very close family friend in recent months. Thank God (literally) that Marc Almond is still full of spunk.
I never really had much time for Hughes if truth be told. He didn't endear me much with his infatuation with Thatcher and Reagan. No different I suppose to Beckham bumlicking Blair. Different times, same sycophants. Two down and one to go though. Shall we play the What Happened Next round? PLEASE?
Granted he was a good player, but not great. Watching the smug little grin wiped from his face at Old Trafford in '77 when Forest beat Liverpool 1-0 in a League Cup Final replay remains with me today.
Hughes is the first England captain I grew up watching who has now died. I remember thinking I was growing old when I was the same age as an England captain, and so although the passing of Hughes probably won't be met with a candlelit vigil around these parts, there is a definite feeling of time and perspective in all of this.
| Tuesday 9 November, 2004 |
And so farewell then Emlyn Hughes, chunky, cheeky Scouse scamp who broke with Royal protocol and put his arm around Princess Anne. I'm not sure who came out worse there. mrs onionbagblogger's response upon hearing the news was a classic quote that sums up the passing of the ex-England captain for me:
'I once met him. He opened Walter Wilson up in Cockermouth.'
It's turning out not to be the best of years; Clough, Peel and a very close family friend in recent months. Thank God (literally) that Marc Almond is still full of spunk.
I never really had much time for Hughes if truth be told. He didn't endear me much with his infatuation with Thatcher and Reagan. No different I suppose to Beckham bumlicking Blair. Different times, same sycophants. Two down and one to go though. Shall we play the What Happened Next round? PLEASE?
Granted he was a good player, but not great. Watching the smug little grin wiped from his face at Old Trafford in '77 when Forest beat Liverpool 1-0 in a League Cup Final replay remains with me today.
Hughes is the first England captain I grew up watching who has now died. I remember thinking I was growing old when I was the same age as an England captain, and so although the passing of Hughes probably won't be met with a candlelit vigil around these parts, there is a definite feeling of time and perspective in all of this.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Towers 60 Chester Jets 78, 06/11/04
After weeks of anticipation, here's the BIG one. Nope, not a new revolutionary lycra style pair of basketball shorts that showcases the Towers tackle, but first plays second in the BBL; Coach Peers pits his wits against old acquaintances and with Big Boy Billy Singleton in town, the Kings of the Krispy Kreme Doughnut sellers Vs the Kings of the Krispy Kreme Doughnut munchers.
Entering the Crystal Palace sauna and seeing a selection of new Towers Dancers, I was in need of an early rub down. Preferably something a little more intensive than Jerry Williams was receiving from the Towers physio on court. I then caught sight of Big Boy Billy adjusting his shorts and suddenly the need for stimulation didn't seem so salient.
Towers trusty game caller Matthew had some stiff competition from a foghorn away fan making the trip. His continuous commentary of: 'TEN! NINE! EIGHT!' won't win any awards for creativity but it would serve him well if the fella ever considered employment as a NASA countdown king.
Early exchanges didn't go Towers way with basic ball handling skills letting the team down. The available court space for Towers soon halved when Billy Boy touched down for Chester; confusion in the crowd as we were unsure if the thudding sound was the fatty free thrower or the fireworks outside. Rod Brown at point guard picked up the pace for the Towers but the home team trailed 19-12 at the first buzzer.
The second quarter started with Chester losing control of the ball. One pass in particular looked more like a welly wanging effort as the ball was launched at random towards the Towers bench. The home team defended well blocking shots in front of the ring but at the other end their own shots weren't sinking either.
A critical and cynical London crowd was swinging more than Stan Collymore let loose in the Crystal Palace car park:
'RUBBISH!'
'GET IN THERE!'
'WAKE UP TOWERS!'
It's a thin line between being a basketball big gun or a dunking dunce, and when you're losing, one that you’d rather Billy Boy wasn't walking in front of you. A low scoring first half left Towers trailing 33-25.
Half time provided the highlight of the evening so far with the return to centre court of everyone's favourite basketball lobber, the always entertaining Towlie. Neil the DJ foolishly challenged the half time hero to sink from the centre circle with a £20 stake up for grabs. Unlike the Towers, Towlie hit the spot as a thought bubble could be seen rising from Neil the DJ's head:
'...I'll eat Billy Boy's weight in Krispy Kreme doughnuts if Towers can pull this one off.'
Chester continued where they left off as the third quarter tipped off. They stretched to a five point lead with a series of three pointers proving good. Towers seemed reluctant to shoot, always looking to score in style rather than keep it simple. As young Wayne Rooney would probably tell you though, it's all about doing the business rather than gaining beauty points. A 48-42 lead for Jets with one quarter remaining.
As the fourth quarter tipped off, the kids sitting behind me were giving it their best at banging the benches. I'm all for creating an atmosphere in the sterile sauna but it doesn't do much for the confidence of an already crap photographer who needs all the help he can get. It does leave a rather pleasant vibrating sensation around the anus area though.
With the gap stretched to eleven points (basketball, not bottom), Coach Peers called a Time Out to get the Towers back in the game. Failing that, a final tally of fifty points would have been nice.
Towers were now trailing by seventeen points and it was Time Out time again.
Two minutes later and Towers were chasing a nineteen point game and here comes that Time Out, just as Neil the DJ cranked up The Hives and... 'Hate to Say I Told You So.'
It was scant consolation seeing some scantily clad girls letting off some steam as Coach Peers did the same on the bench.
Fitting that Billy Boy had the last laugh, clearing up under the basket to seal a 78-60 away win with the look of a man who was clearly looking forward to clearing up his Sunday roast the next day.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Sunday 7 November, 2004 |
London Towers 60 Chester Jets 78, 06/11/04
After weeks of anticipation, here's the BIG one. Nope, not a new revolutionary lycra style pair of basketball shorts that showcases the Towers tackle, but first plays second in the BBL; Coach Peers pits his wits against old acquaintances and with Big Boy Billy Singleton in town, the Kings of the Krispy Kreme Doughnut sellers Vs the Kings of the Krispy Kreme Doughnut munchers.
Entering the Crystal Palace sauna and seeing a selection of new Towers Dancers, I was in need of an early rub down. Preferably something a little more intensive than Jerry Williams was receiving from the Towers physio on court. I then caught sight of Big Boy Billy adjusting his shorts and suddenly the need for stimulation didn't seem so salient.
It left a pleasant vibrating sensation |
Early exchanges didn't go Towers way with basic ball handling skills letting the team down. The available court space for Towers soon halved when Billy Boy touched down for Chester; confusion in the crowd as we were unsure if the thudding sound was the fatty free thrower or the fireworks outside. Rod Brown at point guard picked up the pace for the Towers but the home team trailed 19-12 at the first buzzer.
The second quarter started with Chester losing control of the ball. One pass in particular looked more like a welly wanging effort as the ball was launched at random towards the Towers bench. The home team defended well blocking shots in front of the ring but at the other end their own shots weren't sinking either.
A critical and cynical London crowd was swinging more than Stan Collymore let loose in the Crystal Palace car park:
'RUBBISH!'
'GET IN THERE!'
'WAKE UP TOWERS!'
It's a thin line between being a basketball big gun or a dunking dunce, and when you're losing, one that you’d rather Billy Boy wasn't walking in front of you. A low scoring first half left Towers trailing 33-25.
Half time provided the highlight of the evening so far with the return to centre court of everyone's favourite basketball lobber, the always entertaining Towlie. Neil the DJ foolishly challenged the half time hero to sink from the centre circle with a £20 stake up for grabs. Unlike the Towers, Towlie hit the spot as a thought bubble could be seen rising from Neil the DJ's head:
'...I'll eat Billy Boy's weight in Krispy Kreme doughnuts if Towers can pull this one off.'
Chester continued where they left off as the third quarter tipped off. They stretched to a five point lead with a series of three pointers proving good. Towers seemed reluctant to shoot, always looking to score in style rather than keep it simple. As young Wayne Rooney would probably tell you though, it's all about doing the business rather than gaining beauty points. A 48-42 lead for Jets with one quarter remaining.
As the fourth quarter tipped off, the kids sitting behind me were giving it their best at banging the benches. I'm all for creating an atmosphere in the sterile sauna but it doesn't do much for the confidence of an already crap photographer who needs all the help he can get. It does leave a rather pleasant vibrating sensation around the anus area though.
With the gap stretched to eleven points (basketball, not bottom), Coach Peers called a Time Out to get the Towers back in the game. Failing that, a final tally of fifty points would have been nice.
Towers were now trailing by seventeen points and it was Time Out time again.
Two minutes later and Towers were chasing a nineteen point game and here comes that Time Out, just as Neil the DJ cranked up The Hives and... 'Hate to Say I Told You So.'
It was scant consolation seeing some scantily clad girls letting off some steam as Coach Peers did the same on the bench.
Fitting that Billy Boy had the last laugh, clearing up under the basket to seal a 78-60 away win with the look of a man who was clearly looking forward to clearing up his Sunday roast the next day.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| #permalink |
This is How it Feels
How Does it Feel to be Loved? Not a rhetorical question but a rather excellent Brixton club night held on the first Friday of every month at the Canterbury Arms behind the Cop Shop. With a 30-something crowd who aren't yet ready for crap Friday night TV, HDIF can best be described as a fey indie student disco without the crap Ned's Atomic Dustbin records.
As all C86 kids should know, 1986 was a vintage year for twee noise merchants who enjoyed the odd bit of poetry. The Festive 50 of '86 was a classic. What better way to celebrate The Great Man then by playing it in full from fifty down to one? Sandwich in-between a soulful set by Smiths / Blur producer Stephen Street and you have the reason why I was at a club for the first time this Millennium.
Like all good indie nights, hands are stamped at the door, leaving you with a dirty stop out badge of honour for the rest of the weekend. You try getting a pass out at somewhere shitty like Misery of Sound.
When was the last time you walked into a Brixton bar and heard Billy Bragg blasting out? I arrived just in time for No. 41 and Greetings to the New Brunette. A finer ode to young love you'll be hard to pressed to find, but to be honest, it is a bit of a floor emptier.
Just as Billy was bellowing out: 'Whoops there goes another year, whoops there goes another pint of beer,' I'm not sure why, but I decided to hit the booze for the first time in seven years. Whoops there goes another one, two, three, four... Cheers Bill.
A mirror ball hanging from the ceiling gave cause for plenty of shoe gazing but with some of the haircuts on show, it was best not to look up too much anyway.
'Mention the Lord of the Rings once more, and I'll more than likely kill you...'
And in at number 39 it must be Half Man Half Biscuit. Hurrah! Meticulous planning had clearly gone into the whole evening with set lists left out to identify that long forgotten Fuzzbox single, and even some banter from the Great Man in-between some tracks:
'And in at number blah blah blah, here's The Smiths / The Wedding Present / The Fall.'
You almost expected El Presidente Alan McGee to walk in and start moshing to The Mighty Lemon Drops.
The half time break signalled the arrival of Stephen Street who set his stall out with Jimmy Mack and R Dean Taylor (the first white singer to be signed to Motown, not counting Michael Jackson of course).
His next step at playing The Smiths and Still Ill was a masterstroke - how cool is that - playing a song that you actually produced yourself?
The spirit of '86 was running throughout the club. Some dedicated soul was even sporting a 'I Ran the World' original T-shirt. I made some comment to the geezer about putting it up on ebay but by now the five pints of Guinness and Mark E Smith madness was kicking in.
Back to the Festive 50 and The Queen is Dead managed some moshing plus a touching round of applause at the end. Age of Chance pissed all over Prince and then with precision timing that Peel could only dream of, There is a Light brought a beery and teary evening to a close.
All but one last record of course.
It's taken the death of a 65 year-old man who played records at the wrong speed to get me back inside a club, and back on the booze...
How DID it Feel to be Loved?
See you next month.
| Sunday 7 November, 2004 |
How Does it Feel to be Loved? Not a rhetorical question but a rather excellent Brixton club night held on the first Friday of every month at the Canterbury Arms behind the Cop Shop. With a 30-something crowd who aren't yet ready for crap Friday night TV, HDIF can best be described as a fey indie student disco without the crap Ned's Atomic Dustbin records.
As all C86 kids should know, 1986 was a vintage year for twee noise merchants who enjoyed the odd bit of poetry. The Festive 50 of '86 was a classic. What better way to celebrate The Great Man then by playing it in full from fifty down to one? Sandwich in-between a soulful set by Smiths / Blur producer Stephen Street and you have the reason why I was at a club for the first time this Millennium.
Whoops there goes another pint of beer |
When was the last time you walked into a Brixton bar and heard Billy Bragg blasting out? I arrived just in time for No. 41 and Greetings to the New Brunette. A finer ode to young love you'll be hard to pressed to find, but to be honest, it is a bit of a floor emptier.
Just as Billy was bellowing out: 'Whoops there goes another year, whoops there goes another pint of beer,' I'm not sure why, but I decided to hit the booze for the first time in seven years. Whoops there goes another one, two, three, four... Cheers Bill.
A mirror ball hanging from the ceiling gave cause for plenty of shoe gazing but with some of the haircuts on show, it was best not to look up too much anyway.
'Mention the Lord of the Rings once more, and I'll more than likely kill you...'
And in at number 39 it must be Half Man Half Biscuit. Hurrah! Meticulous planning had clearly gone into the whole evening with set lists left out to identify that long forgotten Fuzzbox single, and even some banter from the Great Man in-between some tracks:
'And in at number blah blah blah, here's The Smiths / The Wedding Present / The Fall.'
You almost expected El Presidente Alan McGee to walk in and start moshing to The Mighty Lemon Drops.
The half time break signalled the arrival of Stephen Street who set his stall out with Jimmy Mack and R Dean Taylor (the first white singer to be signed to Motown, not counting Michael Jackson of course).
His next step at playing The Smiths and Still Ill was a masterstroke - how cool is that - playing a song that you actually produced yourself?
The spirit of '86 was running throughout the club. Some dedicated soul was even sporting a 'I Ran the World' original T-shirt. I made some comment to the geezer about putting it up on ebay but by now the five pints of Guinness and Mark E Smith madness was kicking in.
Back to the Festive 50 and The Queen is Dead managed some moshing plus a touching round of applause at the end. Age of Chance pissed all over Prince and then with precision timing that Peel could only dream of, There is a Light brought a beery and teary evening to a close.
All but one last record of course.
It's taken the death of a 65 year-old man who played records at the wrong speed to get me back inside a club, and back on the booze...
How DID it Feel to be Loved?
See you next month.
| #permalink |
Remember Remember
Remember remember the 5th of November: Gunpowder, Treason and knobbers blocking up Clapham High Street as they make their way towards the fireworks on the Common. There was more chance of my brain being frazzled with the high concentration of mobile phones signals in SW4 than being hit by a firework on Friday night.
'Hi Dahhhling! We're outside Cafe Nero. Oh? You are as well? Look, I can wave to you - Helloooo!'
Oh, Bugger off back to Balham. Preferably with a banger up yer arse as well.
I knew it wasn't going to be my kind of thing when I walked past The Circle, the ghastly gastropub that trades as 'Clap'ham North', when sadly the shithole for shiny young things is actually in Sunny Stockwell. A couple of Tallulah types were outside, foolishly trying to take some custom off me.
'Ya, free drinkie poos here tonight dahhhling.'
'I'm sorry, thanks,' although I'm not sure why I felt the need to apologise.
'But baby, lookey here - you can have a free cocktail on us!'
'It's OK, but I'd rather not.'
It was painful to see the confusion on the posh little tarts faces, perplexed that a male was turning not only them down, but also the possibility of free drinkie poo.
Pressed for an explanation, I don't think I did much for the Clap'ham-isation of Sunny Stockwell by stating:
'Look, your little tossers bar is full of egotistical wankers who see no irony in forking out FIVE quid for a drink and then sit on a settee and watch TV, something that I can do at home for significantly less outlay and with no knobbers in range to have to make mundane conversation with. But that's enough about me, let me tell you all about ME!!!!!'
I wasn't approached by the Tallulah twins on the return journey after the fireworks.
With Clapham Common tube closed for 'safety reasons' (too many tossers in the area), Clapham High Street was a thoroughfare for Bright Young Things. Despite all the cash slopping around, there wasn't much trade for the Big Issue sellers.
Finally arriving at the Common after navigating a human army of mobile phone masts and the fireworks were, well, fireworks really. I'm no great fan of loud bangs, and much like minges, you've seen one, you've seen them all I suppose. I do love the irony though of a government trying to restrict the use of a means of celebrating an attempt to blow up a previous administration.
There's a definite gig feel to it all; the anticipation before the show starts, lots of oohing and aahing during the performance with even an encore at the end. Sad that Bonfire Night has lost a lot of its historical meaning with the Clapham display even lacking a bonfire.
Plenty of candidates to burn on top though.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 7 November, 2004 |
Remember remember the 5th of November: Gunpowder, Treason and knobbers blocking up Clapham High Street as they make their way towards the fireworks on the Common. There was more chance of my brain being frazzled with the high concentration of mobile phones signals in SW4 than being hit by a firework on Friday night.
'Hi Dahhhling! We're outside Cafe Nero. Oh? You are as well? Look, I can wave to you - Helloooo!'
Oh, Bugger off back to Balham. Preferably with a banger up yer arse as well.
I knew it wasn't going to be my kind of thing when I walked past The Circle, the ghastly gastropub that trades as 'Clap'ham North', when sadly the shithole for shiny young things is actually in Sunny Stockwell. A couple of Tallulah types were outside, foolishly trying to take some custom off me.
Gunpowder, Treason and Knobbers |
'I'm sorry, thanks,' although I'm not sure why I felt the need to apologise.
'But baby, lookey here - you can have a free cocktail on us!'
'It's OK, but I'd rather not.'
It was painful to see the confusion on the posh little tarts faces, perplexed that a male was turning not only them down, but also the possibility of free drinkie poo.
Pressed for an explanation, I don't think I did much for the Clap'ham-isation of Sunny Stockwell by stating:
'Look, your little tossers bar is full of egotistical wankers who see no irony in forking out FIVE quid for a drink and then sit on a settee and watch TV, something that I can do at home for significantly less outlay and with no knobbers in range to have to make mundane conversation with. But that's enough about me, let me tell you all about ME!!!!!'
I wasn't approached by the Tallulah twins on the return journey after the fireworks.
With Clapham Common tube closed for 'safety reasons' (too many tossers in the area), Clapham High Street was a thoroughfare for Bright Young Things. Despite all the cash slopping around, there wasn't much trade for the Big Issue sellers.
Finally arriving at the Common after navigating a human army of mobile phone masts and the fireworks were, well, fireworks really. I'm no great fan of loud bangs, and much like minges, you've seen one, you've seen them all I suppose. I do love the irony though of a government trying to restrict the use of a means of celebrating an attempt to blow up a previous administration.
There's a definite gig feel to it all; the anticipation before the show starts, lots of oohing and aahing during the performance with even an encore at the end. Sad that Bonfire Night has lost a lot of its historical meaning with the Clapham display even lacking a bonfire.
Plenty of candidates to burn on top though.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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(Hey) Hoe Hill*
A walk in the South Nottinghamshire Wolds.
*EXTREME local joke in a week of bad headlines around here.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 5 November, 2004 |
A walk in the South Nottinghamshire Wolds.
*EXTREME local joke in a week of bad headlines around here.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Country Cousins
You know that you're growing old when 85 hectares of Country Park emerges out of the shadow of a former MoD depot that you use to hang around as a kid. And it passes you by... I made my first visit to the Rushcliffe Country Park over half term last week. With a naughty nephew and niece as my passport, I was free to roam around with the rest of the 'proper' grown ups doing the family thing.
Fifteen years ago and I would have been hanging out with the girls who are now pushing the prams. I was all ready to make an escape quicker than you can say 'Chid Support Agency' should any kid with short hair and a goatee come up to me and engage in conversation about non-league football blogging.
Rushcliffe Country Park is relatively new with not much landscape as nature is waiting for the planted trees to take root and do their thing. Still some time to go then before it can compete with the 1,000 year-old Major Oak thirty miles to the north of the County up in Sherwood Forest.
The nearby fishing lake was still looking as lovely as it was back in 1981 bringing back memories of my inaugural Activities Week at school; the scenario is that to satisfy shit bored teachers during the last week of the summer term, you choose an activity and arse around for five days.
Showing an uncanny insight to one of passions in later life, I chose Cycling & Fishing. Actually it turned out to be just fishing; my early '80s Phil Oakey style fringe flop made it unsafe for me to cycle and so I got my old man to drop me off in the car each morning.
To be honest it wasn't much of a fishing activity either. My big long shaft of a rod became tangled up on day one (nothing to do with teenage girls this time), and so I spent a week stoning the swans. BAD BOY I know but they were giving me a look of superiority, and with my Phil Oakey hairstyle, justifiably so.
It was all so different during half term week 2004; the swans were looking stately with stone throwing definitely off the agenda; my Phil Oakey flop has long since receded with the sun now shining on my balding head. And as for the former girlfriends? 'If there's grass in the outfield, play ball' is a phrase I remember teaching them back in the day. Thankfully the greenery at Rushcliffe Country Park has yet to take root.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 4 November, 2004 |
You know that you're growing old when 85 hectares of Country Park emerges out of the shadow of a former MoD depot that you use to hang around as a kid. And it passes you by... I made my first visit to the Rushcliffe Country Park over half term last week. With a naughty nephew and niece as my passport, I was free to roam around with the rest of the 'proper' grown ups doing the family thing.
Fifteen years ago and I would have been hanging out with the girls who are now pushing the prams. I was all ready to make an escape quicker than you can say 'Chid Support Agency' should any kid with short hair and a goatee come up to me and engage in conversation about non-league football blogging.
My big long shaft of a rod became tangled |
The nearby fishing lake was still looking as lovely as it was back in 1981 bringing back memories of my inaugural Activities Week at school; the scenario is that to satisfy shit bored teachers during the last week of the summer term, you choose an activity and arse around for five days.
Showing an uncanny insight to one of passions in later life, I chose Cycling & Fishing. Actually it turned out to be just fishing; my early '80s Phil Oakey style fringe flop made it unsafe for me to cycle and so I got my old man to drop me off in the car each morning.
To be honest it wasn't much of a fishing activity either. My big long shaft of a rod became tangled up on day one (nothing to do with teenage girls this time), and so I spent a week stoning the swans. BAD BOY I know but they were giving me a look of superiority, and with my Phil Oakey hairstyle, justifiably so.
It was all so different during half term week 2004; the swans were looking stately with stone throwing definitely off the agenda; my Phil Oakey flop has long since receded with the sun now shining on my balding head. And as for the former girlfriends? 'If there's grass in the outfield, play ball' is a phrase I remember teaching them back in the day. Thankfully the greenery at Rushcliffe Country Park has yet to take root.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Patron St Pancras of Travel
Kings Cross is changing. I was knew that the £3bn Channel Tunnel Rail Link was on schedule for its proposed 2007 completion date, but I wasn't expecting dear old St Pancras to have the heart ripped out of it. The north London Gothic gateway has long been for me the symbolic site where London starts and ends as I make my exodus back to where I affectionately still call 'home.'
Arriving at St Pancras for my half term exodus last week and I was thrown into confusion. With the majestic Midland Grand Hotel hiding the building site carnage of the old St Pancras, I was directed through the backstreets of junkie North London in search of the new.
As with most things branded 'new' (Daz, TOTP, Labour), the new St Pancras is shit. It might as well be stuck out in Slough such is the bland, brutal and business like approach to the architecture. Shopping Malls are given prominence over platforms. Always a bad sign that when you're talking about a train station.
Long gone are the friendly old school St Pancras Platform Assistants, the very same ones who welcomed me to London for the first time in '86 with a smile from The Smoke. In place now is a marching army of megaphone men; power crazy corporate types with targets to meet rather than customers to assist:
'Keep moving, don't stop and no entry past this point without a valid ticket.'
No warm welcome to St Pancras for me this time round:
'Why is Sir filming?'
'Sir is NOT filming. He's taking photographs.'
'How long will Sir be taking photographs on my platform for?'
'See that train? It leaves in two minutes time and I plan to plonk my hairy arse down on it before it pulls out of your sterile new station. Smile for the camera please.'
The interchange between Kings Cross and St Pancras is now on par with Green Park's Jubilee and Victoria line looniness. The LU map has them shown as the being at the same location, but a five minute walk through overcrowded long lost tunnels with bloody buskers giving me ear ache is sadly not illustrated on Harry Beck's famous old map.
I assume that the old St Pancras will return, scrubbed down and over a hundred years of transport history washed away in a corporate makeover. The appeal of London's primary terminals has always been how the local areas assimilate the destinations which the trains serve. The old St Pancras always had an East Midlands 'Ay up 'm duck' about it; up the road and Euston is pisshead Glasgow central with the highest count of Rab C Nesbit look-alikes walking the streets of London.
2007 will signal the end of all of this. A coffee shop on every corner (and then some) as big business and the euro is catered for. It's enough to make you want to catch the first train out of here.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 4 November, 2004 |
Kings Cross is changing. I was knew that the £3bn Channel Tunnel Rail Link was on schedule for its proposed 2007 completion date, but I wasn't expecting dear old St Pancras to have the heart ripped out of it. The north London Gothic gateway has long been for me the symbolic site where London starts and ends as I make my exodus back to where I affectionately still call 'home.'
Arriving at St Pancras for my half term exodus last week and I was thrown into confusion. With the majestic Midland Grand Hotel hiding the building site carnage of the old St Pancras, I was directed through the backstreets of junkie North London in search of the new.
The new St Pancras is shit |
Long gone are the friendly old school St Pancras Platform Assistants, the very same ones who welcomed me to London for the first time in '86 with a smile from The Smoke. In place now is a marching army of megaphone men; power crazy corporate types with targets to meet rather than customers to assist:
'Keep moving, don't stop and no entry past this point without a valid ticket.'
No warm welcome to St Pancras for me this time round:
'Why is Sir filming?'
'Sir is NOT filming. He's taking photographs.'
'How long will Sir be taking photographs on my platform for?'
'See that train? It leaves in two minutes time and I plan to plonk my hairy arse down on it before it pulls out of your sterile new station. Smile for the camera please.'
The interchange between Kings Cross and St Pancras is now on par with Green Park's Jubilee and Victoria line looniness. The LU map has them shown as the being at the same location, but a five minute walk through overcrowded long lost tunnels with bloody buskers giving me ear ache is sadly not illustrated on Harry Beck's famous old map.
I assume that the old St Pancras will return, scrubbed down and over a hundred years of transport history washed away in a corporate makeover. The appeal of London's primary terminals has always been how the local areas assimilate the destinations which the trains serve. The old St Pancras always had an East Midlands 'Ay up 'm duck' about it; up the road and Euston is pisshead Glasgow central with the highest count of Rab C Nesbit look-alikes walking the streets of London.
2007 will signal the end of all of this. A coffee shop on every corner (and then some) as big business and the euro is catered for. It's enough to make you want to catch the first train out of here.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Combat Stock*
You've more chance of finding WMD in Iraq than finding a decent army surplus store these days. They tend to fall into one of two categories: An overpriced 'Camden cool as fuck' facility, or the 'less combats, more camping' quality end of the market.
Which is a shame because all I want from an army surplus store is a stockpile of combats sold as cheaply as possible. Fortunately my frequent visits to Nottingham (hockey, the family thing) can also be combined with a whole morning session spent at Anchor Supplies just off Meadow Lane. I'm sure if you dig deep enough you can find joke in there about Notts County and sending your troops out ill prepared.
Anchor is an army anoraks paradise. Where else can you buy a British Army tank there and then on the spot? Certainly not at the woeful Walworth Road army surplus, staffed by officially The Rudest Man in South London ('can I help you?' 'Just browsing...' 'GET OUT!')
I spent an hour or so stocking up on combats during half term last week (it's going to be a long winter ahead...). Everything from desert design to built in with Long Johns Jodhpur style. The Swedish section was all a bit strange though; a rail which stopped at 32" and then started up again at 42". Was does that say about the shape of the Swedish army? Either undernourished or grossly overweight with little in-between.
I them moved on to more practical considerations; 99p for a metallic army mug and a fiver for five pairs of pants. I won't reveal whereabouts on the Swedish size gauge I fell. The gas mask section was also tempting, as was a working ex-army X-Ray machine - a snip at £200.
Anchor hasn't changed in years, both appearance and price wise. With a soundtrack of Vera Lynn, Glenn Miller or George Formby greeting you, the TA style staff certainly know their stuff, if not their quality music.
Away from the clothing there is a dedicated hardware hut which has a nice line in Betamax recorders for those still stuck in 1982. Which should suit the British military of today, still stuck in Imperial mode, running off around the world playing the world's policeman.
And here's me stuck at home with my combats, all dressed up and nowhere to go. Suits me Sir.
*Apologies
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 3 November, 2004 |
You've more chance of finding WMD in Iraq than finding a decent army surplus store these days. They tend to fall into one of two categories: An overpriced 'Camden cool as fuck' facility, or the 'less combats, more camping' quality end of the market.
Which is a shame because all I want from an army surplus store is a stockpile of combats sold as cheaply as possible. Fortunately my frequent visits to Nottingham (hockey, the family thing) can also be combined with a whole morning session spent at Anchor Supplies just off Meadow Lane. I'm sure if you dig deep enough you can find joke in there about Notts County and sending your troops out ill prepared.
Anchor is an army anoraks paradise |
I spent an hour or so stocking up on combats during half term last week (it's going to be a long winter ahead...). Everything from desert design to built in with Long Johns Jodhpur style. The Swedish section was all a bit strange though; a rail which stopped at 32" and then started up again at 42". Was does that say about the shape of the Swedish army? Either undernourished or grossly overweight with little in-between.
I them moved on to more practical considerations; 99p for a metallic army mug and a fiver for five pairs of pants. I won't reveal whereabouts on the Swedish size gauge I fell. The gas mask section was also tempting, as was a working ex-army X-Ray machine - a snip at £200.
Anchor hasn't changed in years, both appearance and price wise. With a soundtrack of Vera Lynn, Glenn Miller or George Formby greeting you, the TA style staff certainly know their stuff, if not their quality music.
Away from the clothing there is a dedicated hardware hut which has a nice line in Betamax recorders for those still stuck in 1982. Which should suit the British military of today, still stuck in Imperial mode, running off around the world playing the world's policeman.
And here's me stuck at home with my combats, all dressed up and nowhere to go. Suits me Sir.
*Apologies
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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'And this one starts rather quietly...'
For a man who loved music, what better tribute than simply play some of his favourite records? Strange to see Radio 1 all of a sudden eulogising the great man, only weeks after shunting him out to 1am in the morning, a timeslot that Peel himself chillingly acknowledged was 'killing him.'
So down the dial then to Radio 3, home of the wonderful Late Junction, the always worth a listen Mixing It and the brash 'bollocks to em' attitude of Andy Kershaw.
The show from Sunday is now archived online and with Kershaw taking a back seat and simply playing Peel's favourite music, I could think if no better way of wasting two hours of your time online.
From The Damned to Diblo Dibala,
The Four Brothers to The Bhundu Boys and
The Clash to Ivor Cutler.
With Loudon Wainwright, Half Man Half Biscuit, Prince Far I (have you ever seen a better front page pic?) and other Peel-tastic troubadours all thrown into the mix, you won't find forty years of popular music packaged up anywhere better online right now. All put together by the good Dr Kershaw.
And the beauty of online listening is that it is all played at the right speed as well.
| Tuesday 2 November, 2004 |
For a man who loved music, what better tribute than simply play some of his favourite records? Strange to see Radio 1 all of a sudden eulogising the great man, only weeks after shunting him out to 1am in the morning, a timeslot that Peel himself chillingly acknowledged was 'killing him.'
So down the dial then to Radio 3, home of the wonderful Late Junction, the always worth a listen Mixing It and the brash 'bollocks to em' attitude of Andy Kershaw.
The show from Sunday is now archived online and with Kershaw taking a back seat and simply playing Peel's favourite music, I could think if no better way of wasting two hours of your time online.
From The Damned to Diblo Dibala,
The Four Brothers to The Bhundu Boys and
The Clash to Ivor Cutler.
With Loudon Wainwright, Half Man Half Biscuit, Prince Far I (have you ever seen a better front page pic?) and other Peel-tastic troubadours all thrown into the mix, you won't find forty years of popular music packaged up anywhere better online right now. All put together by the good Dr Kershaw.
And the beauty of online listening is that it is all played at the right speed as well.
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Crap Match Report| Monday 1 November, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 1 Invicta Dynamos 4, 31/10/04
Streatham Redskins suffered their first defeat of the season losing 4-1 at home to Invicta Dynamos in the National Cup on Sunday. With both teams undefeated in the league, this Cup game was a good chance to see how Redskins rated against the reigning Cup holders.
Halloween night and an impressive crowd had made the journey to cheer on Invicta. Even more impressive was their Halloween costumes. Hang on, they weren't in fancy dress you say? Hubble bubble, toil and trouble.
I'd give her one |
'Teenage dreams, so hard to beat...'
Too right eh, young Carnegy, Richardson and Fitzmaurice.
The experience of table topping Invicta though is a different proposition altogether. They beat to a different drum to the rest of the league. A rather annoying one actually, banged out by some old bird that has about as much rhythm as Michael Howard gyrating his hips.
With the (delayed) warm up complete, even the usual straight as a die Mr Zamboni Man appeared nervous, showing signs that POSSIBLY he may have been incapable of passing a drink driving test as he zig zagged across the rink.
Redskins netminder Adam Noctor faced plenty of early rubber and was put under pressure only a minute and a half into the game as Dynamos went on their first powerplay. Redskins kept the puck in their own attacking zone, surviving the first serious assault with ease. This was a different pace of game that Streatham have been use to so far this season with the three lines changing shift frequently, such was the intensity of the game.
And then it happened; with 5:26 showing on the old clock, we had to suffer some bleedin' old time hockey organ music, irritating me even more than the tone deaf drummer. They should join up and form a band. Let's call them the Scissor Sisters.
Streatham had their own powerplay halfway through the first period and matched Invicta for pace, but couldn't make the breakthrough.
Linesman Holtham wasn't getting the hang of the face offs, failing to drop the puck at every occasion. No worries. It meant that we were treated to an extra thirty seconds of Guns n' Roses. Even the Invicta fans were getting into the spirit with whiney Axl Rose impersonations, although the G 'n R song that contains the lyrics 'Get up you cheating bastard' must have passed me by.
The dominance of the Dynamos finally paid off at 16:47 when an Andy Smith shot from a tight angle slipped past Noctor and into the corner of the net. Two minutes later and Peter Beerling hit the pipes on the powerplay and Peter Carey was at hand just outside the crease to tap home the rebound.
Come the first period break and I was privileged to have a personal modelling of the new Puck Bunny tops. The Redskins' very own Cheeky Girls had a #1 and a #2 plastered on their backs. Mild middle age embarrassment prevented me from asking why one was ranked higher than the other.
Marks out of two? I'd give her one.
And so onto the fun and games of Mr Zamboni Man and his incredibly inefficient icing machine. Between periods it died mid-ice, running out of gas. A bit like the Haringey powerplay.
When the second period finally started, Streatham took some big hits in the corners with Invicta targeting the Streatham youngsters. Unlike the Zamboni it all got a bit heated at 28:41. Redskins forward Victor Somfaleanu was cross checked in a cynical move that went unnoticed and unpunished by the referee. David Smith stepped in to help out his team mate and emerged from a bust up in front of the benches to be given a five plus game penalty for cross-checking from behind. Dynamos escaped unpunished.
Redskins skated with one man down and paid the price as Dynamos went 3-0 up on the powerplay at 32:01. The Redskins were resilient though and started to play their best hockey of the evening. Steve Paris forced Dynamos netminder Carl Ambler into a pad save after a one on one breakaway down the ice, whilst at the other end, Noctor made a series of superb reflex glove saves.
The old sound system at the High Road rink requires a bit of tweaking to bring it up to Bang & Olufsen standard. During the final break The Voice of the Redskins mentioned something about '50 / 50.' I wasn't able to catch the finer details but it may well have been the latest odds on the Zamboni completing a successful circuit.
The best goal of the evening was slotted home by Danny Smith of the Dynamos one minute into the first period as he skipped through the Redskins defence and took aim for the corner of the net. Streatham were soon celebrating themselves though with the kid's line showing maturity as Perry Richardson-Billowes fired home with an assist from Luke Fitzmaurice.
A 2+2+10 minute penalty for Wayne Trunchion took him out of the game. It's quite a feat to notch up a higher penalty minute tally than your shirt number, and something that it would be amusing to watch the young #27 try and achieve.
A 4-1 Cup defeat against a strong Dynamos team that iced a full bench is no disgrace for Streatham in only their second season after the reformation of the proud old club. The league match up in two months time might be different if Streatham star player Joe Johnston can free himself of his work commitments.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
streatham redskins official site
redskins forum
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