onionbagblog
English Blood, Porto Heart| Wednesday 31 May, 2006 |
And that my friend, is the spirit of Sunny Stockwell, Summer 2006 style.
Um final portugual de Inglaterra seria maravilhoso, as my mate Jose says. Any Porto in a storm, etc.
With onionbagblog HQ ii (almost there!) positioned right in the heart of Little Porto, looks like we're in for a fun summer. I still remember the sleepless nights from two years ago...
technorati: little porto
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Surrey 200 (45 overs) beat Glamorgan 132 (31.3 overs) by 68 runs
Another Bank Holiday, another booze fest at the cricket. You've heard it all before: Bored blogger hits the Boddies at The Oval and ends up bangin' on about how many cans he has consumed rather than the actual cricket. Make the most of it I say - ICC rulings introduced this season forbid any booze being brought into The Oval for International matches or twenty20 games.
Golly gosh - twenty20 without the tinnies? Isn't it supposed to be a glorified beer festival with some slogging taking place as the sideshow? Much like clothes shopping, cricket is all the more pleasurable when you're pissed. Just ask Freddie Flintoff (tipsy at Top Man, not legless at Lords, obviously.)
And so let's get the can count out of the way first and then concentrate on the cricket: 8-5. That's eight cans of Carling for a fiver at the nearby Nine Elms Sainsbury's, and not the Surrey batting score, which was 33-4 when I finally turned up after a morning of being purified in kiddie piss at Brixton Rec.
Even 33 cans for four quid would have struggled to make the Surrey score seem semi-respectful. Soon it was 37-5 and I was considering asking for some cashback. Ten pounds for what looked like two hours play is barely enough time to open up the first two tinnies, let alone the main event of singing songs about the Boyos from the Valley in the direction of the lone Glamorgan fan sitting behind of me.
What looked like the worst ten quid ever spent (and remember I have been to Caesars in Streatham) turned around with Azhar Mahmood and Ian Salisbury steadying the Surrey ship in the middle order. I steadied the buffers and slowed down the beer count as the Surrey pair dug deep.
Lovely Boyo Robert Croft was brought onto the Glamorgan bowling attack and took the wicket of Tim Murtagh with his first ball. Quit while you are ahead, Crofty, which is just what the Lovely Boyo did.
It was left to Azhar to anchor the Surrey score. His century was soon struck up, hitting 100 form 96 balls. Surrey were finally skittled for 200 all out. Game on. Beer on. Chin chin.
The start of the Glamorgan innings was a tense affair. Forget the cricket - the task at hand was to secure an autograph of a Surrey player for a cricket loving kid back at school in the day job. Truth be told, Mickey Mouse would have done the job. But I persevered and my boundary lurking skills were rewarded with the legend:
Be good, Stewart Walters.
'It's for a friend,' I insisted as I tried not to look too star struck at the prospect of a scribbled ticket from a Surrey second XI slogger.
Back at the crease and Lovely Boyo was walking for 8 - coincidentally my can count for five past three on a Bank Holiday afternoon. I was far from capable of walking and at 27-4, Glamorgan were at least trying NOT to make a game of it. Best ten pounds ever spent? Five quid for eight cans doesn't even come close.
53-5 and Glamorgan were fucked. A bit like me. True to form, I joined Glamorgan and collapsed. I woke up sometime after stumps had been drawn, slumped in the Peter May stand and watching some South London Yoof having a knock up on the concourse in front of me. No females were involved, but a bat and ball were being given a good seeing to.
In the absence of any detailed reporting on the Glamorgan lower order, the South London Yoof can serve as a space filler. The Kids Were Alright; a little cocky (I've never been called 'Granddad' before,) but definitely better than the Glamorgan batting attack.
I've got to wait a full three months until the next Oval Bank Holiday Booze Fest. The Boyos from the Valleys will be waiting longer for their next win.
technorati: surrey cricket
| Tuesday 30 May, 2006 |
Surrey 200 (45 overs) beat Glamorgan 132 (31.3 overs) by 68 runs
Another Bank Holiday, another booze fest at the cricket. You've heard it all before: Bored blogger hits the Boddies at The Oval and ends up bangin' on about how many cans he has consumed rather than the actual cricket. Make the most of it I say - ICC rulings introduced this season forbid any booze being brought into The Oval for International matches or twenty20 games.
 True to form, I collapsed |
And so let's get the can count out of the way first and then concentrate on the cricket: 8-5. That's eight cans of Carling for a fiver at the nearby Nine Elms Sainsbury's, and not the Surrey batting score, which was 33-4 when I finally turned up after a morning of being purified in kiddie piss at Brixton Rec.
Even 33 cans for four quid would have struggled to make the Surrey score seem semi-respectful. Soon it was 37-5 and I was considering asking for some cashback. Ten pounds for what looked like two hours play is barely enough time to open up the first two tinnies, let alone the main event of singing songs about the Boyos from the Valley in the direction of the lone Glamorgan fan sitting behind of me.
What looked like the worst ten quid ever spent (and remember I have been to Caesars in Streatham) turned around with Azhar Mahmood and Ian Salisbury steadying the Surrey ship in the middle order. I steadied the buffers and slowed down the beer count as the Surrey pair dug deep.
Lovely Boyo Robert Croft was brought onto the Glamorgan bowling attack and took the wicket of Tim Murtagh with his first ball. Quit while you are ahead, Crofty, which is just what the Lovely Boyo did.
It was left to Azhar to anchor the Surrey score. His century was soon struck up, hitting 100 form 96 balls. Surrey were finally skittled for 200 all out. Game on. Beer on. Chin chin.
The start of the Glamorgan innings was a tense affair. Forget the cricket - the task at hand was to secure an autograph of a Surrey player for a cricket loving kid back at school in the day job. Truth be told, Mickey Mouse would have done the job. But I persevered and my boundary lurking skills were rewarded with the legend:
Be good, Stewart Walters.
'It's for a friend,' I insisted as I tried not to look too star struck at the prospect of a scribbled ticket from a Surrey second XI slogger.
Back at the crease and Lovely Boyo was walking for 8 - coincidentally my can count for five past three on a Bank Holiday afternoon. I was far from capable of walking and at 27-4, Glamorgan were at least trying NOT to make a game of it. Best ten pounds ever spent? Five quid for eight cans doesn't even come close.
53-5 and Glamorgan were fucked. A bit like me. True to form, I joined Glamorgan and collapsed. I woke up sometime after stumps had been drawn, slumped in the Peter May stand and watching some South London Yoof having a knock up on the concourse in front of me. No females were involved, but a bat and ball were being given a good seeing to.
In the absence of any detailed reporting on the Glamorgan lower order, the South London Yoof can serve as a space filler. The Kids Were Alright; a little cocky (I've never been called 'Granddad' before,) but definitely better than the Glamorgan batting attack.
I've got to wait a full three months until the next Oval Bank Holiday Booze Fest. The Boyos from the Valleys will be waiting longer for their next win.
technorati: surrey cricket
| #permalink |
Name that Tune
An occasional post where the onionbagblog mantra of NEVER talking about useless tosser mainstream knobber media whores is overlooked.
What wakes you up in the morning? A rummage around in the Jack and Danny or a stonking big cock if you are lucky. No such joy for the juganaught of ME ME ME knobber media whores who have to compete with Big Brother and ahem, Celebrity X Factor (fuck) this summer to stay on the front pages.
And so when in doubt, turn to your funky urban PR to put some more Phump into your sagging scrotum of an excuse for sexuality.
It's all about the MUSIC of course, plus the word count on each page. Hence we have Gordon is a Moron, thatnice knobber Dave Cameron and Charlie Boy bangin' on about how they invented dirty drum 'n bass, long before Davo blagged it all to himself.
Fucking knobbers. Especially those with blue blood. Two out of three 'aint bad.
Gordon is a Moron gets his morning glory going with a blast of this each day:
I just don't get it myself. It's like Northern Uproar never happened. I listened to the album one and a half times before boredom set in. Same goes for speeches from Gordon is a Moron.
Meanwhile thatnice knobber Dave Cameron is a bit of a Killer. A Killers fan of course.
Yeah, right Dave. Never trust a knobber in a suit who claims he was down the Dublin Castle in Camden back in the day. Give me your iPod Dave and I guarantee that nine out of every ten tracks on the shuffle will lead me to some Simply Red shit.
And finally we come to the Man Who Would be King. Not Gordon is a Moron. Not even thatnice knobber Dave Cameron. But the real deal; everyone's favourite tree talker Charlie Boy. At least the adulterer appears to have some taste in loving Leonard. But then again if you were married to a human horse than you'd be a bit down in the dumps as well.
And so to bring it all back to the personal... why am I spending so much time reading the Torygraph online? Mmm. There is an answer and it is to do with (i) the greasy pole, (ii) selling out and (iii) two fucking mortgages.
Shit.
I personally find that the 6am temptation of a fresh pot of PG tips sufficient for me to leave the love nest. Actually I don't need any bribe to leave the bed, especially with mrs onionbagblogger's continual snoring.
Plus it helps that this week sees:
The opening of Tooting Lido for the summer season as we hit half term week, the best Northern Soul foot shuffling club in South London back in Brixton on Friday and a new Weller album just around the corner.
Adopting a catchphrase that should be spread around the South London blogosphere (get in there!) this summer, THIS IS (Motown Monday) MUSIC:
And so is THIS: (Cycling and TSC - LOVELY!)
And THIS:
Chris Dean - where are you now when we need you more than ever?
And isn't youtube one of the marvels of the modern interweb?
See you all on Friday night for some foot shuffling, friends.
technorati: mainstream knobber media whores
| Monday 29 May, 2006 |
An occasional post where the onionbagblog mantra of NEVER talking about useless tosser mainstream knobber media whores is overlooked.
What wakes you up in the morning? A rummage around in the Jack and Danny or a stonking big cock if you are lucky. No such joy for the juganaught of ME ME ME knobber media whores who have to compete with Big Brother and ahem, Celebrity X Factor (fuck) this summer to stay on the front pages.
THIS is music |
It's all about the MUSIC of course, plus the word count on each page. Hence we have Gordon is a Moron, that
Fucking knobbers. Especially those with blue blood. Two out of three 'aint bad.
Gordon is a Moron gets his morning glory going with a blast of this each day:
I just don't get it myself. It's like Northern Uproar never happened. I listened to the album one and a half times before boredom set in. Same goes for speeches from Gordon is a Moron.
Meanwhile that
Yeah, right Dave. Never trust a knobber in a suit who claims he was down the Dublin Castle in Camden back in the day. Give me your iPod Dave and I guarantee that nine out of every ten tracks on the shuffle will lead me to some Simply Red shit.
And finally we come to the Man Who Would be King. Not Gordon is a Moron. Not even that
And so to bring it all back to the personal... why am I spending so much time reading the Torygraph online? Mmm. There is an answer and it is to do with (i) the greasy pole, (ii) selling out and (iii) two fucking mortgages.
Shit.
I personally find that the 6am temptation of a fresh pot of PG tips sufficient for me to leave the love nest. Actually I don't need any bribe to leave the bed, especially with mrs onionbagblogger's continual snoring.
Plus it helps that this week sees:
The opening of Tooting Lido for the summer season as we hit half term week, the best Northern Soul foot shuffling club in South London back in Brixton on Friday and a new Weller album just around the corner.
Adopting a catchphrase that should be spread around the South London blogosphere (get in there!) this summer, THIS IS (Motown Monday) MUSIC:
And so is THIS: (Cycling and TSC - LOVELY!)
And THIS:
Chris Dean - where are you now when we need you more than ever?
And isn't youtube one of the marvels of the modern interweb?
See you all on Friday night for some foot shuffling, friends.
technorati: mainstream knobber media whores
| #permalink |
May Madness
Another last Friday of the month, another Critical Mass. The May ride is traditionally something of a seasonal high for the capital's cyclists; summer is almost upon, no need for bike lights and a Bank Holiday weekend to boot. With petrol prices having something of a panic attack, cycling in the city is experiencing a renaissance right now.
Early Friday evening under the arches of Waterloo Bridge was the scene for this celebration. Commuters, club riders, fixed wheel freaks, recumbent romantics, BMX boys, Bobbies on Bikes, cycling subversives, cycling conservatives and non-petrol head knobbers; Critical Mass is a broad church often singing from a diverse hymn sheet. And Hurrah for that.
We set off shortly after seven 'o clock, cycling eastwards for once and towards Blackfriars. It didn't take long for the usual:
'What are you doing?' enquiry from a bemused Johnny at the Bus Stop.
'Riding a bike,' came back the response.
'Why?'
'Why not?'
It's surely one of the more basic levels in Maslow's Hierarchy of Human Needs. Cycling, shagging and fine cheese. It's all that a boy about town needs to survive.
I glanced back to see a Bobbie on a Bike boring the pants off Johnny at the Bus Stop with the arbitrary legal definition of Critical Mass. For the authority figure, the Friday night cyclists are labelled as Critical Mass. But when does a group of cyclists become an organised unit? Probably never when the figurehead at the front of the ride is a coffin dodger with a customised sound system on two wheels bangin' out dome dirty drum 'n bass.
We stayed north of the river for the early stages of the ride and the dirty d 'n b did the business for me as it echoed out underneath Hungerford Bridge. The Beautiful South looked just that from the North Bank. How can five million Londoners live with themselves each day, waking up and looking across at such loveliness?
A Bobby on a Bike took the law into his own hands as made our way down The Mall. Her Majesty's Highway Laws clearly state a thirty quid on the spot fine for a spot of pavement cycling. Maybe the peddling plod was involved in a rebellious act of civil disobedience? Or perhaps he was just being a lazy arse.
Around the back of St James' and a cut through to Parliament Square. We saluted dear old Brian Haw who has been dethroned this week of his pavement placards. Seventy Eight Coppers to take on the Enemy Within of an old man with a sun soaked face. Mr Haw seemed happy of the company and once again, Critical Mass proved that Still We Ride, despite bully boy tactics to keep us out of Westminster.
The Critical Mass colour was trooped next at Horse Guards Parade. With the grandstands already in place for Brenda's Big Birthday Bash in two weeks time, the SW1 pomp and pageantry was given a peddling theme as 500 or so cyclists had some Friday night fun skidding all over Mr Tony's back lawn.
But perhaps the 'highlight' of the May Mass was the One Less Car incident. This has been a traditional rallying call for Mass-ers. One more bike, one less car. But a knobber cabbie didn't need any Mass conversion as his own act of (un)civil disobedience led to one less car in London.
Mistaking a Bobby on a Bike for a bike owning second class citizen, the knobber cabbie leapt from his cab and lamped the Old Bill. Oh dear. Not the best thing to do. Still, a little comedy moment lightened up the mood as the fist friendly cabbie abandoned his car and attempted to do a runner down Great Marlborough Street. He got about as far as the average London cab gets in half an hour, making it a few metres down the Soho street before being pounced on by our friends the Bobbies on Bikes.
One Less Car. One more knobber being entertained at the expense of Her Majesty.
The Mass made its way to Trafalgar Square and this was my exit strategy for Sunny Stockwell.
It's the Midsummer Mass next month. Keep on dreaming.
technorati: critical mass
| Friday 26 May, 2006 |
Another last Friday of the month, another Critical Mass. The May ride is traditionally something of a seasonal high for the capital's cyclists; summer is almost upon, no need for bike lights and a Bank Holiday weekend to boot. With petrol prices having something of a panic attack, cycling in the city is experiencing a renaissance right now.
Cycling, shagging and fine cheese |
We set off shortly after seven 'o clock, cycling eastwards for once and towards Blackfriars. It didn't take long for the usual:
'What are you doing?' enquiry from a bemused Johnny at the Bus Stop.
'Riding a bike,' came back the response.
'Why?'
'Why not?'
It's surely one of the more basic levels in Maslow's Hierarchy of Human Needs. Cycling, shagging and fine cheese. It's all that a boy about town needs to survive.
I glanced back to see a Bobbie on a Bike boring the pants off Johnny at the Bus Stop with the arbitrary legal definition of Critical Mass. For the authority figure, the Friday night cyclists are labelled as Critical Mass. But when does a group of cyclists become an organised unit? Probably never when the figurehead at the front of the ride is a coffin dodger with a customised sound system on two wheels bangin' out dome dirty drum 'n bass.
We stayed north of the river for the early stages of the ride and the dirty d 'n b did the business for me as it echoed out underneath Hungerford Bridge. The Beautiful South looked just that from the North Bank. How can five million Londoners live with themselves each day, waking up and looking across at such loveliness?
A Bobby on a Bike took the law into his own hands as made our way down The Mall. Her Majesty's Highway Laws clearly state a thirty quid on the spot fine for a spot of pavement cycling. Maybe the peddling plod was involved in a rebellious act of civil disobedience? Or perhaps he was just being a lazy arse.
Around the back of St James' and a cut through to Parliament Square. We saluted dear old Brian Haw who has been dethroned this week of his pavement placards. Seventy Eight Coppers to take on the Enemy Within of an old man with a sun soaked face. Mr Haw seemed happy of the company and once again, Critical Mass proved that Still We Ride, despite bully boy tactics to keep us out of Westminster.
The Critical Mass colour was trooped next at Horse Guards Parade. With the grandstands already in place for Brenda's Big Birthday Bash in two weeks time, the SW1 pomp and pageantry was given a peddling theme as 500 or so cyclists had some Friday night fun skidding all over Mr Tony's back lawn.
But perhaps the 'highlight' of the May Mass was the One Less Car incident. This has been a traditional rallying call for Mass-ers. One more bike, one less car. But a knobber cabbie didn't need any Mass conversion as his own act of (un)civil disobedience led to one less car in London.
Mistaking a Bobby on a Bike for a bike owning second class citizen, the knobber cabbie leapt from his cab and lamped the Old Bill. Oh dear. Not the best thing to do. Still, a little comedy moment lightened up the mood as the fist friendly cabbie abandoned his car and attempted to do a runner down Great Marlborough Street. He got about as far as the average London cab gets in half an hour, making it a few metres down the Soho street before being pounced on by our friends the Bobbies on Bikes.
One Less Car. One more knobber being entertained at the expense of Her Majesty.
The Mass made its way to Trafalgar Square and this was my exit strategy for Sunny Stockwell.
It's the Midsummer Mass next month. Keep on dreaming.
technorati: critical mass
| #permalink |
Fingered
The last week in May and it must mean that it's the RHS Chelsea Flower Show. It's officially my favourite week of the year, come rain or shine. Rather too much rain though right now, even for a part time horticultural dabbler such as myself.
Mr Titchmarsh and chums are in full green fingers flow every night on BBC2. Fucking fantastic as well. There's even some red button interactive out of hour's action. I'm torn between watching buds blossom in the early hours and wide boy cockney geezers trying to shoot their own seeds against the forces of Mother Nature.
Saga Insurance is sponsoring Chelsea this year. That's Chelsea the Flower Show, not the prima donna Premiership knobbers (although the ageing demographics of the Johnny Foreigners would fit in perfectly with Saga's wrinkly target group. I even attempted a fast forward into old bugger-dom with the selection of the 55-65 age bracket in an RHS competition. How many coffin dodgers can actually operate the modern interweb anyway?)
I failed to blag some free tickets, but I'm more of a hands on guy anyway. Especially when it comes to wrinkly silver surfers. The Great Titchmarch and chums are running a competition all week to capture Britain in Bloom during RHS week. The brief is simple: Capture your favourite foliage and fame and fortune awaits. Just to make sure that you don't pillage a back catalogue of ones that you have photoshopped earlier, a picture with a daily paper from this week next to your star sunflower has to be submitteded as well.
And so on the one day of the week where blue sky was forecast, I forfeited my playground duty responsibilities and snapped away in the urban jungle of the school playground. Perfect! I was really pleased with the results and was certain that I had bagged first prize just as the end of play bell was rung.
All that I needed to do now was to return at lunchtime for the money shot with my copy of Metro.
But bugger. Today was the one day in the school calendar when Mr Odd Job Man emerges out of his tea factory of a shed and does his own bit of green fingered fumbling. Less than an hour after the winning shot waiting to happen was captured, Mr OJM had planted some new herbaceous borders in my prime location.
Shit. A perfect picture without the supporting evidence. I had been green fingered.
Oh - and seasoned followers of the Wonderful Windowbox ongoing project will be pleased to know that this hasn't been forgotten about. Much like this blog, simply put on hold as the great onionbagblog HQ house move takes place. We're sort of halfway there.
I'm living in a box, living in awindow cardboard box blah blah blah right now.
technorati: chelsea flower show
| Tuesday 23 May, 2006 |
The last week in May and it must mean that it's the RHS Chelsea Flower Show. It's officially my favourite week of the year, come rain or shine. Rather too much rain though right now, even for a part time horticultural dabbler such as myself.
I had been fingered |
Saga Insurance is sponsoring Chelsea this year. That's Chelsea the Flower Show, not the prima donna Premiership knobbers (although the ageing demographics of the Johnny Foreigners would fit in perfectly with Saga's wrinkly target group. I even attempted a fast forward into old bugger-dom with the selection of the 55-65 age bracket in an RHS competition. How many coffin dodgers can actually operate the modern interweb anyway?)
I failed to blag some free tickets, but I'm more of a hands on guy anyway. Especially when it comes to wrinkly silver surfers. The Great Titchmarch and chums are running a competition all week to capture Britain in Bloom during RHS week. The brief is simple: Capture your favourite foliage and fame and fortune awaits. Just to make sure that you don't pillage a back catalogue of ones that you have photoshopped earlier, a picture with a daily paper from this week next to your star sunflower has to be submitteded as well.
And so on the one day of the week where blue sky was forecast, I forfeited my playground duty responsibilities and snapped away in the urban jungle of the school playground. Perfect! I was really pleased with the results and was certain that I had bagged first prize just as the end of play bell was rung.
All that I needed to do now was to return at lunchtime for the money shot with my copy of Metro.
But bugger. Today was the one day in the school calendar when Mr Odd Job Man emerges out of his tea factory of a shed and does his own bit of green fingered fumbling. Less than an hour after the winning shot waiting to happen was captured, Mr OJM had planted some new herbaceous borders in my prime location.
Shit. A perfect picture without the supporting evidence. I had been green fingered.
Oh - and seasoned followers of the Wonderful Windowbox ongoing project will be pleased to know that this hasn't been forgotten about. Much like this blog, simply put on hold as the great onionbagblog HQ house move takes place. We're sort of halfway there.
I'm living in a box, living in a
technorati: chelsea flower show
| #permalink |
Managing
Who would be the next Millwall manager? Probably the man who isn't the next Charlton manager. Mick McCarthy it is then. The Managerial Merry-Go-Round is currently in a spin in South London. Stop! I feel sick! Especially after I saw Joe Kinnear's name amongst the runner's and riders to replace David Tuttle.
To lose one manager South of the river would be unfortunate; to lose two at the start of the summer is just careless. That's the sort of behaviour we normally expect from the North London knobbers.
But with two heads being better than one, maybe Millwall and Charlton should have a joint headhunting session to come up with a shortlist of the finest managers. Failing that then there's always the name of Steve Claridge to make up the numbers.
Perhaps a Buy One Get One Free deal can be struck up? Charlton get George Burley and Millwall are lumbered with the egg chasing Sir Clive Woodward as the new supremo at The Den. Sir Clive is certainly a supremo, but the libel laws prevent me from naming exactly what the World Cup winner is a supremo of.
Both vacancies are unique and require the right man to fit into the 'culture' of the respective clubs. Alan Curbishley was irreplaceable. A bit like Brian Clough at Nottingham Forest, Curbs WAS Charlton. Forest are still paying the price for failing with the likes of Dave Bassett, David Platt and Joe Kinnear. It's no coincidence that all three coaches are still on the League Manager's Association mailing list for the Situations Vacant each week. Someone bribe a postman in SE7 as soon as possible. Mike Newell's name has also been linked with The Valley. At least it would keep the SE7 postman busy with the brown envelopes.
Meanwhile Millwall need a manager who understands the *cough* character of the club. Arsene Wenger may be a multi-lingual continental coach, but I don't think that he is the man for The Den. George Graham and Dennis Wise understood perfectly the siege mentality of the Lions. Shame that they couldn't be barricaded in to see the job through. What Millwall need right now is a man who isn't afraid to let off a few firecrackers right where professional players don't like it. That's what the physio's treatment table is for, afterall.
The much mooted Millwall short list is a little low on inspiration. Paul Hart seems a likable bloke, but he's basically your Uncle who has just bought you a new ball to play with in the back garden. 'If my Aunt had balls, she'd be my Uncle,' as Ruud Gullit once philosophised to a live primetime audience on BBC1. This could read as the Personal Profile on Paul Hart's CV.
Ray Lewington's knowledge of London football is unquestionable. But then again so is Clive Tyldesley's and besides, the Lions are taking in the cultural delights of Barnsley, Blackpool and Bradford next season.
Peter Reid is another manager to throw his hat into the Millwall ring. But it may as well be a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey (a little too close to the bone) with Reidy casting his credentials to any Coca Cola club with a revolving door right now.
John Gregory can be dismissed with the phrase: 'Remember D*rby.' Threatening to shoot star strikers as Gregory once did with Dwight Yorke is a little severe, even by Millwall standards.
Which leaves the Lions with Ian Holloway. Hurrah!!!! Give that man a job now! If not Manager then as Matchday Programme Editor. Metaphors about playing ugly and pulling ugly in the evening are perfect for South East London. It's something Millwall fans can relate to without any sense of irony.
'Right now, everything is going wrong for me - if I fell in a barrel of boobs, I'd come out sucking my thumb.'
I think we've found our man.
technorati: south london football
| Friday 19 May, 2006 |
Who would be the next Millwall manager? Probably the man who isn't the next Charlton manager. Mick McCarthy it is then. The Managerial Merry-Go-Round is currently in a spin in South London. Stop! I feel sick! Especially after I saw Joe Kinnear's name amongst the runner's and riders to replace David Tuttle.
If I fell in a barrel of boobs... |
But with two heads being better than one, maybe Millwall and Charlton should have a joint headhunting session to come up with a shortlist of the finest managers. Failing that then there's always the name of Steve Claridge to make up the numbers.
Perhaps a Buy One Get One Free deal can be struck up? Charlton get George Burley and Millwall are lumbered with the egg chasing Sir Clive Woodward as the new supremo at The Den. Sir Clive is certainly a supremo, but the libel laws prevent me from naming exactly what the World Cup winner is a supremo of.
Both vacancies are unique and require the right man to fit into the 'culture' of the respective clubs. Alan Curbishley was irreplaceable. A bit like Brian Clough at Nottingham Forest, Curbs WAS Charlton. Forest are still paying the price for failing with the likes of Dave Bassett, David Platt and Joe Kinnear. It's no coincidence that all three coaches are still on the League Manager's Association mailing list for the Situations Vacant each week. Someone bribe a postman in SE7 as soon as possible. Mike Newell's name has also been linked with The Valley. At least it would keep the SE7 postman busy with the brown envelopes.
Meanwhile Millwall need a manager who understands the *cough* character of the club. Arsene Wenger may be a multi-lingual continental coach, but I don't think that he is the man for The Den. George Graham and Dennis Wise understood perfectly the siege mentality of the Lions. Shame that they couldn't be barricaded in to see the job through. What Millwall need right now is a man who isn't afraid to let off a few firecrackers right where professional players don't like it. That's what the physio's treatment table is for, afterall.
The much mooted Millwall short list is a little low on inspiration. Paul Hart seems a likable bloke, but he's basically your Uncle who has just bought you a new ball to play with in the back garden. 'If my Aunt had balls, she'd be my Uncle,' as Ruud Gullit once philosophised to a live primetime audience on BBC1. This could read as the Personal Profile on Paul Hart's CV.
Ray Lewington's knowledge of London football is unquestionable. But then again so is Clive Tyldesley's and besides, the Lions are taking in the cultural delights of Barnsley, Blackpool and Bradford next season.
Peter Reid is another manager to throw his hat into the Millwall ring. But it may as well be a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey (a little too close to the bone) with Reidy casting his credentials to any Coca Cola club with a revolving door right now.
John Gregory can be dismissed with the phrase: 'Remember D*rby.' Threatening to shoot star strikers as Gregory once did with Dwight Yorke is a little severe, even by Millwall standards.
Which leaves the Lions with Ian Holloway. Hurrah!!!! Give that man a job now! If not Manager then as Matchday Programme Editor. Metaphors about playing ugly and pulling ugly in the evening are perfect for South East London. It's something Millwall fans can relate to without any sense of irony.
'Right now, everything is going wrong for me - if I fell in a barrel of boobs, I'd come out sucking my thumb.'
I think we've found our man.
technorati: south london football
| #permalink |
Not Loving Leonard
I sighed; I struggled; I took shit shit pictures. I was in North London knobber land afterall. Leonard Street in EC2 was the latest location for The Way We See It. I wasn't feeling particularly inspired and the overcast Old Street skies didn't exactly help.
Still, a bad workman never blames his tools etc, a fact that I reminded Boy Y of only yesterday morning as he blamed a broken pencil for his official Year 6 SATS rating of a five year-old.
But I'm still learning with the camera as well. I've become a little too safe in recent weeks, leading to the same old shit shots. The whole beauty of TWWSI should all be about experimentation. For me lately it has been straight in, get the job done and then bugger off back South of the river.
I once worked very close to Leonard Street. I wasn't exactly enamoured with the surroundings then, only using it as a piss alley on the very rare nights out in North London knobber land.
Last weekend I clocked a lovely old retro Lambretta parked along Leonard Street. I'm seriously considering becoming a knobber Petrol Head and purchasing a little two wheeler hair dryer. Maybe I should also move to North London whilst I'm at it?
technorati: london
| Tuesday 16 May, 2006 |
I sighed; I struggled; I took shit shit pictures. I was in North London knobber land afterall. Leonard Street in EC2 was the latest location for The Way We See It. I wasn't feeling particularly inspired and the overcast Old Street skies didn't exactly help.
Still, a bad workman never blames his tools etc, a fact that I reminded Boy Y of only yesterday morning as he blamed a broken pencil for his official Year 6 SATS rating of a five year-old.
But I'm still learning with the camera as well. I've become a little too safe in recent weeks, leading to the same old shit shots. The whole beauty of TWWSI should all be about experimentation. For me lately it has been straight in, get the job done and then bugger off back South of the river.
I once worked very close to Leonard Street. I wasn't exactly enamoured with the surroundings then, only using it as a piss alley on the very rare nights out in North London knobber land.
Last weekend I clocked a lovely old retro Lambretta parked along Leonard Street. I'm seriously considering becoming a knobber Petrol Head and purchasing a little two wheeler hair dryer. Maybe I should also move to North London whilst I'm at it?
technorati: london
| #permalink |
Motown Monday
The Supremes
He's All I Got
'And it's wringing my heart,
Cos it's making us drift apart.'
Music of the Gods.
technorati: the supremes
| Monday 15 May, 2006 |
The Supremes
He's All I Got
'And it's wringing my heart,
Cos it's making us drift apart.'
Music of the Gods.
technorati: the supremes
| #permalink |
Bollied
I spent my Saturday at an all day wine tasting session up at Islington. That's what the twenty quid ticket said, but essentially it was a posh piss up on Upper Street. I even wore a blazer and a cravat for the event and looked rather dapper, even if I do say so myself. I now have one hell of a dry cleaning bill to consider.
I missed the best Cup Final of all time, as there wasn't much of a demand up in N1 to see a team of Scallies take on the Cockney Geezers from across town. The only celebrating took place when a bottle of rare bollie was opened.
'Hurrah!'
Now fuck off back to your chattering class dinner parties and leave the serious business of getting pissed to the proper beer drinkers.
I actually quite enjoyed myself. Well, I enjoyed the concept of not forking out further for any of the booze, and then making a twat of myself up in North London. I was amongst good company with most of the males wearing some variant of the pink colour theme. What do you expect from fucking wine drinkers?
Under the guidance of a seasoned posh piss up professional, my six hours of getting sloshed were executed to precision with the perfect posh piss up etiquette. We started off on the champers. I despise the fizzy apple juice. Too many memories of bad weddings with mrs onionbagblogger wondering why the question has never been popped to her. She's more chance of a champagne cork being popped back at onionbagblog HQ.
Here's where I first made a twat of myself; I forked out the twenty quid expecting the finest wines known to humanity. I demand to have some booze.
What I got was a poxy portion that I could down in one. I looked a bit of a knobber as my champagne glass hovered under the by now non-pouring posh bird with the bottle of bollie in her hand.
'Please Madam, can I have some more?'
MORE????
You see this was wine 'tasting,' and not wall to wall vomiting. I soon learnt the technique of giving it a good sniff (the booze, not the posh bird,) looking 'considered,' and then requesting a second pouring just to confirm that yes, your weekly booze bill will of course include a fifty quid bottle of the bollie next time you are in the supermarket.
But soon I had been sussed by the posh bird and the failure of my spit / swallow joke signalled that it was time to hit the proper booze.
Chin chin.
White wine it was. Here's where I started my world tour of the wine growing regions across five continents whilst stuck up in North London knobber land. Chile was where my travels started. No palatable planning, just that the South American stall was the only one without a queue and I was on a fucking role.
Should I have been exercising my moral rights as an ethical consumer to sample wine from a region that has a debatable human rights record? A quick sniff and a considered look later, and I had answered my own question.
Chin chin.
I then took in the tastes of Portugal, Italy and Spain, before getting a little lost with a South African diversion before stumbling the Greek booze. I felt sorry for Stellios as he had little custom. Not surprising considering the piss poor quality of his tonsil stripper, but by now I was well and truly wankered.
I remember some vague conversation about the bikini line of Greek girls, and was saved from a smack in the face by my seasoned posh piss up professional mentor. Best head Down Under for the Aussie booze.
I camped out under the Aussie array of booze for the best part of an hour. I spat, swallowed and pretended to make endless mental notes with a view to actually forking out for some of the highly potent Antipodean paint stripper.
But as Bruce (actually he was called Chester and wore a ludicrously loud shirt) moved in for the sales pitch, I suddenly became a cheese eating surrender monkey and made my way to Francais. As I shall hopefully be finding out over the summer months, I have always had something of an entene cordial with Pierre and his pals. Six weeks of cycling and getting sloshed in the spiritual home of wine requires some serious preparation. I practise my peddling daily around London, and so Saturday afternoon was the perfect time to try out the plonk.
I made the switch to the dark side and saddled up for a bottle of red. Le vin rouge has always been my preferred tipple (whenever Special Brew isn't on the menu.) A fruity mind requires fruity lubrication. I even slipped into some pigeon French as I tried to chat up the Mademoiselle of the Vineyard as she popped my cork and allowed me to have a good sniff of her vintage fertile patch.
'Ah - tres bien!. Pouvez vous emprisonner epais?'
'Piss off you twat,' came back the reply in perfect Estuary English.
By now and the booze was starting to have the expected effect of my back. Too much bollie and my back is buggered. I looked a sorry site, walking like a cyberman wearing a blazer and a cravat in the middle of North London. Actually I looked like a knobber, and a very pissed one at that.
I retired to a nearby Upper Street boozer and propped myself up against the bar. Extra time was on the big screen but I don't think that my metabolism could have taken it. I wandered off back down to the Angel and bizarrely bumped into a fellow Professional Pencil Sharpener from school who also lives in Sunny Stockwell. I'm not who was most embarrassed, Cravat Boy or the South London bird who has a hatred for North London that is surly a blog waiting to happen.
She helped me onto the tube and I awoke half an hour later somewhere between Vauxhall and Stockwell. I staggered past the winos outside the tube and was tempted to join them for last orders. One of them was even wearing a cravat as well. If you can't beat them... etc, but even after six hours in North London knobber land drinking the finest wine known to humanity, I still wasn't ready to give up the Guinness for a girly drink.
Chin chin.
technorati: booze
| Sunday 14 May, 2006 |
I spent my Saturday at an all day wine tasting session up at Islington. That's what the twenty quid ticket said, but essentially it was a posh piss up on Upper Street. I even wore a blazer and a cravat for the event and looked rather dapper, even if I do say so myself. I now have one hell of a dry cleaning bill to consider.
I must have some booze |
'Hurrah!'
Now fuck off back to your chattering class dinner parties and leave the serious business of getting pissed to the proper beer drinkers.
I actually quite enjoyed myself. Well, I enjoyed the concept of not forking out further for any of the booze, and then making a twat of myself up in North London. I was amongst good company with most of the males wearing some variant of the pink colour theme. What do you expect from fucking wine drinkers?
Under the guidance of a seasoned posh piss up professional, my six hours of getting sloshed were executed to precision with the perfect posh piss up etiquette. We started off on the champers. I despise the fizzy apple juice. Too many memories of bad weddings with mrs onionbagblogger wondering why the question has never been popped to her. She's more chance of a champagne cork being popped back at onionbagblog HQ.
Here's where I first made a twat of myself; I forked out the twenty quid expecting the finest wines known to humanity. I demand to have some booze.
What I got was a poxy portion that I could down in one. I looked a bit of a knobber as my champagne glass hovered under the by now non-pouring posh bird with the bottle of bollie in her hand.
'Please Madam, can I have some more?'
MORE????
You see this was wine 'tasting,' and not wall to wall vomiting. I soon learnt the technique of giving it a good sniff (the booze, not the posh bird,) looking 'considered,' and then requesting a second pouring just to confirm that yes, your weekly booze bill will of course include a fifty quid bottle of the bollie next time you are in the supermarket.
But soon I had been sussed by the posh bird and the failure of my spit / swallow joke signalled that it was time to hit the proper booze.
Chin chin.
White wine it was. Here's where I started my world tour of the wine growing regions across five continents whilst stuck up in North London knobber land. Chile was where my travels started. No palatable planning, just that the South American stall was the only one without a queue and I was on a fucking role.
Should I have been exercising my moral rights as an ethical consumer to sample wine from a region that has a debatable human rights record? A quick sniff and a considered look later, and I had answered my own question.
Chin chin.
I then took in the tastes of Portugal, Italy and Spain, before getting a little lost with a South African diversion before stumbling the Greek booze. I felt sorry for Stellios as he had little custom. Not surprising considering the piss poor quality of his tonsil stripper, but by now I was well and truly wankered.
I remember some vague conversation about the bikini line of Greek girls, and was saved from a smack in the face by my seasoned posh piss up professional mentor. Best head Down Under for the Aussie booze.
I camped out under the Aussie array of booze for the best part of an hour. I spat, swallowed and pretended to make endless mental notes with a view to actually forking out for some of the highly potent Antipodean paint stripper.
But as Bruce (actually he was called Chester and wore a ludicrously loud shirt) moved in for the sales pitch, I suddenly became a cheese eating surrender monkey and made my way to Francais. As I shall hopefully be finding out over the summer months, I have always had something of an entene cordial with Pierre and his pals. Six weeks of cycling and getting sloshed in the spiritual home of wine requires some serious preparation. I practise my peddling daily around London, and so Saturday afternoon was the perfect time to try out the plonk.
I made the switch to the dark side and saddled up for a bottle of red. Le vin rouge has always been my preferred tipple (whenever Special Brew isn't on the menu.) A fruity mind requires fruity lubrication. I even slipped into some pigeon French as I tried to chat up the Mademoiselle of the Vineyard as she popped my cork and allowed me to have a good sniff of her vintage fertile patch.
'Ah - tres bien!. Pouvez vous emprisonner epais?'
'Piss off you twat,' came back the reply in perfect Estuary English.
By now and the booze was starting to have the expected effect of my back. Too much bollie and my back is buggered. I looked a sorry site, walking like a cyberman wearing a blazer and a cravat in the middle of North London. Actually I looked like a knobber, and a very pissed one at that.
I retired to a nearby Upper Street boozer and propped myself up against the bar. Extra time was on the big screen but I don't think that my metabolism could have taken it. I wandered off back down to the Angel and bizarrely bumped into a fellow Professional Pencil Sharpener from school who also lives in Sunny Stockwell. I'm not who was most embarrassed, Cravat Boy or the South London bird who has a hatred for North London that is surly a blog waiting to happen.
She helped me onto the tube and I awoke half an hour later somewhere between Vauxhall and Stockwell. I staggered past the winos outside the tube and was tempted to join them for last orders. One of them was even wearing a cravat as well. If you can't beat them... etc, but even after six hours in North London knobber land drinking the finest wine known to humanity, I still wasn't ready to give up the Guinness for a girly drink.
Chin chin.
technorati: booze
| #permalink |
Copped It| Saturday 13 May, 2006 |
Aren't pretend policemen worth the public's money? (said the pretend teacher.) 3:15 this morning and mrs onionbagblogger was awoken with a loud bang. Nothing that unusual, something for the weekend, etc. But this time it was a very loud bang at the door.
'Police - open up!' was the friendly greeting.
He who smelt it... |
I was met by two pretend plod enquiring about the 'onionbagblog HQ odour.' I did have a shower at Brixton Rec some twelve hours earlier, honest 'guv. It seems that something of a stink was stirring down below. Not for the first time at obb HQ, boom boom, but this time in the basement flat down below.
Fine. Something smells fishy etc, but why not wait a further four hours for the semi-reasonable time of 7:15 on a Saturday morning to sort out the stink? The ground floor flat had made the complaint. Nice boys and all that but he who smelt it, dealt it as the kids at school tell me most days.
And so I spent the very early hours of Saturday morning having a good old sniff down below with a couple of pretend plod. There wasn't a great deal of odour activity to be had to be honest. Plod #1 was wearing some cheapo aftershave, and plod #2 could have done with some Colgate. I let rip releasing the Friday night chicken tikka masala treat.
But there was no smell to be sniffed coming from the basement flat, and bloody hell - they were sniffing about for a good half hour plus. Nice work if you can get it - it certainly beats being a pretend teacher and sniffing Boy Y's bottom burps all day long.
The cricket loving basement flat couple weren't around. No shit, Sherlock. Half an hour of banging on their front door concluded this particular investigation. Sunny Stockwell's very own Vest Man was probably more of a threat to the residents of South Lambeth Road than the phantom smell. Maybe Vest Man was the one who denied it (and subsequently supplied it?)
Pretend plod played around on his walkie talkie for a while longer. I put a peg on my nose and banged mrs obb.
technorati: need some fucking sleep
| #permalink |
He Who Dares...
Ben Lee
Whatever It Is (Just Do It)
'There are secrets,
there are secrets,
there are secrets.'
I really don't know enough about Ben Lee to write anything authoritative. But since when has knowledge ever been a barrier to music journalism? Plus it's all about the music, isn't it?
This track has been doing it for me ever since it was featured as the fadeout to an Alan Shearer interview on Football Focus last Saturday. It's the first time that the Professional Geordie Whinger has ever appeared interesting.
I've asked Mr Google about Mr Lee, but haven't really come up with anything worth sharing. Seeing as though my days of being able to boast an encyclopaedic database of chart knowledge are long gone, I'm going to look rather silly if Whatever It Is has been No. 1 for the past fifteen weeks.
I like the philosophy of Whatever It Is, if nothing else. Life mantras such as Just Do It, Go For It and better to regret doing something than regret not doing it are all fine. Except when it backfires on you big time you look like a knobber.
Whatever It Is (I Just Did It). It was a brave move, but bollocks.
Back to Plan B then.
technorati: ben lee
| Thursday 11 May, 2006 |
Ben Lee
Whatever It Is (Just Do It)
'There are secrets,
there are secrets,
there are secrets.'
I really don't know enough about Ben Lee to write anything authoritative. But since when has knowledge ever been a barrier to music journalism? Plus it's all about the music, isn't it?
This track has been doing it for me ever since it was featured as the fadeout to an Alan Shearer interview on Football Focus last Saturday. It's the first time that the Professional Geordie Whinger has ever appeared interesting.
I've asked Mr Google about Mr Lee, but haven't really come up with anything worth sharing. Seeing as though my days of being able to boast an encyclopaedic database of chart knowledge are long gone, I'm going to look rather silly if Whatever It Is has been No. 1 for the past fifteen weeks.
I like the philosophy of Whatever It Is, if nothing else. Life mantras such as Just Do It, Go For It and better to regret doing something than regret not doing it are all fine. Except when it backfires on you big time you look like a knobber.
Whatever It Is (I Just Did It). It was a brave move, but bollocks.
Back to Plan B then.
technorati: ben lee
| #permalink |
Groovin'
Not really going to post much about this. 'Boro are on TV and the beer beckons.
Anyone know who this is? It was recorded in '89 by a 'big name,' and refused release by a major label at the time.
It finally came out seven years later, but was clearly lost in the moment.
Whistle possee!
| Wednesday 10 May, 2006 |
Not really going to post much about this. 'Boro are on TV and the beer beckons.
Anyone know who this is? It was recorded in '89 by a 'big name,' and refused release by a major label at the time.
It finally came out seven years later, but was clearly lost in the moment.
Whistle possee!
| #permalink |
Sleaze Nation
Pointing your camera at prostitutes is not a good idea. In fact pointing anything at prostitutes is probably not the best move if you want to achieve perfect matrimonial harmony.
I'm not going to answer the above question, but I was rather weary whipping out my seven inch super zoom along one of Soho's sleaziest streets on Saturday morning. And just for the record, the three lovely ladies pictures below probably don't charge by the half hour.
Windmill Street was the central location that The Way We See It sent us off to this week. I've walked up this backstreet many a time (purely as a thoroughfare you understand) and never really found it remotely interesting. There's what appears to be an old bomb site on the left hand side of the street that's been derelict ever since I became a wide eyed Boy About London Town. Bizarrely a primary school is also hidden away amongst all the sleaze.
And so on Saturday I sheepishly took to the Soho streets for a bit of snapping. The being sheepish wasn't hard - I've been perfecting this for the past month at school. The snapping wasn't so successful. With the afternoon rain starting to descend, even the neon lights of London couldn't add much colour to my viewfinder.
I walked up Windmill Street once and flashed away as quick as I could. I was still propositioned ('clipped' I believe is the industry term) and offered crack cocaine as an alternative to my liquid lunch later in the day.
Not my most proudest of photo shoots, but then again not my favourite part of town.
'Watch it love, you could have my eye out with that...' suggested a lady lurking by a street door.
Never mind the focul length, etc...
technorati: windmill street
| Tuesday 9 May, 2006 |
Pointing your camera at prostitutes is not a good idea. In fact pointing anything at prostitutes is probably not the best move if you want to achieve perfect matrimonial harmony.
Crack cocaine for lunch? |
Windmill Street was the central location that The Way We See It sent us off to this week. I've walked up this backstreet many a time (purely as a thoroughfare you understand) and never really found it remotely interesting. There's what appears to be an old bomb site on the left hand side of the street that's been derelict ever since I became a wide eyed Boy About London Town. Bizarrely a primary school is also hidden away amongst all the sleaze.
And so on Saturday I sheepishly took to the Soho streets for a bit of snapping. The being sheepish wasn't hard - I've been perfecting this for the past month at school. The snapping wasn't so successful. With the afternoon rain starting to descend, even the neon lights of London couldn't add much colour to my viewfinder.
I walked up Windmill Street once and flashed away as quick as I could. I was still propositioned ('clipped' I believe is the industry term) and offered crack cocaine as an alternative to my liquid lunch later in the day.
Not my most proudest of photo shoots, but then again not my favourite part of town.
'Watch it love, you could have my eye out with that...' suggested a lady lurking by a street door.
Never mind the focul length, etc...
technorati: windmill street
| #permalink |
