Vindaloo

Well Sven I hope you're satisfied, 'cos your choice of an embryo as fourth striker looks like a biiiig mistake now doesn't it?

Speaking of the embryo, why didn't the Master Tactician give him a run out last night? Let the lad get a feel for the atmosphere, give him the chance to get rid of those "debut nerves". Last night was the night to do it. The chances are that the poor bugger will be thrust into the limelight during a match where England are chasing the game and all our available strikeforce has been decimated by injury and/or exhaustion.

God help us if Rooney suffers an injury. We'll probably end up with David James up front at this rate. (Don't laugh - Stuart Pierce tried it once).

If we progress in this competition it will be in spite of Eriksonn not because of him. If we don't progress in this competition, the BBC will be tempted to start showing Wimbledon and slowly ditching the games they think nobody will want to watch. Arrrggghh! Wimbledon! Aaarrrrrrrggggggghhhhhh!

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In other news, my Dad's home again and slowly disappearing whilst sat in his favourite chair watching UKTV History (or "the War" as my Mother calls it.) He has three visits a day from some healthcare agency in order to get him up, clean him up and put him back to bed again.

Yes life's just one long social whirl.

And it'll come to us all eventually.

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In other, other news I have a crappy little non-entity of a cough that makes me sound like Richard Attenborough in his portrayal of John Christie in 10, Rillington Place. Luckily for him, it only manifested itself during moments of heightened sexual activity. Sadly, for me, heightened sexual activity is possibly the only time the symptoms desist.

"Dearest? Oh Dearest......................."

Back Home....They'll be Thinking About Us.....

It was great you know. The atmosphere was electric. The train ride from Amsterdam to Gelsenkirchen absolutely spot on. The colours. The chants. The camararaderie between the different fans and nationalities. (and how often would you experience that at an England game)? The glorious stadium. The cheap beer (2 euros)! The sheer bloody magic of being at a World Cup match. An ambition achieved. With my kids and assorted acquaintences.

And we got VIP tickets. (God bless you Eldest and Youngest's Best Man). And we got to see a decent match with some great goals, a beer in hand and comfy seats!.

The sun shone and it's a fabulous memory I shall cherish forever. And I just love starting a sentence with "and".

Ronnie van der Meuren is one of the World's greatest barmen. He made Amsterdam special. Cheers Ronnie.

That's his bar on the left. The day we arrived - just in time for the second half of Holland's first World Cup game. A home from home.

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However, for those of you who wouldn't know Rooney's metatarsal from the 63rd Psalm, here's a video and tune filmed in a pub within 20 minutes of Occupied Towers.

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And I got a Steely Dan DVD for 6.99 Euros in Schipol Airport!

And then we came back home home and the "same old shit" hadn't actually fucked off forever, like I'd hoped it would.

But, hey. There you go. Why should travelling to Europe and back change the World?

Every Picture Tells a Story....

Well, I don't know what's happened here, but I can assure you that the other night I posted some pics and text here but, it's gone. I even had a comment on it as proof of its existance. However it's gone now and I can't remember what it was I was pontificating about or what pics I posted. I'll try again.



Here we go. Venice last September. The glorious Salute from across the Grand Canal through a bobbing forest of gondoliers.



You know I really do want England to win the World Cup but a part of me baulks at the thought of Beckham being the first man to lift it for England since the great Bobby Moore. Similarly Svenn.



My reading and iPod table on the balcony at the Nikiforos apartments, Cassiopi, Corfu last June. Some good reads there. Some not so good. Loads of music on that iPod. Ry Cooder's "Chavez Ravine" being the soundtrack of the fortnight. Jeez - a year ago. who knows where the time goes.



And if I hear another word about Rooney's foot I'll take off and become a recluse occasionally releasing critically acclaimed albums of delicate thunder.......



....with evocative titles and strange messages for those "in the know".



The coolest nightspots in the Western World would pound to the sound.



But I'd never forget where I came from and I would always remember my roots and routes.



Right, I'm off to Amsterdam and Gelsenkirchen hopefully to take in USA v Czech Rep and wallow in the general World Cup ambience. See ya in a week.

I Vow to Thee my Country...........

So: here we go, here we go, here we go - an' all that. Flags everywhere you look. On cars, on newly acquired flagpoles from B and Q or wherever and hanging from upstairs windows the length and breadth of this verdant home of ours. Although not on the "more exclusive" estates.

Why? Seriously. Why? I mean I know all about the World Cup blah, blah, blah - in fact I'm off to Germany next week to try and get a ticket to see a game - any game that Macdonalds, Budweiser and whoever haven't already snapped up all the tickets for. I guess I'll eventually end up staring at a big screen somewhere near the Dutch border. But, at least I can say I tried.

However, apart from my inabilty to acquire a ticket, I'm still intrigued by this new found (well, yeah, it happened four years ago - but not quite the same) prediliction for "flying the flag".

There's a book - or, at the very least, a thesis here. Honest.

For many years I would pontificate on the state of the indigenous musics and folklore of states, countries, counties, archipeligos and islands.

"Wherever you look" I said, "countries that have suffered under the heel of the oppressor - from Ireland to South Africa - have embraced their own "folk" music, their own "literature", their own "art" as a protest, as a declaration of their right to exist in the face of occupation by a foreign power. As a right to protest and, hopefully, undermine."

In fact, on many occasions indigenous folk music (or even dance - just ask Michael Flatley) - was banned outright.

And that, I feel, is why the World Cup is, once again, stirring, not only the Chav, but also the Fairport Convention afficianado, the Kate Rusby lover and the Steeleye Span/Jethro tull completist.

The "English" culture is a culture under attack and, these days, anything that can be utilised in the fight for the reclamation of the Flag, will win massive favour - among those, like me, who feel that "my flag" has been usurped.

Good? Bad? Hmmmmm! I don't yet know. As a hairy guy in the late 60s, constantly finding myself alone but surrounded by many "shaven-headed" opponents of my "beliefs" - ie "skinheads" draped, tattoed and be-booted with "my flag", I still have difficulties 30 years later. They even ran me over once. With a fuckin' Ford Anglia.

Thanks. You wankers.

Picture Book.....

At night on the boat. Very deChirico. In fact, all it needs is a mysterious shadow.......



Graffitti in Toulon. The poor lad in the picture had actually just walked 'round the corner straight into the frame. He didn't (as far as I am aware) spray the paint.



Lennon, wine and wallpaper......bliss! Well, apart from the wallpaper.



Sometime last winter. The meta data supplied from the camera says last November. A lifetime ago.

More cogent posts a little later.