Monday, March 31, 2003
Not long after Terry Venables walks away from Leeds, the chairman follows. Its a dangerous game that some Premiership clubs are playing. Spending millions on players in an attempt to reach the holy grail of the Champion's League.
For the succesful ones there's glory and megabucks. For the one's that don't quite get there...well look at Leeds. Man City might be in the same position in a couple of seasons the way things are going.
Let's hope not eh ??
CNN/Reuters: News reports have filtered out early this morning that US
forces have swooped on an Iraqi Primary School and detained teacher Mohammed
Al-Hazar. Sources indicate that, when arrested, Al-Hazar was in possession
of a ruler, a protractor, a set square and a calculator.
US President George W Bush argued that this was clear and overwhelming
evidence that Iraq indeed possessed weapons of maths instruction.
Sunday, March 30, 2003
"We should not believe the observations of armchair generals, commentators, who were suggesting that this was a short campaign "
Defence Secretary Geoff Hoon 30th March 2003
Yes Geoff, because those observations came from the Anti-War brigade didn't they ? I mean, God knows, you were never off the TV a couple of weeks ago. Telling us that this would be a long, protracted, drawn out, messy, buggeration of a war weren't you ? You and your mates, Bush, Blair, Rumsfield, Cheney and the rest. Well you couldn't get 'em off the TV and Radio could you ? "It's not going to be a short campaign !" they shouted. "It won't all be over in a couple of weeks !" they reasoned. "It will be messy", they said. "It will be body-count heavy" and, "we will lose a lot of 'our boys' as we struggle, manfully, to bring democracy back to Eyerack".
Do these people actually believe the shite they come out with. I mean, pro or anti, let's not start trying to re-invent the past -especially when it's only a week ago.
Was it George Orwell who said "he who controls the past, controls the present. He who controls the present, controls the future".
Big Wheels Turning.
Defence Secretary Geoff Hoon 30th March 2003
Yes Geoff, because those observations came from the Anti-War brigade didn't they ? I mean, God knows, you were never off the TV a couple of weeks ago. Telling us that this would be a long, protracted, drawn out, messy, buggeration of a war weren't you ? You and your mates, Bush, Blair, Rumsfield, Cheney and the rest. Well you couldn't get 'em off the TV and Radio could you ? "It's not going to be a short campaign !" they shouted. "It won't all be over in a couple of weeks !" they reasoned. "It will be messy", they said. "It will be body-count heavy" and, "we will lose a lot of 'our boys' as we struggle, manfully, to bring democracy back to Eyerack".
Do these people actually believe the shite they come out with. I mean, pro or anti, let's not start trying to re-invent the past -especially when it's only a week ago.
Was it George Orwell who said "he who controls the past, controls the present. He who controls the present, controls the future".
Big Wheels Turning.
Sport (The Odd Boy)
Go on – look the title up !
3rd form at the local grammar school, around 1967-68. Picture the scene: It’s just after ‘games’ – football if I remember correctly. Around 40 to 50 13 and 14 year old boys are milling about the changing rooms in various states of undress. Some are in the showers that are, strangely, situated in the centre of the changing rooms with 2 open ends. You just walked in and out. I think there were 3 or 4 shower heads on either side.
Because of the design of the showers one of the best ‘games’ we used to play was a kind of ice hockey using a bar of soap as the ‘puck’. 2 teams of 2 or 3 bollock naked kids would slide around on their bare arses whacking the soap with their hands. What made this possible was the fact that all the showers would be on at the same time - creating enough water to aquaplane on. The object, of course, was to get the soap through the open ends.
This activity however was severely frowned on by the PT masters. To be caught in the act brought severe (and extremely corporal) punishment down on the heads of the perpetrators.
As a recipient of punishments diverse and varied over the entire period of my attendance at this place I had decided that, henceforth, my behaviour would be as pure as the driven snow. On this particular windy March afternoon it wasn’t a hard decision not to get involved. It was bloody freezing !
I still needed a shower though as I was covered from head to foot in mud. Normally – being a 13 year old –you just knew that you didn’t need a shower at all. If there was no crap on your face you’d simply whip off the footy kit and whip on the uniform and no one would be the wiser. Underneath the clothing you could be almost baking in solidified clay, Thing-like. But, as I said, no one would have the faintest idea. (At least until they spotted the sediment dusting the floor where you stood as the clay dried.) But today I needed a shower. I did. Unfortunately I was covered from head to foot in a combination of God’s own earth and whatever fertiliser the caretaker had been spreading on it !
So I kept out of the way till the others grew bored of aquaplaning and decided to start kicking a football about instead.
This was my cue to get in the shower and NOT get involved in the ball kicking.
So there I am washing the effluent out of my hair, nostrils and armpits, when the ball bounces into the shower through one of the open ends. Tantalisingly, it hung at about knee height - right in front of me. I defy anyone who has ever kicked a ball in anger to be able to resist the opportunity of volleying it as far and as hard as you possibly can - in that situation.
And I did. Christ I DID !! Sweet as a nut. I connected with my unshod foot and cracked that ball better than any Pele, Charlton or Ronaldo..
The next 3 seconds or so took around 5 minutes to evolve. I watched open-mouthed as the ball bent perfectly round the open shower-end. I bent the bastard like Beckham. My chin dropped to the floor as that ball inexorably motored towards the windows that ran the full length of the wall at around 8 feet off the ground.
“Oh for f*ck’s sake !!!” It almost went straight through the window. But, content just to smash it, the ball fell back to the floor. A second of shocked silence, then the entire place erupted into a crescendo of spotty adolescents pointing, jeering and laughing. “Bugger ! I’ll not get away with this.” Too many witnesses you see. Too many to keep ‘em all quiet. Too many that weren’t exactly members of my fan club anyhow. Not that I was unpopular, far from it. I made and kept some good mates at school. But the dynamics of school life ensured that, eventually, someone would ‘sing like a bird’.
Desperate times demand desperate measures and my solution was desperate indeed.
I would own up. I would tell them it was me. I did it ! That smashed window was my fault. Bravely I would go to the gym teacher and admit all !
I just wouldn’t tell them I did it kicking a ball that’s all ! I mean, sod that !
Remember, these were the days when punishment WAS punishment. They used to hit us with canes. Sticks. Hands, shoes, huge, weighty tomes.....anything they could get their hands on. You know - ‘Spare the Rod’ !!
As my plan developed, I became increasingly confident. This was copper-bottomed, gold-plated genius. Leftfield, blue sky thinking ! I was so proud !
My idea was to tell them I was closing the window on account of the freezing cold weather. As I was engaged in this activity, the high winds, (no lies there, it WAS extremely windy), blew the window shut......and the force smashed it as it closed.
Heh Heh.......beautiful.
So, off I went in search of authority – someone I could spill the beans to. It took me at least quarter of an hour before I chanced upon the Deputy Headmaster. Harry Travis was a strange amalgam of a human. Upright – as you’d expect, deputy head of a grammar after all – but somehow vulnerable. We always knew it, even as 1st formers. We could sense that he didn’t have the absolute authority of the Head and, moreover, some of the bog-standard teaching staff were more Gestapo-like than Harry.
His nickname, for some reason that I don’t think any of us knew, was Harry Bogg. Strangely it was always spelt Bogg, not Bog. I suspect it was handed down from some earlier 4B, 3C or 2A. As far as I recall he wasn’t christened by any of my contemporaries. No doubt if I posted a request for info on friendsreunited I might find the answer. But I digress.
I confessed to Harry. He was delighted. I – being an uncharitable oik from 3c – immediately reasoned he was just happy because he had a child to beat. But I was wrong. Harry Bogg was so impressed that I’d had the courage, the nerve, the honesty to come forward and admit to my accident that he took me to see the Headmaster.
Skinhead (aka The Headmaster) was also suitably impressed. The pair of them stood there in the Head’s study praising me like they were the media in general and I was David Beckham. Phrases were bandied about: “proud of you”, “this shows character”, “backbone”, “Empire” and Christ knows what else.
After a suitable amount of time - and praise, it was decided I would take Harry to the scene of the crime. I can remember that walk. “Thank God for that. They fell for it. Whoa am I good ? Or am I good ? Phew! “
I can remember actually walking into the changing rooms.
I can remember looking up at the broken window before Harry could’ve done. After all, he didn’t know where it was, did he ?
I can remember the cold horror of realising that not all the windows opened.
I can remember zooming in on ‘my window’. It didn’t open. The wind couldn’t have blown this shut – it was fixed, and had been since the jolly glazier chap first fixed it.
Alibi blown out of the water. Newly acquired reputation shot to buggery. Life = ‘hell from now on !’
Is there a moral here you ask ? Yes there is.
Next time you find yourself in a position where you have to lie through your hind teeth. Do some basic research BEFORE you open your mouth. ESPECIALLY in times of warfare.
Go on – look the title up !
3rd form at the local grammar school, around 1967-68. Picture the scene: It’s just after ‘games’ – football if I remember correctly. Around 40 to 50 13 and 14 year old boys are milling about the changing rooms in various states of undress. Some are in the showers that are, strangely, situated in the centre of the changing rooms with 2 open ends. You just walked in and out. I think there were 3 or 4 shower heads on either side.
Because of the design of the showers one of the best ‘games’ we used to play was a kind of ice hockey using a bar of soap as the ‘puck’. 2 teams of 2 or 3 bollock naked kids would slide around on their bare arses whacking the soap with their hands. What made this possible was the fact that all the showers would be on at the same time - creating enough water to aquaplane on. The object, of course, was to get the soap through the open ends.
This activity however was severely frowned on by the PT masters. To be caught in the act brought severe (and extremely corporal) punishment down on the heads of the perpetrators.
As a recipient of punishments diverse and varied over the entire period of my attendance at this place I had decided that, henceforth, my behaviour would be as pure as the driven snow. On this particular windy March afternoon it wasn’t a hard decision not to get involved. It was bloody freezing !
I still needed a shower though as I was covered from head to foot in mud. Normally – being a 13 year old –you just knew that you didn’t need a shower at all. If there was no crap on your face you’d simply whip off the footy kit and whip on the uniform and no one would be the wiser. Underneath the clothing you could be almost baking in solidified clay, Thing-like. But, as I said, no one would have the faintest idea. (At least until they spotted the sediment dusting the floor where you stood as the clay dried.) But today I needed a shower. I did. Unfortunately I was covered from head to foot in a combination of God’s own earth and whatever fertiliser the caretaker had been spreading on it !
So I kept out of the way till the others grew bored of aquaplaning and decided to start kicking a football about instead.
This was my cue to get in the shower and NOT get involved in the ball kicking.
So there I am washing the effluent out of my hair, nostrils and armpits, when the ball bounces into the shower through one of the open ends. Tantalisingly, it hung at about knee height - right in front of me. I defy anyone who has ever kicked a ball in anger to be able to resist the opportunity of volleying it as far and as hard as you possibly can - in that situation.
And I did. Christ I DID !! Sweet as a nut. I connected with my unshod foot and cracked that ball better than any Pele, Charlton or Ronaldo..
The next 3 seconds or so took around 5 minutes to evolve. I watched open-mouthed as the ball bent perfectly round the open shower-end. I bent the bastard like Beckham. My chin dropped to the floor as that ball inexorably motored towards the windows that ran the full length of the wall at around 8 feet off the ground.
“Oh for f*ck’s sake !!!” It almost went straight through the window. But, content just to smash it, the ball fell back to the floor. A second of shocked silence, then the entire place erupted into a crescendo of spotty adolescents pointing, jeering and laughing. “Bugger ! I’ll not get away with this.” Too many witnesses you see. Too many to keep ‘em all quiet. Too many that weren’t exactly members of my fan club anyhow. Not that I was unpopular, far from it. I made and kept some good mates at school. But the dynamics of school life ensured that, eventually, someone would ‘sing like a bird’.
Desperate times demand desperate measures and my solution was desperate indeed.
I would own up. I would tell them it was me. I did it ! That smashed window was my fault. Bravely I would go to the gym teacher and admit all !
I just wouldn’t tell them I did it kicking a ball that’s all ! I mean, sod that !
Remember, these were the days when punishment WAS punishment. They used to hit us with canes. Sticks. Hands, shoes, huge, weighty tomes.....anything they could get their hands on. You know - ‘Spare the Rod’ !!
As my plan developed, I became increasingly confident. This was copper-bottomed, gold-plated genius. Leftfield, blue sky thinking ! I was so proud !
My idea was to tell them I was closing the window on account of the freezing cold weather. As I was engaged in this activity, the high winds, (no lies there, it WAS extremely windy), blew the window shut......and the force smashed it as it closed.
Heh Heh.......beautiful.
So, off I went in search of authority – someone I could spill the beans to. It took me at least quarter of an hour before I chanced upon the Deputy Headmaster. Harry Travis was a strange amalgam of a human. Upright – as you’d expect, deputy head of a grammar after all – but somehow vulnerable. We always knew it, even as 1st formers. We could sense that he didn’t have the absolute authority of the Head and, moreover, some of the bog-standard teaching staff were more Gestapo-like than Harry.
His nickname, for some reason that I don’t think any of us knew, was Harry Bogg. Strangely it was always spelt Bogg, not Bog. I suspect it was handed down from some earlier 4B, 3C or 2A. As far as I recall he wasn’t christened by any of my contemporaries. No doubt if I posted a request for info on friendsreunited I might find the answer. But I digress.
I confessed to Harry. He was delighted. I – being an uncharitable oik from 3c – immediately reasoned he was just happy because he had a child to beat. But I was wrong. Harry Bogg was so impressed that I’d had the courage, the nerve, the honesty to come forward and admit to my accident that he took me to see the Headmaster.
Skinhead (aka The Headmaster) was also suitably impressed. The pair of them stood there in the Head’s study praising me like they were the media in general and I was David Beckham. Phrases were bandied about: “proud of you”, “this shows character”, “backbone”, “Empire” and Christ knows what else.
After a suitable amount of time - and praise, it was decided I would take Harry to the scene of the crime. I can remember that walk. “Thank God for that. They fell for it. Whoa am I good ? Or am I good ? Phew! “
I can remember actually walking into the changing rooms.
I can remember looking up at the broken window before Harry could’ve done. After all, he didn’t know where it was, did he ?
I can remember the cold horror of realising that not all the windows opened.
I can remember zooming in on ‘my window’. It didn’t open. The wind couldn’t have blown this shut – it was fixed, and had been since the jolly glazier chap first fixed it.
Alibi blown out of the water. Newly acquired reputation shot to buggery. Life = ‘hell from now on !’
Is there a moral here you ask ? Yes there is.
Next time you find yourself in a position where you have to lie through your hind teeth. Do some basic research BEFORE you open your mouth. ESPECIALLY in times of warfare.
I was just reading my blog about the Peter Green concert and noticed I'd mentioned "Little Willie John". Bluesman from the early 50s - I think. This got me to thinking: "Little Willie John" ? Was he just short, or did he indeed have a little willy ? A willy that was actually that small, it necessitated a soubriquet that drew attention to the fact ! Possibly in order to warn women (or men) that: he may have fired you up with 'The Devil's Music', but, by God you're gonna be mightily disappointed later.
I think if anyone knows the answer to this it would be Paul Gambacini or, at a pinch, John Peel.
Or even. perhaps, Mrs Little Willie John !
I think if anyone knows the answer to this it would be Paul Gambacini or, at a pinch, John Peel.
Or even. perhaps, Mrs Little Willie John !
Well – here’s a turn up for the books. The Kabul-liberating, burqua-clad John Simpson has admitted that he got it seriously wrong about how long the current hostilities would drag on. Speaking on BBC 5Live this morning he confessed that he thought it would be over by now.
He reasoned that the superior weaponry of the ‘coalition’, allied to the low morale and absolute hatred of all things Saddam on the part of the Iraqi population would have finished off the regime by now.
Well done that man ! Occupied Country, at least, salutes you. Does anyone know of any other journalist, politician, commentator or even colleague who would so readily admit to.....errr.....lack of judgement....over confidence......I don’t really know what phrase best sums up Mr Simpson’s candour.
Nonetheless, congratulations John – I’ve always liked you even though I think your books are a bit turgid.
Looks like the blogger site’s been down. I’ve actually typed this up in Word which gives me the option of spell-checking so this entry, at least, should be error free. Strange the way the brain overtakes the fingers and you end up thinking words but not actually typing them. To compound this, when you read back what you’ve written, your brain confuses you into thinking the words are actually there. Well sometimes it does.......or is it just me ???
Joy of joys !!! A comment has appeared from the Frozen North. I must admit to once being extremely upset at being called a Southerner in a bar in Nairn. But I guess that being referred to as a ‘Northern Monkey’ by anyone who lives south of Watford has made it hard for me to accept that – according to some – I too am Southern !!! Anyway thanks for your kind words Peter. Yours was the first Blog that ever caught my attention. Supremely readable, humorous and honest. I know that sometimes you get a little pissed off, but please keep it up.
I sometimes use this PC to record music on using a fabulously cheap piece of software called ntrack. If anyone redaing this is remotely interested in using the PC for this type of activity then this is the program for you. If anyone would like to listen, I've added a link at the side. (Eeeee am gerring gud at this html mallarkey am't a ?)
He reasoned that the superior weaponry of the ‘coalition’, allied to the low morale and absolute hatred of all things Saddam on the part of the Iraqi population would have finished off the regime by now.
Well done that man ! Occupied Country, at least, salutes you. Does anyone know of any other journalist, politician, commentator or even colleague who would so readily admit to.....errr.....lack of judgement....over confidence......I don’t really know what phrase best sums up Mr Simpson’s candour.
Nonetheless, congratulations John – I’ve always liked you even though I think your books are a bit turgid.
Looks like the blogger site’s been down. I’ve actually typed this up in Word which gives me the option of spell-checking so this entry, at least, should be error free. Strange the way the brain overtakes the fingers and you end up thinking words but not actually typing them. To compound this, when you read back what you’ve written, your brain confuses you into thinking the words are actually there. Well sometimes it does.......or is it just me ???
Joy of joys !!! A comment has appeared from the Frozen North. I must admit to once being extremely upset at being called a Southerner in a bar in Nairn. But I guess that being referred to as a ‘Northern Monkey’ by anyone who lives south of Watford has made it hard for me to accept that – according to some – I too am Southern !!! Anyway thanks for your kind words Peter. Yours was the first Blog that ever caught my attention. Supremely readable, humorous and honest. I know that sometimes you get a little pissed off, but please keep it up.
I sometimes use this PC to record music on using a fabulously cheap piece of software called ntrack. If anyone redaing this is remotely interested in using the PC for this type of activity then this is the program for you. If anyone would like to listen, I've added a link at the side. (Eeeee am gerring gud at this html mallarkey am't a ?)
Saturday, March 29, 2003
Oh no...things might go a little quiet on here. I've just got a copy of Championship Manager 4 - hot off the press. This is, without a doubt, the greatest football amangement game EVER invented. Can't wait - C'mon City !!!! Bye for now !
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