DUFF & NONSENSE!

This, that and the other

It's 8.45 as I write this and I am grimly aware of a long list of outstanding jobs to be done - beginning with my strip of grass in the Churchyard which, because of all that 'global warming' coming down as solid rain, I have not cut for over a month!  It is now "as high as an elephant's eye" and I just know it's going to be a long and tiring job .  Then there is the post-holiday car to be cleaned, followed by the garage to be cleared out and rubbish taken to the tip, and the garden, titchy though it be, has produced some of the most exotic weeds I have ever seen.  I may never go away again!

In my preceding post I moaned about the murder of language at the hands of politicians who say 'black' when they mean 'white' and vice versa.  This morning I heard extracts from various pols at the NATO meeting explaining how and why they had achieved absolute agreement on future planning for Afghanistan, no doubt about it, not a single dissenting voice, honestly, cross my heart and wish to die, no, really  . . . !  It was ever thus but how one longs for, say, the 18th century where you didn't have to watch and listen to the lying liars.  I found myself muttering , "Peace in our time, then, is it?"

My Spanish e-pal, Ortega, responded to the poke in the ribs I gave him during my piece on white asparagus.  He came up with a novel suggestion for cooking the stuff.  You peel it and then seal it in a bag which you place in  boiling water.  Apparently, that conserves the flavour but the drawback is that the water is of no use for making soup afterwards.  I have spoken to the 'Memsahib' about cooking details.  Apparently you must peel from about an inch down from the base of the 'flower' to the end of the stalk.  Boil the water and add some salt, then chuck the peeled asparagus in for about ten minutes.  I could not pin her down to an exact time, she just said, in that irritating way that women have, 'until it's cooked'!  My favourite way to eat it is with new potatoes and pork schnitzels plus, of course, a large dollop of hollandaise sauce.

Sometimes sport reaches the parts other entertainments cannot.  I am not a dedicated 'footie' fan, in fact, I am the very worst sort of fan, the dilletante type who only bothers to watch if it is, so to speak, a 'celebrity' match.  Thus, I did watch Chelsea play Bayern Munich on Saturday and like all the very best sporting events the team that 'deserved' to win - lost!  I write 'deserved' because Bayern had far more chances during their almost non-stop attacks than Chelsea but the aim of the game, so to speak, is to put the ball in the net and that they failed to do despite several opportunities, so it went to the lottery of penalties.  Mind you, there was some delicious Schadenfreude to be enjoyed at the expense of the German goalkeeper who had the sort of tall, blonde, arrogant look of the sort of German one normally expects to see sticking out of the turret of a Mk. III Panzer demanding to know the way to Warsaw! 

Very unfair, I know, because he's probably a very nice chap.  Still, it was good to see him picking the ball out of the back of his own net, particularly as it was situated at the Bayern end of the stadium right in front of the massed ranks of their fans.  Shame!

Well, I can't put it off any longer - the Churchyard calls!

 

Bloody, +@@#ing, #~^+ing footie!

Like millions of other morons I settled down last  night to watch the return match between Barcelona and Chelsea  Within five minutes one of the Chelsea defenders had to be substituted because of injury, then 'Barca' scored a goal, then John Terry, the captain, behaved like an inbred thug and was sent off, and then 'Barca' scored again and we were only 30 minutes into the game!  At this point I thought to myself, this is going to be a massacre from which any one of even minimal sensitivity should avert their gaze - and so I switched channels.  A couple of hours later I checked the news and heard that Mesi, currently the greatest footballer in the world, had missed a penalty and that Chelsea, with only 10 men, had evened the score to 2-all and thereby earned their place in the final!  In other words, I had missed perhaps one of the greatest footie matches of all time.  I then did a fair imitation of John Terry until the 'Memsahib' gave me a red card and sent me to bed!

As a consolation I did watch another recorded episode of Justified, a new, well, new to me, series on the somewhat obscure Channel 5 USA.  I have watched several episodes and I still haven't a clue what's going on but - it is brilliant!  Mostly it is brilliant for the language.  It is set in Kentucky and they all speak the way my regular commenter, JK, writes!  However, they do it in the most rich and elegant English I have ever heard on an American series.  I remember the great Shakespearean scholar, John Barton, once saying that American-English was closer to Shakespeare's than current modern Anglo-English.  Whatever, the characters in this story, mostly either cops or robbers, deliver long, complex and beautifully composed sentences that are a pleasure to listen to, er, even if the obscenity count is fairly high.  I cannot discover who writes the scripts but he or she deserves a prize.  Part of the unexpected pleasure is that these elegant sentences flow from the mouths of some truly hideous-looking hillbillies and the actors are good enough to relish the words without losing their characters.  Finally, the series has a superb villain, Robert Quarles, played by Neil MacDonough who manages to scare me even through a TV screen!  If I tell you that it is based on stories by Elmore Leonard then fellow afficianados of 'pulp fiction' will know to expect quality.  Try it - it doesn't matter if you join it halfway through, I've watched four episodes and I still don't understand the plot - but I love it!

 

The Sunday Rumble 15:4:12

I haven't indulged in a Sunday rumble for some time.  For newcomers, what happens is that instead of droning on and on, and then on for a bit more, on one subject, I sit here scratching myself and emitting short burps in different directions on different subjects.

Titanic RIP:  And, boy oh boy, do I mean REST in peace!  I don't know about you but I am sick to death of all this Titanic stuff, there seems to be no end to it.  Of course, there are no really decent wars or famines going on at the moment and so the MSM, bless their smelly socks, have nothing else to waste their ink or their running time on.  Of course, it's worth a pause and a quick thought or three but not his constant ghoulish obsession.

Darlings, I was wonderful!  I know you have all been on tenterhooks wanting to know how my rehearsals went for the important, nay, critical, role of Abhorson in Shakespeare's wonderful play Ye Olde Mysterie of Abhorson, ooops, Measure for Measure.  I think I can say with all modesty that I was a tremendous success.  The rest of the cast, including my understudy, who have been rehearsing the play for some time now were left in stunned silence at the end of my two scenes and one was heard to mutter, "Darling, wonderful isn't the word!"  Of course, it remains a mystery to me as to why the Bard in all his wisdom chose to give quite so many scenes to that bloody nun and Duke but that's the problem with writers, they never listen to actors!

China again - but no politics:  I missed the first half of the Chinese Grand Prix because I was swimming - oh, by the way, have I mentioned that I - oh, right - I have - fine, move on then, shall I? - anyway, I caught the last half and it was the best F1 race I hace seen for some time.  Many moons ago, in part of my rickety-rackety life, I was involved with one of the F1 teams and spent some time following 'the circus' round Europe.  As a man whose interest in cars has always rested somewhere on the minus scale I was surprised to find myself rather hooked on it.  However, like a lot of sports, you really do need to be there.  The sheer brute power of those machines can only be appreciated up close and personal, as it were.  Even so, today's race was terrific.  I think only one driver fell out and the remainder were really racing - at one stage there were three cars side by side hurtling towards a corner - exciting stuff and the fact that no-one was shunted off is a magnificent tribute to the skill of the drivers.  If you can catch a late recording of the race, watch it!  One oddity, I noticed, was the very low turnout of spectators.  I can't believe the Chinese are not interested.  Perhaps the organisers priced it too high, or perhaps times are beginning to get hard in China.

Prize-winning humbuggery:  I am grateful to my e-pal, Dom, who responded to my post on just one of the reasons why Obama and his wrecking crew need to go.  I reported, with glee, the tale of that intrepid investigator, James O'Keefe, who managed to waltz in to a voting office and obtain Attorney-General John Holder's voting ballot because, in line with government policy, no ID was required. All American Left-wing opinion and organisations are resolutely opposed to making voter ID a requirement and you do not need to be Brain of America to guess why.  Anyway, Dom sent me a film from the admirable PJTV who despatched reporters to various bastions of liberal organisations including, of course, John Holder's department and none were permitted to enter without proof of identity.  Watch the film - but have a sick-bucket to hand!

Will 'Dim Dave' make it to the next election?  All prime ministers go through a period of squalls and showers but usually they are confined to the perceived differences between them and their electorate.  The difference today is that Cameron is losing, at an accelerating rate, the support of his own backbenchers and his party workers.  They are catching up with what this erudite blog has been telling them for the last two years, that Cameron simply isn't very bright.  He's an Old Etonian twit with absolutely no political philosophy - and not only do I doubt he would understand what that meant, I doubt he could even spell it!  According to various reports, which began as whispers but are now being spoken out loud, he disdains the so-called 'worker bees' who keep the Tory party running in the country and surrounds himself with ex-public schoolboys of his own ilk.  He has never run anything in his life - and it's beginning to show.  So I ask, will he make it to the next election?  And if he's knifed in the back, who will play Brutus? 

A deadly beauty:  In the history of warfare was there ever a more beautiful but deadly weapon designed than the Vickers Supermarine Spitfire?  Even to today it still looks lethal. 

I am thrilled that we have cut a deal with the Burmese government to extract the twenty Spitfires which were buried there at the end of WWII.  If they can be restored they will be worth a fortune and what I hope is that the government will sell off some of them to provide a trust fund to keep, say, three of them in Britain as a heritage project.  If 'Dim Dave' does that I will forgive him his many sins!

 

The view from the dugout

As you all know, this blog spares no effort to keep you bang up to date with all the news even, or especially, 'footie' news.  Hence, I can report today from the dugout at Manchester United, which I am sharing with a rather bad-tempered old Scotch git, that there is tremendously bad news for fans of the 'reds'.  As I reported some time ago, Mr. Wayne Rooney, the star of the team, spent several zillion pounds in a vain effort (pun intended!) to hide his premature baldness.  However, today, as I sit here at the edge of the pitch - oh alright then, on the edge of my favourite armchair in my living room - I can report that there are new signs of further baldness appearing.  Emergency applications of 'Growmore' are obviously required.  This sad development could have traumatic effects on both the team as well as Mr. Rooney - and the gum-chewing old Scotsman looks even more ferociously bad-tempered than usual!

What was that?  What about the match, did you ask?  I don't know!  After 20 minutes the ref gave someone a red card so the whole thing was ruined.  And anyway, I'm off out for a late lunch at my favourite pub restaurant which serves the best beef - ever!  And, no, I am not prepared to disclose the name of it even under water-boarding - although a few crisp 'readies' in the usual brown envelope might change my mind.

'Arry: 7 (lucky for some!); Inland Revenue: nil (as usual!)

My title will be even more incomprehensible to my foreign readers than usual and I apologise.  This blog prides itself on its international flavour but occasionally parochial village-pump matters loom large.  For the benefit of the uninitiated, "'Arry" is Harry Redknapp, currently the manager of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, a 'right gor blimey' East Ender, beloved by the nation irrespective of whether or not they be 'footie' fans. 

Five years ago it was brought to the attention of our less-than-beloved tax authorities, Her Majesty's Inland Revenue and Customs (HMRIC), that our 'Arry 'ad (oooops, sorry, it's difficult to avoid using 'Arry's, I mean Harry's, estuary English) . . . our Harry had over a hundred grand in a bank account in Monaco, well, as you do!  Anyway, these pecksniffs and upstarts (and probable Arsenal fans, too!) from HMIRC reckoned 'Arry was trying to dodge paying his tax - I know, I know, such impudence!  Anyway, this case, which in actual lost tax terms was worth about £60k went on and on and on for five years costing, I guess, several million quid.  Eventually, it ended up in court and today, as anyone could have told them years ago, a jury cleared our 'Arry of all wrong doing.  Quite apart from the fact that our 'Arry is beyond all doubt a man of utmost honesty and rectitude, even if theoretically you caught him in broad daylight robbing his local newsagent, no jury in England would ever find him guilty of anything!  Everyone in England, with the exception of the brain-dead morons in HMIRC who probably play rugby, hence their brain damage, loves our 'Arry.

 

An historical sporting fragment

I love some of the minutae of history, particularly when it concerns an event which you think you know about but, jogged into looking a little harder, you realise you had it wrong all the time.  Thus, I am obliged to Der Spiegel for raising the subject of Jesse Owens and the 'Hitler Olympics'.

Provoked by their article I went to Wiki to brush up my knowledge of this amazing athlete.  I had not realised that he won four gold medals at the 1936 games, the 100m and 200m sprints, the long jump and the 400m relay.  It was the long jump that caused the controversy because in that his closest rival was Luz Long (at right in the photo), an archetypal Aryan and exactly the sort of man Hitler expected to easily beat a 'subhuman black'.  To Hitler's intense irritation Owens won on the very last jump and to his eternal credit, Luz Long immediately approached him, offered his congratulations and embraced him - an act which earned him a reprimand from Rudolph Hess.  Subsequent talk of an eternal friendship between the two men is probably exaggerated and in any event Long was later killed whilst fighting in Sicily.

Needless to say, there is an irony of the most bitter and sardonic sort in the life story of Jesse Owens.  In Berlin he was free to eat and drink and stay in hotels with whites but back in America it was altogether different.  According to Wiki:

After a New York City ticker-tape parade of Fifth Avenue in his honor, Owens had to ride the freight elevator at the Waldorf-Astoria to reach the reception honoring him.^[4

And there is an even greater irony to be chewed upon and enjoyed - sort of - in the fact that whilst Owens received a commemorative signed photograph from Hitler, he didn't even get a 'kiss my arse' from that leading 'brotherhood of man', democrat socialist of his day, President Roosevelt, or his successor, Harry Truman.  It was only in 1955 that President Eisenhower, a Republican, bestowed the first national honour on Owens.  (To be fair to the 'Great Republic', I do think the way it gradually divested itself of its public colour prejudice is one of its very greatest achievements.)

Owens's subsequent life was one of several ups followed by several downs including bankruptcy and a conviction for tax evasion.  However, late in life the US government appointed him as a Goodwill Ambassador and he ended his life in reasonable financial comfort.  Perhaps the most bitter of all the ironies in his life is that after being a smoker for 35 years he finally died at the age of 66 of lung cancer!

 

Sports report from a Hot Air Fanatic

Courtesy of m' Lord Bishop Hill comes this 'headline' from a HAF sports reporter referring to yesterday's Shlock-Horror result in which, for once, 'Fergie' did not look as though he had swallowed a wasp but an entire nest of them:

Newcastle did not beat Manchester United today, because the long term trend is for Manchester United to beat Newcastle.

Exactly, and in football as in climate who could argue with that?!

Whatever happened to restraint?

Sometime during the night as I lay listening to the radio there was a report on a current fracas in the world of snooker.  I should make clear immediately that snooker barely impinges on my consciousness but even so this had wider implications.  Apparently, there is a rift between some of the traditionalists and the new, modern, 'with it whizzeroo' who runs the game these days.  He, apparently, wants to 'jazz' the whole thing up with quicker games and much more audience participation (dread words!)   Actually, I do have fond memories of years ago when snooker first made it on to television and I must say it was highlyenjoyable.  The working-class lads who rose from the smokey billiard halls of their local towns always dressed and behaved like gentlemen.  The audience maintained a reverential silence between shots and then applauded enthusiastically as a particularly tricky shot was successful.  It was quiet, it was restrained, it was at times intensely exciting, and I enjoyed it immensely.  Now, apparently, we are to have audiences whooping and hollering, American style, with time-limited games, or something of that nature.

It reminded me of other games which have succumbed to the drunks, the out-of-season 'footie' fans, the screeching 'wimmin' and the general 'X-Factor' crowd.  Cricket, for example.  I remember years ago a joke on The Goon Show (I think) when the announcer came on with his BBC voice and said "Now we take you over to Lords for news of the cricket" and all you could hear were some gentle snores.  I also remember the occasional County match at Guildford where four men and a dog was considered a big turnout for a 4-day County match.  Since moving down here to the south west I have been tempted to try Taunton for a County match but the baying mob I have seen on the 'telly' at the one-day 'rounders' match they seem to play these days has quite put me off.

In a different field, I recall the awards ceremonies that were held every year in the south west edge of London where my theatre group was located.  When they first began it was all very 'black tie', polite, pleasant and restrained.  The last one I went to a few years back was ghastly as supporters of this or that nominee or prize winner stood up and started whistling and screeching and whooping and hollering.  I never went to another one!

Oh dear, yes, I know, I know, I'm sounding like a boring old fart but the fact is that I yearn for that old British, or to be precise, English, restraint.  Where the hell did it go?

 

Talking of 'grunt-snufflers' brings me to 'the hearties'

This post will be even more incomprehensible than usual to my non-Brit readers and frankly I am too grumpy this morning to explain the finer points of 'rugger-buggery' and 'footie' so you you will just have to do your best. 

What is it about 'hearties', or sportsmen and their fanatical followers, that they all appear to possess a low brain-cell count?  Is it, perhaps, in-breeding, for example, 'rugger-buggers' tend to hit it off with former hockey team gals, or, netball captains just love 'footie' players?  I don't know but my regular morning briefings provided, mostly, by 'TOOOOORKSPOOOOORT' have convinced me that all 'hearties' are of the same intelligence level as the 'nose-pickers' demonstrating outside the Stock Exchange.

Take for example, the brainless Welsh oaf who picked up a French 'rugger-bugger' and dumped him head down in front of the referee.  For those unfamiliar with the rules of rugby let me inform you that picking up an opponent and dumping him head first into the ground is frowned upon in the rules on account of the possibility, verging on probability, that it will result in a paraplegic rugby player.  I have seen countless re-runs of the film showing this incident and it is beyond argument that the Welsh thickoe picked the Frenchman up and then dropped him head down and only the fact that the equally thick Frenchman had just enough wit to tuck his head in averted what could have been a personal and lifetime tragedy.  Ever since, I have lost count of the number of 'hearties', not all of them Welsh, who have 'grunt-snuffled' something along the lines of 'it should only have been a yellow card not a red card and a sending off'.  The miscreant has now been given a three week ban!  He should have been thrown out of the game of rugby for life! 

And talking of red cards brings me to Neanderthal man, himself, the ineffably thick, Wayne Rooney.  According to all the 'footie' experts his genius at kicking a ball is England's only hope of progressing in the forthcoming European championship.  So what does this head-banging mouth-breather do in the last match before the tournament begins?  Hustled off the ball by a quicker thinking, quicker moving opponent who runs past him, he deliberately kicks the back of the man's legs.  Instant red card and, before you can say "nous détestons les Anglais" the Euro-footie crooks authorities slap a three-match ban on poor little Wayne, who, according to all the experts, was only showing a bit of frustration!  These same experts all moaned and groaned to the effect that it was far too harsh and that such a long ban on Rooney's presence in the England team would probably doom the English team to an early departure from the contest.  No-one asked whether, given Rooney's obviously low intelligence level - he has previous in this regard - the manager should not have given him a personal talking-to prior to the match warning him that the Euro-footie apparatchiks would be all over him if he made one mistake.  Of course, that might not have been possible given that the the Football Association, a group of such incredible stupidity that they make Parliament look intelligent, actually chose an Italian who cannot speak English to be the manager.  Well, to be honest he has a few words but given that Rooney only speaks 'Scouse' which is mostly indecipherable to other Englishmen let alone Italians, the chances of either comunicating with the other are vanishingly tiny.

Now the expert 'hearties' are all in a tizz as to whether or not 'our Wayne' should be taken to the competition if he is unable to play in the first three matches.  With the blythe optimism of the first wave out of the trenches to cross the mud at the Somme, they assume that England will actually get past the opening three matches to reach the quarter finals.  Hello, hello, Earth to Moonship, remember South Africa when we were sent packing early - and that was with 'our Wayne' actually playing! 

You may wonder why I am wasting my time - and yours - bitching on about sport in such a bad-tempered way?  Am I not in danger of taking it all too seriously when anyone with more than three brain cells knows it is entirely frivolous?  Well, of course, you are right but both my shoulders and my groin are hurting today and this post should be looked upon as displacement therapy.

 

Honestly, it couldn't happen to a nicer Russian zillionaire!

Am I jealous of Roman Abramovich?  Of course not.  Do I begrudge him his gazillions?  Certainly not, most of it was nicked earned off the Russians and people have been stealing earning from them for centuries so why should I care?  Do I lust after the various gorgeous wives and girlfriends he has enjoyed?  Absolutely not, apart from anything else the 'Memsahib' would kill me if I did.  Am I irritated everytime he buys an even bigger more luxurious yacht for the sort of money that would replace the two carriers 'Dave' gave away?  I deny it absolutely.  So why, this afternoon, did I enjoy one of the most delirious bouts of utterly delicious schadenfreude that I have had since Gordon Brown was drummed out of office? 

I will tell you but first, for the sake of my foreign e-pals, I should explain that Abramovich is one of those Russian oligarchs who seems to have partly based himself in the UK.  I am delighted with that for the very reasons I explained in my previous post but, on the other hand, I would advise Her Maj to count the spoons fairly regularly!  Anyway, despite being an obviously clever and dead crafty operator, 'Comrade' Abramovich is also a total prat because he is consumed with a passion for 'footie'.  Now, you only have to watch the pictures from the slowly moving camera that trails along the terraces filming the crowd at any 'footie' match to see that the average brain cell count for 'footie' fanatics is probably somewhere between plankton and amoebas.  Well, Abramovich is one of those, except that instead of standing on the terraces eating a third-rate gristle pie, he is swilling 'Dom Pom' in the biggest, most luxurious box in the entire stadium  - because he owns the bloody thing - outright!  The club is called Chelsea and, to be fair, it has done better than it has ever done since he owned it, winning the English championship three times in the last six years.  But, and here's the rub, or perhaps, here's the itch and poor little Roman can't stop scratching it, he knows that the only thing that really counts is winning the European championship, and that, Chelsea consistently fail to do which is why a steady stream of managers come and go - usually before they have unpacked their bags!

I gather that like most tycoons, 'Roman the Terrible' is surrounded by various creepy-crawlies who do his bidding, or what they think will be his bidding.  Hence, the first skill required by any manager is best described as 'running interference' as they try to fend off sundry suits from sticking their ignorant noses into what is not their concern.  However, when it comes to interference, Roman is definitely a hands-on boss.  Consequently, last year, when Chelsea were floundering somewhat, he stepped in and, over the head of his manager, bought a centre forward called Fernando Torres from Liverpool whose two American owners were only too pleased to take the money, suffering as they were, no doubt, with a severe case of Obamanomics!  Now all the experts (honesty rather than modesty forbids that I include myself in that term but I listen to experts constantly on ''TOOORKSPOOOORT' radio) had noticed a sharp drop in form from the unfortunate Torres probably due to a series of hamstring operations he had suffered.  However, with the courage of his convictions, which far exceeded his knowledge of the game, our lad Roman steamed in and made the Yanks an offer they could not refuse. 

From then until today, Torres has scored only one goal!

Today, I watched a crucial match between Chelsea and the legendary Manchester United, run by their wily but wasp-chewing manager, Sir Alex Ferguson.  Chelsea lost 3-1.  It is true that today Torres succeeded in doubling his total scoring record for Chelsea with a rather nifty goal.  However, later in the match when a second goal would have lifted his team and given them a chance for at least a score draw, he received a perfect pass through the centre.  He skipped past a defender and there was no-one between him and the goal except the keeper and with a neat piece of footwork he side-stepped him and now there was an empty goal in front of him.  He missed!

Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you.  'Roman the Imbecile' paid the Yanks £50 million for him.  That's £50,000,000, or, if you prefer, £25m per goal.

Oh, my God, I wept, honestly I did, I wept . . . er, with laughter, of course.

 

Rooney's ropy rug restrains him!

In keeping with the old-established tradition of this blog I give you yet another incomprehensible title to a post complete with the sort of first rate alliteration you have grown to appreciate here at D&N - er, you do appreciate it, don't you?  Good!  Perhaps some of my English readers will pick up my allusion but happily it will be quite beyond my foreign readers who, and one feels their pain, are unable to watch English Premier League 'footie'. 

Today, I watched (thanks, 'Rupe'!) the Charity Shield match (or whatever they call it these days) which is normally classed as a 'friendly' but on this occasion, given that it was between the two Manchester teams, United and City, it was anything but friendly.  For those who consider ignorance of all 'footie' matters to be bliss, let me tell you that United are the old warriors of our national game.  Led by the redoubtable Sir Alex 'the red-nosed, wasp-chewing' Ferguson, this team seems to go on and on and on under his canny leadership. 

 Photo from TalkSport

Last year's team was considered by the experts to be short of top rate and certainly not up at the level of the supreme teams of yesteryear - and yet they still won the Premiership!  It's true that they lost the European championship to Barcelona but even so, they still made it to the final.

 The other half of Manchester is comprised of the City team, for years the poor relations, looked on with pitying contempt by the United fans.  But two or three years ago they found a fairy godmother in the form of some Arab sheik with 'gazillions' of oil money and, like so many rich, shrewd men, totally besotted with 'footie'.  He bought the team and has poured money into it as fast as the oil revenues have poured into his coffers.  In terms of money spent on players, City is far and away the richest team on the planet.  But of course, having a dressing-room full of the most brilliant players money can buy does not a championship team make!  The proof of that was demonstrated today when, in the first half, United had the run of the game but went in a surprising two-nil down at half-time.  In the second half, however, United inexorably turned the screw, scoring once, twice and then, finally, a third time to win the game.  And this is with a team which had a judicious mixture of old, tried and tested United players laced with a bubbling mix of youngsters - many of them British (hoorah!) - all of whom cost a fraction of City's priceless jewels.

I really do think that the old 'wasp-chewer' has done it again.  I think this new, young United side has the makings of becoming one of the great Manchester United sides of all time.  (And, coming from me with my microscopic knowledge of the game, if that doesn't see them relegated next year, nothing will!)  Of course, and to explain my heading (no pun intended), all eyes were on Wayne Rooney's new 'rug'.  As all true 'footie' fans do know, Wayne's hair is, shall we say, thin - no, not thin, let's face it, he was well on his way to being a slap head!  But, no doubt under the instructions of dear Coleen, his wife, he has undergone a 'stitch-up' in which, apparently, they actually weave a new rug onto your bald bonce!  Courtesy of The Mail I can show you this photo. 

I'm sure the weavers did a good job, after all, wasn't weaving one of the mainstay industries of Manchester back in the 19th century?  But alas, when you are born as ugly as 'our Wayne' you could slap some mink fur on his napper and he still isn't going to give George Clooney any sleepless nights!  Actually, today his rug had grown a bit and it did look better than this photo of a few months ago.  Even so, he didn't play particularly well today and one wonders if perhaps the growth of new hair has sapped his strength.

Anyway, next week the season starts again, and once again the 'Memsahib' and I will inhabit separate rooms several evenings a week.

 

Very 'Worthy Oriental Gentlemen', all of them!

I refer to the Indian cricket team who yesterday reminded all of us English that the spirit of cricket is alive and well even if nowadays it lives only in India.  Of course, I risk censure from the 'sillies' who will pounce upon the oft-used acronym in my title, WOG, and accuse me of racism.  There's no helping such bigots but just let me stress that I use the term 'Worthy Oriental Gentlemen' in its exact and precise meaning with emphasis as indicated by my italics.

For the benfit of my foreign readers let me explain that in yesterday's Test match, one of our English batsmen made a silly but easily committed mistake.  Off the last ball before tea, his partner hit the ball towards the boundary and to all intents and purposes it crossed the line.  Only later TV footage showed that a diving Indian fielder had accidentally blocked it with his flailing leg in his effort to stop the ball.  He, himself, thought the ball had crossed the line and tossed it back casually to his team-mates at the wicket.  Meanwhile, one of the English batsman, thinking the ball was dead, simply shouldered his bat, left his crease and strolled off with his partner for tea.  But the ball was not dead and one of the Indian cricketers tapped the bails off and appealed for an 'out'.  Much huffin' and puffin' from the umpires who, after examination of the TV record, upheld the appeal and the batsman was given 'out'.  Cue massive booing from the crowd as the Indians left the field.  During the interval a polite request from the English coach and captain was considered by the whole Indian team and they decided to withdraw their appeal so that the batsman could continue to play.  The boos which greeted the Indian team as they returned to the field withered into embarrassed silence when the original batsmen was seen to return to the wicket.

The chances of an English team, consisting as it appears to do of mostly 'yobs' and 'grunts', behaving with a similar spirit of sportsmanship are vanishingly tiny.  As for the Australians, they would bust a gut laughing at the very idea!  Personally, I cannot remember the last time I heard such excellently good news on the sporting front for years.  So well done the WOGs who might lose the match but will have won the spirit of the game.

Now, there is only one way to finish this post, with a nice dollop of Sir Henry John Newbolt, 6 June 1862 – 19 April 1938:

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night

Ten to make and the match to win

A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

An hour to play, and the last man in.

And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat.

Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,

But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote

"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red -

Red with the wreck of a square that broke

The gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed its banks,

And England's far, and Honour a name,

But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks -

"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

This is the word that year by year,

While in her place the school is set,

Every one of her sons must hear,

And none that hears it dare forget.

This they all with a joyful mind

Bear through life like a torch in flame,

And falling fling to the host behind -

"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

I shall be cheering for India during the remainder of this Test series!

 

And another thing, 'Dave', about my Happiness Index . . .

On this, the first day of a twelve month countdown to the £9bn (and counting) Olympics could you and your minions please - STFU!  Every time I am reminded of that £9bn my Happiness Index sinks faster than the Titanic.  In fact, if you really want to know, it reaches the 'I Hate Those Sodding Politicians Trying To Bribe Me With Bread And Circuses With My Own Money And I'll Never Vote For Any Of Them Ever Again' level.  In fact, the next step in my spiralling un-Happiness Index is a resort to direct action.  I will personally lead tens of thousands of people up to Stonehenge where I will organise a mass rain dance which will result next year in the wettest August since records began.  We will be praying in aid of huge winds which, if there is a God, will blow out that wretched Olympic torch.  I will be making a personal appeal to my very dear friend Bob Crow (sorry, what did you say?) of the RMT Union and I feel sure that he will look kindly on my suggestion that he brings London transport to a complete halt, and in return I will never be rude about him earning gazzillions whilst living in a council house and ignoring the queue of poor people on the waiting list - it's the least he deserves!  I had planned to infiltrate my man into the drug testing organisation to spike all the test samples but I have it on very good authority that such a task is unnecessary these days, there being so many weird substances floating around those samples that the operators have to wear bio-nuclear suits!  My other good mate, 'Arfur' Daly, is poised to flood the country with phoney tickets which, with a bit of luck, will cause riots at the turnstiles.

Still, 'Dave', on the up-side, and I know you care deeply, I can tell you that if all that comes off according to plan, my Happiness Index will go through the roof.  In the meantime, remember this from another 'Grumpy Old Man':

I will do such things,

What they are yet I know not; but they shall be

The terrors of the earth.      

                                                                         

The 'Torpor de France'

Is there any sport more utterly, completely, eye-stabbingly tedious than the Tour de France?  Swimming comes close because, although it is a race, you can't really see the racers only their flailing arms.  Darts is utterly yawn-inducing, but then, I don't really think of it as a sport.  American football appears to be 95% stop and only 5% start - zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!  Basketball is rather like one of those post-modernist plays during which you could enter or leave and then re-enter at any point in the production and find exactly the same thing going on.  Also, any sport that can have mutual 'goal' scores in the hundreds is obviously both too easy and too boring. 

But returning, reluctantly, to the Tour de France I have to ask if there is anyone who understands it?  All those different coloured jerseys they dish out for totally obscure reasons, does anyone know why and does anyone care?  Well, my e-pal e-aquaintance, Bryan (a hopeless old Leftie and I don't think he likes me very much, can't think why) over at Why Now, provides constant reports on the race but alas, I never quite finish reading them before my eyelids flutter shut.  Mind you, he is equally fascinated with sleigh races across Canada using huskies.  I mean, I would pay good money never, ever, to attend one of those!  Don't misunderstand, I do recognise and admire the physical and mental stamina those cyclists require but even so, one is entitled to ask, when they have finished huffing and puffing their way round France, what is the point?

Now, if you want a really exciting sport there's always beach volleyball which, in my list of favourite sports spectating, ranks next to ladies wrestling in mud.  And no, I don't understand the rules of either and who the hell cares anyway?!

 

On golf: don't worry I'm not going to bore you rigid with how I missed the putt on the 13th!

Anyway, I couldn't bore you about my golf game even if I wanted to because my 'golf career', for want of a better expression, lasted, from beginning to ignominious end, exactly seven holes!  Even so, today I will, so to speak, 'carry the bag' for Bernie Reeves who in an essay in The American Thinker offers a fascinating side-glance at one particular aspect of the game.  I don't know about you but I rather like that big, bluff Ulsterman, Darren Clark, who won The Open last week.  (Note to to the uninitiated: it is not called the 'British' Open because we invented the game and were the first to have an open championship and so, unlike the late-comers to the game, we do not have to designate it, so yah-boo-sucks to all you Yanks who think you invented everything!)  Where was I?  Oh yes, Darren Clark who celebrated his win in true Ulster-style by staying up all night drinking pints of Guinness with his mates and then appeared on morning media interviews sounding, shall we say, slightly bemused!

What I didn't know, but Mr. Reeves tells us in his excellent article , is that as a young man of 18, Clark was offered a scholorship to Wake Forest University in North Carolina and invited to be a member of their very prestigious golf team which received the very best in detailed coaching.  Clark left after a month!  Missed his mum and dad, think you?  Wrong!  He couldn't stand the draconian, verging on totalitarian, American drinking laws which bring down severe penalties on the heads of youngsters under the age of 21 who are caught drinking by police forces all over 'The Land of the Free' who see this, much as our equivalents 'over here' see the speeding laws, as an easy way to throw their weight around and fool everyone into thinking they're doing a good job.

The other factor that drove Clark back to Britain was the anti-smoking regime at Wake Forest University which, had he been caught taking a crafty drag (as he did throughout his winning rounds at The Open) he would have suffered immediate dismissal from the golf team.  Needless to say I wouldn't be 'Boring for Britain' on this abstruse subject if there wasn't a truly delicious, mouth-watering dollop of irony on offer.  You see, Wake Forest University only exists in its present splendour due to the generosity of the Reynolds family - yes, that's right, R. J. Reynolds, perhaps the biggest tobacco company in the world!  Now, if that isn't worth a triple Whaa-Whaa-Whaa of a whinny, then nothing is.

Never mind the circus, give me some bread!

I just heard a snippet of news.  That grossly over-hyped, over-budget and over here circus otherwise known as the Olympic Games is going to open with - wait for it - women's football!  That just about sums up the utter futility of the whole ridiculous exercise in which our druggies will attempt to beat their druggies whilst we will pay, and keep on paying for years, for the pleasure of it, that is, if anyone can find a single grain of pleasure anywhere.  Well, I suppose, grudgingly, there might be a snigger or two to be had from watching synchronized swimming, arguably the daftest 'sport' ever invented.  And to be fair, there might be Brazilian-style ladies' volley-ball in the programme somewhere and that will keep me up - if you'll excuse the expression!  Come on, Boris, do us all a favour and cancel the bloody thing!

Their Djok beat our Jock - thank God!

I'm not good at moral dilemmas, they confuse me, I become all cack-handed, you know, on the one hand but there again on the other hand and when you think about it - and at that point I need another hand and so I end up giving a hopeless shrug.  All of which leads me to expelling an almighty sigh of relief that Djokovich beat Murray in the final of the Australian tennis championship.  After all, just consider if Murray had won!  How would I pin - and hold - the false smile of congratulation on my face?  I mean, dammit, he's a Brit and I jolly well know that I should be cheering him on because it has been nearly 75 years since a Brit won a Grand Slam.  But unfortunately he is also, and here I must be honest, a totally miserable, monosyllabic, Jock grunt of the sort one would make considerable efforts not to sit next to on a long-haul flight, or even a 10p bus-ride.  Well, I suppose his Mum loves him - actually, now I think of it, having seen her antics at various tennis matches it might be that she loves him too much.  The normally sensible Matthew Norman went awry yesterday in The Telegraph:

Everyone will realise that the courtside passion of Andy's mum Judy is a refreshing change from the glacial aloofness of the Henman Parents.

No it's jolly well not!  In her enthusiasm she resembles a Celtic/Rangers (you choose) footie fan screeching her side on to a win.  I always enjoyed and admired Henman, père et mère, as, on those odd occasions when 'Timmy' actually managed to beat some ghastly foreigner they applauded to a strict ration, four claps from him and three from her.  Proper English reserve, that!

Anyway, Andrew, old chap, ooops, sorry, I mean, 'Andy', what can I say?  Except possibly that you deserve congratulations for dutifully upholding a very fine, old, revered, British tradition - losing!  Ouch!  Sorry, Mrs. Murray, did I say say something  . . . ?

 

I WANT to be offended, it's my right, innit?

And so the tiniest, micro-story of the last 10 years - oh, alright then, the last 20 years - rumbles and bumbles its way on and on through the headlines.  A pair of TV commentators said rude, disparaging things about girlies in football. Cue all-round 'Shlock-Horror', fainting feminists and outraged girlie-men hitting their TVs with their handbags, I'm just amazed it didn't come up at Question Time given that it is, according to the language commissars, a matter likely to shake the pillars of society.

Look, I want to be offended!  It would help me to believe that we do actually live in a society that values free speech.  It is now clear beyond any doubt that we do not.  These days, if anyone is offended, or to be precise, if anyone considered to be under the patronage of, say, The Guardian, The BBC, Sami Chakrabarti, and their ilk, is offended then you can expect a ton of smelly stuff to hit the fan.  If, however, you are a Christian, a Jew, a Tory or, my dear don't even look, a footie-man, then you can expect no defence whatsoever.  For example, has The Guardian begun a campaign against the Metropolitan Police for their failure to investigate the, presumably, illegal taping of people's private conversations? You will have to tell me because I cannot bring myself to look at the wretched rag.  I may well drop dead with shock if they have - so there's an inducement for you to find out!

I suppose I should make clear my own opinion on the particular matter.  I think the two men concerned are a pair of right pillocks who deserve some criticism but neither of them deserves to lose his livelihood over it.  Equally, I believe that if most footie fans would prefer women to be kept out of any active part in their game they should be free to arrange matters to their own choice.

It would not do to end a post on giving offence without offending somebody, so let me say, loud and clear, that all the 'wimmin' on Labour's front bench are stupid, ugly, old cows!  Mind you, to be fair, so are most of the men on the Tory frontbench!

 

Sexism in footie! Who'da thunk it?

Look at that twatish linesman, I muttered to myself yesterday, as I watched the match of the day, fancy wearing a long pony-tail like that, makes him look a proper cissy!  Then I looked again, and in an instant, yet another tiny part of my world shrivelled, was consumed and then deposited in the memory-bin of history - he, er, she was a woman - a woman officiating at a footie match!

Photo courtesy of The Mail

Needless to say, in what I can only describe as a typically sly, underhand, feminine way, when faced with a tricky off-side ruling - she got it right, dammit!  That's the trouble with women, they do have this irritating knack of being right, blast them!  Even so, what on earth was she doing there in the first place?  I mean (and, yes, you can hear the whine in my words), women have their own footie teams and jolly boring they are, too, from the little I have seen, so why must we have female officials at men's matches?  To paraphrase an old saying, rugby is a ruffian's game played by gentlemen, and footie is a gentleman's game played by ruffians - think Wayne Rooney - yes, quite so!  It is one of the minor pleasures of footie to see Mr. Rooney berate an official for giving what Mr. Rooney thinks is a wrong decision.  His ugly, brutish, whiskery face is placed approximately 1.3 inches from the tip of the official's nose and a stream of consciousness, of which the late Mr. James Joyce would have been proud, is emitted at full volume.  The essence of Mr. Rooney's message could be said in seconds but it tends to run to minutes because every other word is an expletive.  The pleasure to the viewer, well, this viewer at any rate, is the warm feeling of condescension which follows, so that we can say to ourselves, yes, he might earn three times my annual income every week but the fella's obviously a yob and an oaf and that makes me feel better about myself.  Pitiful, I know, but there it is.  Now, if we have lady officials even yobs like Rooney will be forced to mind their manners and that will be one more minor pleasure removed from my dismal life.

Please don't misunderstand, I've got nothing against women but would you want your sister to marry one - ooops, that doesn't quite work - what I meant was that I really like women, in fact, I prefer the company of women to that of men, which is why I loathe stag nights.  Even so, there is a time and a place, and a footie field is not the place at any time . . . hang on a minute . . . what was that? . . .  oh, yes dear, I've nearly finished . . . no dear, you don't want to read it . . .  yes, dear, I'm just coming . . . sorry, must go . . .  my own particular ref has just blown the whistle and there's definitely no arguing with her!

 

Has Wenger finally given up wanking?

Oh dear, my titles are beginning to sink to new levels of witless crudity and soon my intelligent readers will depart leaving only the grunt-snufflers who, like me, cannot resist a snigger at any example of rudery however impoverished.  On top of that, of course, is the fact that the name of Arsene Wenger will mean nothing to the ladies or to my foreign readers.  In fact, now that I come to consider it I am beginning to realise that this entire post is a complete waste of time.  I blame those kids from the Trot-lot creche who invaded these hallowed halls last month for the rapid deterioration of the usually high-minded posts you have grown to expect here at D&N - er, you do expect them, don't you?

Anyway, I've started so I had better finish.  For the benefit of non-footie fans everywhere, Arsene Wenger is the manager of Arsenal Football Club known colloquially, as you would expect from their name, as 'The Gunners'.  He is a long, tall streak of Gallic vinegar with a perpetual frown and is renowned throughout these Isles for his inability to see his players execute a foul immediately in front of him but can spot one done by the opposition at the far end of the pitch on a foggy night - at which point, like an old diesel Citroen trying to climb a hill he goes into a long-drawn-out whine in heavily accented 'Franglais'.  Well, football managers are all blessedly eccentric and sometimes it is useful because one becomes desperate for some amusement because the 'footie' is frequently eye-ball-stabbingly tedious.  Even so, it must be admitted that 'our Arsene' has taught his lads to play some very pretty football and for that we should be grateful.  However, they do have tendency to show off their clever and delightful inter-passing abilities to such an extent that they forget that the aim of the game is to score a goal!  Other 'footie' managers, usually the brutes emanating from the Celtic fringe who lack Arsene's French sophistication, not least because they couldn't even spell it let alone understand it, have come up with 'a cunning plan'.  They tell their players to forget about all that kicking the ball stuff and instead to just concentrate on kicking the Arsenal players!  Because the other teams are usually nowhere near as skillful as 'The Gunners', and because an opposition footballer is a much bigger target than that silly, little ball, they actually manage to hit quite a few of them where it hurts.  This sends Wenger off into another Gallic whine that sounds like the start of the Monaco Grand Prix.

All of that tedious junk is by way of introducing the fact that I have just finished watching Wenger's little lads play Manchester City.  Again, for the benefit of the unpersons who do not care for 'footie', this is, or rather, was, the poor team of Manchester; the famous one being 'United', of course, known the world over for players who dominate the world of after-shave lotion advertising which adds yet more millions to their millionaire salaries.  However, 'City' have just been bought by a rich Arab - I use the phrase 'a rich Arab' in an amusingly, ironic and deprecating way that you would expect from a cool dude like me because what I ought to write is that this particular Arab is so stinking, filthy rich he could fill all the swimming pools in Hollywood with gold bars and still be the richest man since Croesus!  Anyway, City played Arsenal tonight and for the first time Wenger was, so to speak, out-wanked.  This is because the City manager is an Italian, Mantovani, oops, sorry, Mancini.  As such, he follows in the Italian 'footie' tradition of wanking which is somewhat different from Wenger's French habit.  Mancini simply stacks his defence like a platoon of Guardsmen and dares the other side to try and get through.  Watching his team play is like watching the grass grow except that Premier League pitches are mostly artificial grass and it never grows!  Even so, this provoked 'Prof.' Wenger to emulate Gen. Joffre and urge his troops to attack, and attack, and attack again.  I have never seen such sustained aggression from his pretty lads, they really went for it.  Of course, they didn't actually score, any more than 'City' did, but still, it was a superb display of excellent football and only the drab Mr. 'Mancunini' and his grunts spoiled it.

Mind you, with this huge influx of European, and mainly Mediterranean European, football players that we have seen over recent years, there is a new sub-competition to enjoy.  In tonight's game there was a 'handbags-at-dawn' confrontation between two of them which ended with both of them leaning their foreheads against each other rather like the stags in Windsor Great Park when the rutting season is upon them. That was Act I of the Opera Buffa which was about to unfold.  Act II involved the ref showing them both a red card and sending them off.  The finale and the highlight of the evening was the sight of the ref being surrounded by a motley collection of 'mediterranies' all shrugging with huge class and versatility.  Shrugging is a habit Brit 'footie' practitioners have not yet mastered, they confine their communications to enormous gobbets of spit which they can eject at high speed and which is deadly accurate up to 10 yards.  But these gallant Euro chappies can shrug like maestros, their shoulders coming up higher than the top of their heads, their hands, palms facing upwards, coming level with their ears, and their expressions of utterly innocent bewilderment at this cruel and unusual punishment is deeply touching and you would need a heart of stone not to cry with laughter!

Well, that's the end of this particularly silly post.  Wish I 'd never started it now.  Oh well . . . I'm off to bed now - because I go swimming every morning - oh yes I do - and I go really, really early - even through this freezing weather  - God I'm good!

 

In which I express all of my sympathy to the Aussie cricket team

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Heh-heh-heh!)

 

I bring you tidings of comfort and joy . . .

. . . Australia all out for 98 . . . (YEEES!) . . . and England 157 for no wickets!  In line with our strictly neutral approach to news and, of course, our innate good manners this blog will refrain from remarks aimed at our Australian 'cousins' like, 'why not try American rounders?' or 'good job you hand-picked a pitch favouring the home side' or 'the only ashes you're likely to see are the ashes of Ricky Ponting's career', and similar jibes and jests which are entirely against the spirit of the game.  Also it should be stated clearly, lest past remarks by this blog are taken out of context and twisted against us, that we here at D&N never doubted for a moment that our brave South African English lads would come good and that the description of them as 'a bunch of tossers' was a reference to an obscure cricketing term.

Now, is there any champagne left over from yesterday  . . . ?

 

Aussies thrash England by 267 runs

This blog has now suffered a complete nervous collapse requiring bed rest and a constant intake of fluids beginning with tea but ending with Scottish 'water'.  According to the experts, the English batsmen are incapapble of batting on anything that fails to resemble a billiards table.  The word is that the Aussies are planning on moving the wicket at the next ground to an area that has not been so well prepared allowing the ball to bounce around as though it were on a trampoline.  This is precisely the sort of dastardly, under-handed trickery we have come to expect from those ex-convicts.  Choosing a wicket to suit your own home team is frightfully un-English and rumours to the effect that we use pile-drivers to flatten our pitches is simply scurrilous gossip put about by Aussie malcontents.  I understand Ponting has broken his finger, pity it wasn't his arm!  Bad loser?  Moi?

(More tea, nursy, quick!)

England bowled out for 187 - useless tossers!

 

This blog has officially thrown a tantrum and returned to bed in a near terminal sulk!

Additional:  But Ponting's out for 1, so this blog, with tremendous bravery is fighting off its depression and has now risen from its bed.

Do the Qatari Muslims know what's coming?

Look, don't blame me for printing pictures of all these half-naked, beautiful, lady 'footie' fans, blame those rascals at I Hate The Media.  I had intended to write one of my usual, highly intellectual posts on the coming clash of civilisations when 'footie' fans in their hundreds of thousands arrive in strictly Muslim Qatar.  Of course, being an old-fashioned British gentleman I had intended to illustrate it with some suitable examples photographed at places like the Kop End, you know, big hairy men covered in tattoos with XXXL bellies bulging through their string vests looking for someone to punch as they sink their tenth can of lager and England, in their usual finest tradition,  go out in the first round.  However, because of all that global warming it's freezing cold today, as it has been for the last 14 days and is forecast to be for the next 14 days, and these young 'gals' give me a rather nice warm feeling.  I apologise to my lady readers for not producing a picture of a nice hunky-looking male 'footie' fan but be fair, when have you ever seen one?

 

Well done, ladies, I'm sure the immams of Qatar can hardly wait to see you all!

 

An absolutely gloat free post - no, honestly . . .

"England thrash Australia by an innings and 71 runs to win the second Test in Adelaide and take a 1-0 lead in the Ashes."

I feel your pain, Australia, no, really I do.

If only we had Donald Bell of Bradford Park Avenue Football Club

He was the sort of footballing chap you need when you're 20-2 down, as we were yesterday, and only ten minutes to go!  Faced with similar odds against him during the Battle of the Somme and in the face of an obdurate enemy, Lt. Donald Bell of the Green Howards and a former professional 'footie' player, charged across no-man's-land pausing only to throw a hand-grenade from 20 yards (his throw-ins, I suspect, were legendary) with such accuracy that he destroyed a machine-gun post, he then went on, single-handedly, to kill 50 of the enemy, capture the trench and take 143 prisoners!

He wrote to his mother two days later: ‘I must confess it was the biggest fluke alive and I did nothing. I only chucked one bomb but it did the trick... my athletics came in handy this trip.’

He was awarded the Victoria Cross but within 5 days he was killed in action.


Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1333094/Victoria-Cross-medal-awarded-football-hero.html#ixzz172u4Dvun

 

Let slip the dogs of Wapping

The proprietor of this blog is never too proud to change his mind - when he can find it!  Thus, let it be known - and make sure 'my mate Rupe' hears about it - I am, after all, prepared to pay to get behind his paywall if, but only if, the dandruff-ridden rascals he employs get down into the sewers of Zurich and find the shit that undoubtedly emanates from the FIFA High Command.  When it comes to muck-raking he has no need of advice from me but I would suggest that a recce group be sent to Moscow - however, they should beware because they tend to shoot journalists over there!  In the meantime, I am looking forward to the Sunday papers, some of whom, I suspect, were holding back on stories lest they be blamed for the insulting debacle that took place yesterday.  Go get 'em, boys!

Quote: "the Russians bought the whole thing, lock, stock and both smoking barrels, months ago!"

Thus, you can now see clearly, dear reader, how wise you are to read Duff & Nonsense and thereby gain absolutely dead accurate information and forecasts ahead of everybody else!  On the subject of the World Cup, I told you 3 days ago that "the Russians bought the whole thing, lock, stock and both smoking barrels, months ago!"   Whilst the commentariat assumed that 'Don' Putin was staying away because he did not wish to be associated with failure, I was certain that he couldn't be bothered to go because he knew it was in the bag!  According to The Mail, we failed even to get past the first round.  I should also stress that this is yet another manifestation of the fact, resolutely ignored by all and sundry despite the apparently never-ending examples of it, that England is thoroughly disliked, not to say, detested, by most non-English people and almost any chance of poking us in the eye with a sharp stick is rarely ignored.  That is not a problem for me but I just wish it would not keep coming as such a surprise to so many others, especially the Great and the Good above us who think that buckets of lick and spittle will make them love us.  Only to our faces, sucker!

To finish on a more positive note, my very sincere congratulations to Eddie Afekafe, hitherto totally unknown to me, but obviously an outstanding young man whose work and achievements deserve greater recognition. 

 

Let's tell FIFA to eff off!

Be honest now,  would you buy a second-hand car from this man?

Take that as a 'no', shall I?

Now, be honest again, is there anyone you know who looks more repulsive than Sepp Blatter, the President (for life, it seems like) of the Fédération Internationale de Football Association (FIFA).  Long before last night's BBC Panarama programme which accused various FIFA board members of corruption I had been sickened by the way our obsequious government has crawled to this jumped-up little pip-squeak.  Today, in a last minute piece of mega-toadying, not only has 'Becks' gone off to Zurich to lick the little man's boots, but also our prime minister and, for God's sake, Prince William!   Have we no pride anymore?  We should, judging by the WikiLeaks reports just released, have sent Prince Andrew, preferably in his Falklands War helicopter to put a couple of rounds through the glass palace that FIFA inhabit and remind them that we invented the bloody game and they had better give us the effing World Cup competition or he'll be back next week in an Apache!

The whole creepie-crawlie campaign has been a national embarrassment and it didn't take that Panarama programme for me to know that the Russians bought the whole thing, lock, stock and both smoking barrels, months ago!  Incidentally, talking of that BBC show last night, have you ever seen such an appallingly badly-made programme?  Talk about amateur night with that old, white-haired, has-been hack, so scruffy he looked as though he was homeless, reduced to shouting questions at Blatter and his fellow board members from a hundred yards away and being totally ignored.  Well, wouldn't you ignore some old nutter shouting at you in the street?  I haven't watched Panarama for decades - obviously I must have seen or sensed the rot setting in - but I do remember it back in its heyday when parliament and politicians trembled at what might be coming.  They'd fall about laughing at rubbish like last night's episode.

Anyway, I leave you, courtesy of the excellent 'Who Ate All The Pies?' site with another of their excellent photographs which just about sums up the man at the pinnacle of world football:

 

However, to be fair, I am informed by Wiki that:

In the early 1970s, Blatter was elected president of the World Society of Friends of Suspenders, an organisation which tried to stop women replacing suspender belts with pantyhose.

You see, those Guardianistas are right, no-one is all bad!

 

BREAKING NEWS: Chief censor at D&N sacked

Statement from the Founder, Chairman, Chief Executive and Editor of Duff & Nonsense:

It is with great regret that I have decided to dispense with the services of David Duff (absolutely no relation) hitherto in charge of content control on this site on which tens of people several people utterly rely as they seek a clear and authoritative insight into world affairs.  In a post banning all mention of the current Test match in Australia I regret to say that after the first day's play David indulged in an emotional knee-jerk re-action in banning all mention of our wonderful British heroes as they gave those Aussies a slapping, which they did so splendidly last night.  We at D&N never doubted their courage, skill and sense of duty and unlike those pusillanimous fans who blow hot and cold we remain steadfast in our support.  Mr. Duff will be sent a bill for the repairs to various bits of furniture damaged in his disgraceful bout of bad temper.

 

Topics currently banned here at Duff & Nonsense

Hitherto this blog has been proud to allow discussion of any topics but as of today the following are banned:

The Test match

Cricket

The Test match

Australians

 The Test match

Brisbane

The Test match

The 'Gabba'

The Test match

Messrs. Hussey and Haddin

The Test match

English bowlers

The Test match

Umpires

The Test match

Violaters of this Banning Order will be forced to stay up all night to watch the, er, how can I put this, well, the 'bat 'n' ball' game.

I'm off to bed now to weep into my pillow and then catch up with some sleep.

 

How we sort of lost but won in Afghanistan

I am obliged to an old e-pal from way back when, Norman Geras, who must be, I am happy to surmise, worth a bob or three because he can afford to get behind Rupe's paywall!  Anyway, he was able to copy The Times' story containing this little item which, in its tiny way, was rather heartening:

The Afghan women's national football team enjoy playing a winning match after defying the Taleban, which has banned women from sport. 

The team, which is drawn mostly from girls attending schools in Kabul, played in long sleeves and trousers, while their counterparts from a Nato team wore shorts for the match in Kabul. They beat the Nato team 1-0.

The women's national football team was created in 2007 and is the first Afghan women's side with a Fifa rating. 

Thanks to, Norm, 'our man in the North West Frontier Stand', and bravo, Ladies, even if I'm not too sure there will ever be a re-match given your future circs!

By the way, jokes about the NATO team's French defence will not be tolerated in this new spirit of entente cordiale!

Are footie fans so 'fick' they should be taken into care?

I ask because if you knew someone who was in the habit every Saturday of stuffing all their pockets full of fivers and tenners, calling into the pub for a quick five pints, as you do, and then, with gay abandon (er, that's 'gay' in the old-fashioned sense), wandering into an establishment often run by a sleazy foreigner notorious for relieving people of huge amounts of their hard-earned dosh whilst offering dross in return, you would feel impelled to step in and caution them, or at least, to call social services and urge them to intervene, even perhaps to slap on a restraining order, or better still, have them sectioned.  But alas, in this cruel Tory world no-one cares and so Saturday after Saturday footie fans in their infantile imbecility get drunk, get chiselled - and their team gets beaten!

Footie is not so much the Theatre of Dreams as the Theatre of the Absurd.  Take this week's nonsense as an example.  A comedy in five acts:

Act I:  'Payne Looney' contradicts his manager leading to rumours of his dissatisfaction and a rift with his boss, 'Fergie the red-nosed manager', a man who can eat six wasps at a go and frequently does.

 Act II: Club HQ, staffed with young PR men in shiny suits but no ties because they have only just learned how to tie their shoe laces but not their ties, issue an authoritative statement that no rift exists, 'Payne' is ecstatically, not to say, deliriously, happy and any lying ratbag from Canary Wharf who says different is probably in the pay of Manchester City Football Club which, 'as any fule do know', is owned by a bunch of towel-heads, nudge-nudge, know wot I mean?

Act III:  'Fergie the Ferocious' appears like the baddie in a Chinese opera, all fangs and jerky body movements, and in a voice like a ruptured bagpipe tells us that 'Payne Looney' is an ungrateful, greedy, Scouse git.

Act IV:  The American owners are woken up in the middle of the night and informed of this emergency and, once they have been reminded which team it is they own ("Oh, jeez, ya mean that Limey outfit where they speak funny") they instantly agree to pay 'Payne not-so-Looney' a zillion pounds a week - "cos, what the hell, it ain't our money, it's only what we borrowed and what those suckers pay at the turnstiles!"

Act V:  In strict compliance with the definition of classical comedy, all the little mix-ups are straightened out.  Thus, 'Payne's' lovely Scouse missus is ordered to get a wheel-barrow to take home his weekly pay-packet every Friday night because otherwise 'Payne' will not be granted his once-a-week conjugals!  He appears before the cameras, hand in hand, with 'Ferocious Fergie' who now appears to have a couple of dozen wasps in his mouth which is just as well lest he smile and frighten the horses.  They both swear undying love whilst patting each other on the back - and it was all the fault of a trainee stage-manager that they were armed with stage-daggers at the time - er, they were stage daggers, weren't they?

Footnote:  There is huge applause when a fat man in a loud pin-stripe suit and two-tone brogues comes on stage to take a bow and it is realised that he, as the agent, has been pulling all the strings of what turns out to have been a puppet-show after all.

If only I had known more footie fans when I was trying to flog off my old bits of 'shrapnel'.

 

It's the way they tell 'em!

I have, willy-nilly, become something of an expert on radio commercials.  This has come about because of my shameful addiction to 'TOOOORKSPOOOORT'.  I write 'shameful' because, of course, 99.8% of their output is dedicated to 'footie' and it is a well known fact that only the brain-dead, or at least, the brain-less, are interested in 'footie', a game financed by morons, played by morons and followed by morons.  Of course, that doesn't apply to me because I only take an interest from a detached, not to say, lofty, position of intellectual neutrality occasioned by my scientific and social curiosity - and also, as it happens, the fact that all Liverpool fans are rubbish like their club, that Arsenal are a bunch of effete 'Frenchie-poohs' and Chelsea are simply the overseas branch of the KGB.  The only noble and decent fans are to be found at Molineux supporting the greatest team England ever produced - Come on The Wolves!  Ooops, sorry about that, let me just wipe the spittle off the screen - now, where was I?  Ah yes . . .

It is just too tiresome to keep switching off the ads whilst listening to the radio and anyway I usually have it on whilst I am doing something else.  Thus I have become a bit of a critic.  Being a former member of that splendid band of brothers, the second-hand car trade, I do listen to the car ads and think to myself what a complete waste of time and money they are.  Some actor comes on and rattles off the advantages of this car or another but is then forced, at the end of the ad, to have his voice speeded up in order to list all the caveats and exclusion clauses lest the manufacturer is hit by legal proceedings.  Consequently, I doubt that many people take any of it in.

Honda, however, are the exception.  They have hired Garrison Keillor, the author of the Lake Wobegon books, but even better, the superlative reader of those books. His morning recitals from his stories delivered in that slow, rich, baritone voice of his were a radio delight.  The Honda ad agency have written an excellent script for him  which allows him to slow down the delivery and savour every phrase.  It is the exact opposite of a fast, hard sell and the result is that you listen.

I have also been amused to hear ads for TV sports channels using ordinary language but arranged in rhyming couplets.  Again, some clever chap in the copy writing department of the ad agency recognised what Shakespeare and his contemporaries knew 400 years ago, that there is an instinctive attraction to rhythmic verse that makes you pause and listen.  And whilst I am on the subject of advertising, their industry's equivalent of the 'Oscar' must go to the chaps who created the 'Spec-Savers' ad.  To succeed in getting your punchline into mainstream English is what every ad man, and his customer, must dream of.  I put it up there with "We try harder" and the old Hamlet cigar ads.

Anyway, as I was saying, I'm no 'footie' fanatic, far from it, but 'Arry and 'is boys were dead lucky last night because when they play the return  . . . (Led off by his nurse before he starts playing his vuvuzela!)

I remember watching but can't remember why!

It's 'True Confessions' time, I'm afraid.  Well, be fair, we all have our little guilty secrets and when you reach my age there are just more of them.  Anyway, the fact is that sometime back in the '80s I became hooked on watching enormously fat men in nappies - wrestling - but I can't remember clearly what the attraction was.  Shameful, really, I mean, it makes watching ladies wrestling in mud sound normal.  Sorry, what was that?  Oh, right, I'll get to the point then, shall I?

Years ago I became hooked on sumo wrestling.  I never quite understood the finer points, or even the rules, come to that, but I did enjoy the ritual and the obvious fact that it was a very ancient sport.  At that time the first foreigners, in the form of some huge Hawaiians, were gaining success at the highest level and I shared the unspoken Japanese disapproval because it seemed to me that sumo wrestling is quintessentially Japanese and should have stayed that way.  Anyway, in particular, I remember a wrestler called 'The Wolf' who was not huge by sumo standards, he was just a very big man with an impassive face but deadly cold eyes and he was a terrific wrestler.

Anyway, in the usual way of these things I lost touch with it and so I was sorry to read in today's WSJ (Euro Ed.) that the sport has lost its way and become mired in gambling and criminal activities.  It has fallen in popularity and declined to being a fringe activity, now taken up by scrawny little students at Tokyo University - led by a Czech!  Well, even so, I salute them.  I have a weakness for lost causes and so I wish them well in their efforts to keep a grand tradition alive.

 

 

Headline of the Year

Next to a weather map of England:

Sunny outlook in many areas but a deep depression over Heathrow as a shower drifts in from South Africa

 

 

In The Sun: We Love it - naturally.

 

Anybody got a postal order for 15 bob?

If so, you could buy the entire English football team and, on a B.O.G.O.F basis, you could also take the Football Association lock, stock and leaky barrel plus all their frightfully smart blazers.

Oh alright, then, 10 bob, anyone?

This is a non-post!

And, moreover, it is a non-post about non-people who, it is alleged, took part in a non-event last night in South Africa.  It is not so much that the non-event last night did not take place but that it never had an existence in the first place.  It would have ceased to be if it had ever had any existence in the first place - which it didn't!  The entire thing was a phantasmagoria and must not be spoken of or alluded to in any way, shape or form.  Let me put this into words you will all understand - it never happened, people, so shut the, er, whatever up and let's all move along!

So, what shall we talk about?  I know, how do you rate our chances in the Girl's Netball Championships next year . . .?

I know what to think - as soon as someone tells me!

The other day that old slyboots, 'Dearieme', attempted to provoke me into giving an opinion on what he called the 'footieboys', by which he meant, of course, the stirling chaps who wear the three lions of England so proudly on their shirts and who, even as I write, are busy shagging oops, sorry, boozing, no, no, I didn't mean that either, I meant training hard ready to win glory for their country.  However, 'Dearieme', in attempting to elicit an opinion from me on this vital matter was fully aware that I had only just returned from France and had thus been deprived of the critical briefings provided for me by the Deep Intelligence & Analysis Branch of TOOORKSPOOORT'!  However, I am now fully updated and I am able to pontificate with the sort of assurance seen and heard any night in any Saloon Bar in this 'septic isle'.

We won't win!

We will need a bit of luck even to get out of the opening group, and I may be rushed to hospital with severe shock if we actually reach the semi-finals, and I certainly will not live long enough ever to see us reach a final.  Indeed, just the opposite, I foresee hideous embarrassment approaching at high speed from 'over there'!  If, and it is more than possible, we fail to beat the Yanks on Saturday, or even, perish the thought, we actually lose to them, I may have to close this blog down.  It's not that my e-pals from 'over there' would crow because, like so many Americans, they are immensely polite and gracious and I just know they would, in their usual friendly way, commisserate with me - and I couldn't bear it! 

You may wonder why I harbour such doubts about the abilities of our fine young men and I will tell you the simple answer - they are over-sexed, over-paid and over-hyped - especially the latter!  Mind you, that is not to say that I do not enjoy the regularity of the ritual through which we go every two years from European Cup to World Cup.  It moves slowly and deliberately in the time-honoured tradition, much as Newton's great universal clock waxes and wanes the movement of the orbs.  In the approach to the competition the media become more and more hysterical about the world-class abilities of 'our lads', then, as they fail miserably - again, they give them an almighty kicking, before once again beginning the build up to the next 'glorious failure'.

Yes, I know it's tedious but there is something comforting about the fact that in an uncertain world some things are forever!

'Footie' is such fun!

Is there a more ridiculous sight than that of a grown man besotted with a game?  One thinks of that unshaven, sinister-looking, Russian cove who owns Chelsea football club into which he has poured 'zillions'.  Why? What's in it for him?  Even if they win a few baubles here and there, his only claim to, er, fame (or ridicule) is that he signed bigger and bigger cheques.  Still, in these grim times we all need the laughs and another old fool who has provided a bucket-full today is m' Lord Triesman, the boss, no less, of our very own Football Association, who obviously appreciates a strong, firm back line!

 

Photo from Daily Mail

If anyone in authority had read up a little of his biography they would instantly have recognised that he was a fool without necessarily knowing that he was an old fool who fancied a young woman 27 years his junior and, moreover, an old fool who failed to realise that a man in his mid-60s wearing jeans risks sniggers behind his back.  Many young men have joined the Communist party in their teens but most grow up so that by the time they are adults in their late 20s they can laugh it off as youthful folly.  M' Lord joined the CP when he was 27 - and remained in it for 7 years!  Need one know more than that to recognise that we have here a man with desperately few brain cells?

I was slightly intrigued when my favourite radio station - 'TOOORKSPOOORT' - reported a few months ago that the chap the FA had appointed as managing director had resigned suddenly and the word 'on the pitch', so to speak, was that he was fed up with the shambles at the HQ of our national religion game.  The chairman of the board was, of course, Lord T who, one suspects, had taken his eye off the ball - and now we know why!  Anyway, as we all know now thanks to the reptiles at The Mail on Sunday, the old fool blabbed and bragged to his new young 'signing' who recorded all his indiscretions including the utterly disgraceful suggestion that the Russians and the Spanish intended to bung a few 'zillion' Euros in the direction of the referees at the next World Cup.  Quite properly this has been howled down as a wicked and preposterous suggestion . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . no-one has actually investigated it in order to find out what Lord T knows, or thinks he knows, that led him to that belief.  Still, his Lordship stands high in my regard because as a result of his little spot of bother, he has helped produce the best joke (so far) for 2010.  Sky News reports that FIFA's ethics committee is meeting to discuss the matter.  "Ethics committee", oh my giddy aunt, it's the way they tell 'em.  It'll be the Zimbabwe Office of Budget Responsibility next!

A useful dig in the ribs

I have confessed, done penance (of a sort), but still I cannot stop listening to 'ToooorkSpoooort' radio. I find the endlessly inane witterings of 'footie' fans strangely comforting.  Normally, I don't actually listen to it, I just have it on as aural wall-paper but today an excitable young man called Ali came on and in a strong accent from 'ooop north' tore strips off the presenters for some sin of omission or commission they had perpetrated against Ali's favourite team.  He then went off on one about football in general and in the course of which he insisted with real and undisguised fervour that, of course, when the World Cup started he would be supporting England  - "'cos I'm English".  This came out perfectly naturally in the flow of his enthusiasm with no hint of rehearsal or irony.

It was a very useful reminder to old grumps like me, who view all foreigners with suspicion, particularly if they are called Ali, that whilst this influx of immigrants is having profound effects on our English society, so we in turn are influencing theirs.  Just for a moment I wondered what Ali's father, probably a proud Pakistani, thought when he heard that remark?  In political discussion it is often necessary to speak of people en masse so it was a salutary dig in the ribs for me to be reminded that masses of people are made up of individuals.

A nice moral conundrum

I have already confessed my weakness for the inanities of TalkSport which could be renamed, without risk of inaccuracy, 'TalkFootie'.  I particularly like it first thing in the morning before and during my ablutions when I am still in a weakened befuddled state and thus not able to take on the MSM and their frequently lying, misleading and biased reportage.  I find the endless bickerings with which 'footie' is surrounded somewhat soothing to listen to because, as my vicar probably puts it, 'in a very deep and fundamental way' I don't give a flying, er, footie about 'footie'!  However, at 10.00 am they have a programme which sometimes makes an effort to drag themselves and their listeners onto more serious matters and today they touched on what I think is an intriguing little moral conundrum.

As most Brits know, well, Brit blokes, that is, Portsmouth Football Club has had a series of Arab owners who, shall we say delicately, do not appear to be quite 16 annas to the rupee!  The end result is that the club, despite an old and previously distinguished history, looks as though it might disappear down a financial toilet.  However, just in the nick of time the thunder of hooves has been heard in the distance not, alas, the US 7th Cavalry because these are camel hooves again not horses, this time from Libya!  Leading the charge, according to MSM gossip, is one of Gaddafi's sons.

So here is the moral dilemma; should we welcome, or even permit, the Gaddafi shekels into British football?  On the one hand, we must remember the death of the London policewoman shot dead by someone (still unknown, or at least, uncharged) from inside the Libyan embassy, and of course, the death of hundreds when the PanAm jet hit Lockerbie.  On the other hand, we now have normal diplomatic relations with the 'good' Colonel and his nation; and on yet another hand, as we are all taught by the great liberal establishment, we should never visit the sins of the father upon the child.  Even then there is yet another hand to be considered which is that BP and other British companies are eagerly waiting to get their hands on Libyan oil and gas and before we sneer at such mercenary greed just remember that without it the lights might go out over Britian, or at least, we will have to pay through the nose for an alternative supply. Nor should we forget that in the past 40 or so years, ever since the Arabs first hiked up the price of oil and made themselves mega-rich, Britain, or at least London and the Home Counties, have prospered mightily by welcoming them in and then parting them from their riches in the form of over-priced mansions, motor cars, race horses and whores.  I mean, in this post-Imperial age we have now mastered, not so much the art, as the craft which has been practiced so assiduously in every Arab souk since time immemorial!

So, what's a body to do, I ask?  Take the money and run, I suppose, and hope the ref doesn't blow up for a foul!

Every picture tells a story

As Paul A. Rahe points out, in effect, whilst vainly trying to hide his smirk, yesterday's great photo-op can sometimes return to haunt you.  He recalls Bill Clinton's famous picture of himself sucking on a cigar, a picture that came in very useful for the tabloids when the Monica Lewinsky scandal hit the headlines.  I bet the White House was delighted with this chance for 'The One' to be photographed in close, very close, proximity to 'The Other One'.  Alas the day, 'The Other One' turns out to be a marketing man's invention, a product of image creation, about as real as a CGI-enhanced film, an apparently blameless, family man who adored his wife and children who, when you blow away the froth and feathers, stands before us as a persistent customer of whores and tarts who has to pay for his sex.

But now let us consider 'The One' who presented himself as a moderate Left-wing Democrat - even I gave him the benefit of the doubt prior to his election.  Now we see, through another cloud of froth and feathers, that the man, of his own free will, consorts with a mixture of Marxists and revolutionaries combined with old-style, corrupt, Chicago-machine politicians.  In the background, keeping a discreet distance, the very worst elements of Wall Street, Goldman Sachs and the main man, George Soros, latch on to the dying body-politic of America and leech off it for as long as they can.  There is now no doubt, no hesitation, no reservations, Obama is an extreme revolutionary Marxist.  He and his dreadful wife made that quite clear before the election but we - alright then, I - failed to take it seriously.

Thank the 'Intelligent Designer', the American people are gradually realising the full horror of what they have inflicted on themselves.  Obama's poll numbers have fallen faster than any president's of the last 50 years.  Not yet a year in office and his popularity has sunk well below the 50% mark.  One little remarked upon event is due next summer and could provide some hideously embarrassing publicity for the White House.  Rod Blagojevich, the former Governor of Illinois, is due to stand trial for corruption and is accused of offering Obama's vacant seat for sale to the highest bidder.  According to Yahoo News:

Blagojevich attorneys have asked U.S. District Judge James B. Zagel to give them an early look at the government's evidence, including records of interviews with Obama, First Lady Michelle Obama, chief of staff Rahm Emanuel, presidential adviser Valerie Jarrett and two labor backers of Obama, Thomas Balanoff and Andy Stern.

In addition they they have indicated that they might wish to interview Obama, himself!  Whatever, Blogojevich has made it absolutely clear that he will fight like a cornered rat to defend himself and if anyone knows under which carpets the political shit has been swept in the past, he does, and he intends to lift those carpets high and wide!  The political stench from Chicago needs a good airing and if that occurs shortly before the Autumn elections, so much the better.  If it leaves political thugs like Rahm Emanual, Valerie Jowett and Andy Stern (the communist boss of the all-powerful SEIU) exposed for the nasty little apparatchiks they are, then I hope Blagojevich really tells it the way it was - and still is.

I have NOT slept with Tiger Woods

Normally, of course, I do like to be part of a select 'in crowd' but the mob of people trying to get into Tiger Woods's bank account is so huge that it has become rather common to be part of it and thus I am withdrawing.  Mind you, the crowd of women that Tiger tried to get into appears to be equally large and equally common.  Anyway, as a well-known contrarian, I always avoid crowds so I wish to make it quite clear that I have not slept with Tiger Woods, so there!  It is with great regret that I must announce that the 17th, 28th, 47th - oh hell I've lost count - woman to claim to have slept with Tiger is my very good bad e-pal, Sister Wolf, who has turned me down repeatedly for the last 3 years! Women! Heh!

So, alas, I am unable to offer you any juicy titbits concerning Tigers swinging, but courtesy of those golf fanatics at 'IHTM', I am able to pass on the top 10 of Tiger's golf tips which he offered to the president of the United States, no less:

10. If you’ve played the wrong hole, just take the penalty and move on.

9. Never let a stranger touch your putter.

8. Never switch holes in the middle of a round.

7. If it’s out-of-bounds, even if it looks like you could hit it, it’s out-of-bounds.

6. Remember that playing the wrong hole is loss of hole in match play.

5. A stiff shaft and a big head are no guarantee your balls will go straight.

4. In fact, the bigger the head, the greater the odds your balls will go astray.

3. The grass is always greener over there on that other course you’ve always wanted to play.

2. Trading your old bag for a new bag can really mess up your game.

1. Hey, Michelle is hot. What’s she doing Saturday morning at, say, 7:18?

- Written by Scott Montgomery

Tiger Obama and Barack Woods

I am obliged to my regular visitor, 'JK', for pointing me towards this excellent essay by Lisa Schiffren in The American Thinker. I can add little to Ms. Schiffren's analysis except to re-iterate that old saying: "If it's too good to be true, it's almost certainly false!"

'The One' is down and out in the first!

Oh joy unconfined!  The Chicago 'families', that is, the nexus of politicians, crooked property developers and gangsters who have run, manipulated and robbed the 'Windy City' blind since the days of Al Capone, have lost their Olympic gamble.  They stuffed their right arms up inside Obama's suit, pulled his strings and forced him to go to Denmark to clinch the deal - I mean, hey guys, who's gonna say 'no' to Barack Obama, our man? - and guess what, the 'Olympians' said 'NO', as loudly and clearly as they could in the very first round of voting.

There is a God!

The most subtle game ever invented

Today I stand acused under the heading of "Oh, ye of little faith"!  In a recent exchange with my American e-pal, 'JK', a regular commenter here, I told him the embarrassing history of the Ashes Test Series between us and the Aussies and in an excess of gloom I forecast the usual drubbing that was likely to be dished out - again - by those blasted ex-cons!  But praise the Lord and pass the champagne, we actually won.

Now before I go any further let me admit immediately that I am a fairweather cricket lover - no, no, that won't do - I'm not even a fairweather cricket lover because on the odd occasions when I do watch it I do so via the good offices of that nice Mr. Murdoch (another Aussie, heh, heh, heh!) so the weather has no effect on me.  What I meant to say was that I only get interested on those very rare occasions when we might, just might, stand a small chance of winning.  My hopes were raised at the beginning of this series by an unexpected win, well, unexpected by me, but dashed thereafter by an Australian win in which our bowlers indicated that they might have difficulty hitting a barn - from the inside; and our batters would have been better occupied battering a piece of cod in the local fish and chip shop.

So this week we came to the final match in which (I specify this for the sake of my American readers) it was necessary for England to win outright because even a draw would have meant that the Aussies would have held on to the ashes.  (Actually, at the risk of confusing any of my American readers who have struggled thus far, they wouldn't have held on to them because we never give them to them even when they win, they remain locked in Lords, the home of cricket, and the Aussies are given a nice little scroll or something in lieu.)  Anyway, this final, crucial match began on Thursday and as usual was scheduled to last up to 5 days - yes, yes, my impatient American friends, that's how long it lasts!  Actually this one only made it to the fourth day, today, and what a match it was.  The Aussies were on the back foot having been forced to watch England notch up a formidable score which every 'expert' said was impossible for the Aussies to match . . . er, but, they added, they are Aussies, you know.  That sort of sentiment is the very greatest compliment to the Australian cricketers and their reputation for never, not ever, saying die.  Yesterday evening their opening batsmen were tested by the English bowlers for an hour and a half but gave absolutely nothing away.  Today the game recommenced and for once our bowlers did what they are supposed to do but frequently do not which is to bowl on a good line and at a good length.  Even so, the Australian batsmen pegged away gamely and as the runs totted up my confidence, never very great to begin with, began to ebb away.  However, one by one our bowlers took a wicket here, a wicket there, until finally with an hour to spare they got the last man out and the Ashes were ours.

Test Match cricket is the very greatest and subtlest of games.  There is Grand Strategy as the teams try to judge the characteristics of the wicket (the ground) upon which they will play and pick their side accordingly.  There is Strategy in deciding if your side wins the toss of the coin whether you will bat or bowl first.  There are Grand Tactics in the decisions taken by the fielding side as to where to place the fielders appropriately given the type of bowler and the habits of the batsmen - which have been rigorously examined on videos of past performances.  And finally there are the Tactical decisions as to which bowler to use at which time and from which end of the ground, or, if you are batting, whether you decide to play for a draw or a win, and so, and so on.  On top of all that, and believe me, I have only scratched the surface of the game's intricacies, there is that great unknown in England - the weather!

There may be some extraordinary game played by, say, yak herdsmen in Mongolia which is frightfully contrived and convoluted but I will take a lot of convincing that there is any game, anywhere in the world, so rich in subtleties as Test Match cricket.

Er, somebody buy that Aussie a pint of 'Four XXXX', he looks really upset - heh, heh, heh!

The Sunday rumble: 11/1/09

I haven't had a good 'rumble' for a while.  It is, of course, the idle result of an idle man's blogging in which I can lightly touch on a range of subjects without displaying the totality of my ignorance.

TV classics: Is that an oxymoron?  I don't think so.  In a thread hanging below my long Johns, or to be more tastefully exact, in a thread to my post on long Johns, I agreed with Julia   that "Tinker, Tailor ..." was definitely a classic, defined as a TV programme or series, excluding comedy, that one would be happy to watch again.  I added to the list "Conspiracy", the HBO/BBC film-play of the Wannsee conference.  Since then I have been trying to think of others.   Foolishly relying on my memory I hesitantly put forward "The Brothers" a wonderful saga of 1970s/80s striving middle-class folk -  sort of Ayckbourn without the laughs - that held me enthralled back then, although I'm not sure how it would look and sound today.  Talking of 'sagas', of course, reminds me of the first(?) great TV smash-hit, "The Forsyte Saga" which,  God bless my soul, dates back to the 1960s!  I never saw it, myself, but those who did cannot praise it enough.  The 'Memsahib' reminded me of two others, "Tenko" and "The Onedin Line", and then I remembered "The Prisoner" which certainly qualifies for inventiveness apart from anything else.  WARNING:  Anyone who recommends "Dr. Who" will be instantly banned - well, it's my list!!

The non-story of the year? the decade? the century?  Prince Harry called a Paki, well, a Paki.  This was on account of the fact that he was, er, a Paki.  Cue predictable and hoot-worthy howls of outrage from the usual suspects who spend their miserable lives going around waiting to be insulted.  I've been through all this before with Dr. 'Teabag' and his cronies so I will not rehearse the argument.  Suffice to say that 'Paki' is a four-letter diminutive indicating a member of a particular nationality, much the same as 'Brit', 'Yank', 'Frog' and 'Mick'.  In and of themselves these abbreviations mean nothing, it is usually the preceeding word that gives you a clue as to the speaker's meaning and intent, for example, if it is a word beginning with 'f' with the suffix 'ing', then I think you can take it as an insult.  If not, not! Oddly enough, the people who leap up and down at the use of the word 'Paki' which is neutral, would be outraged if one was to suggest outlawing the use of the 'f'-word, not least because they would be struck dumb without it.

Self-flagellation Southern stye:  I can only assume that my e-pal 'Fallen Monk', who would never take offence if I casually referred to him as a 'Yank', even though he's a 'good ol' Southern boy' Confederate (well, they're all Confederates south of the Mason/Dixon line, aren't they?), was a member of a self-flagellation order of monks before he, er, fell!  On his site almost every other day, he, and his commenters, are wailing, moaning and gnashing their teeth at the fact that 'Oprah' is planning to give them some of their money back!  Admittedly the half-baked Obama (subtly racist, that; did you notice, Dr. 'Teabag'?) is intending to grab it all back with hefty interest over the next generation or two but he consoles himself with the thought that that will be a pile of smelly stuff for his successors' to deal with and hopefully they'll be Republicans.  I still can't find out why 'Fallen Monk' thinks the government will spend his money wiser than he can, and why he would look a gift-horse in the mouth?

Aren't footie managers fun? No, really, I mean, they're more entertaining than the turgid stuff their teams produce every weekend.  The ridiculous, prickly Jock who runs Manchester United and who looks as though he has swallowed a wasp, is priceless when he lapses into his Rab C. Nesbitt impersonation (link provided for my Yank, oops, sorry, American, readers).  No reporter has yet dared to ask if he actually wears a string vest as well! Then, yesterday, we had the equally incomprehensible Dago who runs Liverpool speaking worse 'Spanglish' than Manuel from Fawlty Towers. I mean, if he was a waiter and you gave him an order, God knows what would turn up! I gather that he was berating 'Rab C. Ferguson' and if the two of them ever get it together we'll need every interpreter the UN can spare in order to provide us all with a translation.  On top of that, for real fall-about comedy, there is always old 'Worry-guts' Wenger,the boss of Arsenal.  If his brow furrows much more I shall suggest to my farming neighbour that he plant some spring corn in there quick!  And have you noticed the way Wenger never looks straight at the interviewer or the camera?  Typical slippery Frog, if you ask me! (Do you know, I'm beginning to enjoy all this casual racism lark - thanks, your Highness!)  The only manager worth listening to is 'Arry Redknapp', which is just as well because I gather he supplements his multi-million salary by offering his services as an after-dinner speaker - in competition to me!!!!   'Arry 'as (oh God, he's got me at it now) a pronounced, or do I mean unpronounced, aversion to consonants which places him firmly in the mainstream of English 'wot is spoke' outside of Buckingham Palace.  Thus, he is comprehensible to most 'thickwit' Brits (you see, I'm an equal opportunities racist), especially those to whom 'footie' is the last refuge in a mad, mad world - oh dear, that includes me! 

There's none so blind as them wot's got ideology:  There is a vote going on somewhere on the net for the Best Blog in Britain.  I trod in it by accident yesterday and instantly voted for Melanie Phillips despite the fact that I never read her - well why should I? - I already agree with most of what she says.  Her main competition comes from some blog based in Birmingham, I mean, my dears, Birmingham! Anyway, Bob 'Pied' Piper urged everyone to vote for the adenoidally-challenged 'Brummies' which was enough for me to tick Melanie's box, if you'll excuse the expression!  However, all that is by the by, the best political blog on the web is Oliver Kamm's.  Apart from any other consideration, it is extremely well written in his own, somewhat Baroque style which I rather like.  To add to a reader's delight, his skills at eviscerating the almost terminally ignorant amongst his commenters is a constant pleasure to those of us with sadistic tendencies.  Of course, as far as I can judge from the recent Max  Mosley  comedy playhouse, a taste for sadism is often accompanied by a desire for masochism and perhaps it is that that explains the nervous thrill I experience every time I leave one of my rambling, shambling comments and wait, trembling in anticipation, for the Krack of the Kamm whip (note to self:  just stop with the 'K' kracks, I mean, cracks!)  But above and beyond all that, there is the ultimate delight of reading a highly intelligent, enormously erudite and well-read man who has looked about the world he inhabits and, seeing much the same set of instances and happenings as I do, comes, after careful and analytical thought, to precisely the wrong conclusions.  Without burdening you with details, suffice to say by way of example that Oliver gazes upon the debauched, drunken, incompetent, cruel results of nearly 50 years of liberal policy-making here in Britain and thinks the result is wonderful!  One is tempted to ask which 'High Street' he inhabits?  He serves to remind me constantly that whilst the Tory Squire of old had his manifold faults, the Intelligent Designer preserve us from a Whig Grandee filled with good intentions!