Head-swapping on Horizon

I found out today that a friend of mine, Andrew Cohen, has done very well for himself in life - he's the new editor of the BBC's flagship science programme, Horizon. The bastard.

I haven't seen him since we left school, but I watched him just now on the BBC website - it's definitely him, only old, and still sporting the same ridiculous goatee he had when he was 17. There he was, spouting off in once-familiar fashion.

For the duration of my school career, Cohen and I mucked about together in Physics, played calculator cricket in Maths, fucked up experiments together in Biology, and burned things in Chemistry. Frankly, we were shit at science.

Somehow we have both ended up delivering science to the masses, though. I stumbled into it and I expect he probably did too. This is probably a bit worrying - for example, I remember the New Public Face of Science spending an entire biology lesson (for some reason that's lost in the mists of time we were on a roundabout outside school) throwing mud at passing cars, while at least three Physics lessons were taken up with our designing a sophisticated machine to remove, swap and replace living human heads. Even now, this appeals more than anything I ever learned in Physics. Charles Boyle? How about bollocks. Kepler's Law? Get fucked.

Anyway, good luck to him. I'm made up for him actually. And to be honest, though it would be nice to be on the telly, I suppose, I'm perfectly happy doing what I do now, sitting on my backside in the pampered world of publishing, in the heart of London's vibrant West End. And here's a taster of why:


Celebrity spots
Another week of powerful celebrity action in W1, again with a comedic twist. First, Harry Enfield again - smoking a cigarette (Silk Cut? Well they're not proper fags are they) outside my office, followed by another famous smoker, Arthur Smith, scurrying across Dean Street in the rain while looking hectored. Finally, the world's least charismatic sports anchor, Steve Rider, in the paper shop. Its not a wig.







Rider: not a syrup.



This week's recommendations
The first test. Last week I scribbled these ill-chosen words:
"Meanwhile The Ashes starts tomorrow ... I think it will be much tighter than the pundits are predicting ... 19-5 the draw for the crucial First Test looks pretty long."
Like most people in England not under the Sky yoke, I have been going to bed at about midnight to listen to the cricket on the radio under the bedclothes ... dozing off around two, sleeping fitfully and waking throughout the night whenever something exciting happens, before rolling out of bed at eight o'clock confused and exhausted. I wish now I had just gone to sleep like everyone else - England were systematically dismantled in brutal and chilling fashion. No more bets on the Ashes - I can't see anything other than an Australia victory by at least 3-0.
Away from the cricket, its that time of year ... no, not the increasingly ludicrous and inconsequential Sports Personality of the Year - but the battle for the Christmas Number One! The X-Factor winner is long odds-on, but I'm backing the barely believable coupling of Cliff Richard and Brian May at a healthy 7-1 each way. Surely Cliff's due another festive smash hit?
Some of the best music I've yet discovered on MySpace - Broadcast. Black Cat in particular is a work of genius.

Oo oo oo the Spunky Fruitbat

I've got a new record player. I had one when I was a lad, of course, but its not worked since 1992, so now I have a nice new one. I've never really got used to the compact disc - I still occasionally get up to turn it over when one finishes, though trying to make out music through the cracks and whistle of ancient, dusty vinyl requires the most patient and discriminating of ears. I've been listening anew to a lot of records I'd forgotten I had; first on was a range of punk classics which I haven't managed (or been arsed) to upgrade to CD, starting with the frankly awesome Spiral Scratch by The Buzzcocks. Everyone should listen to this at least once in their lives - forget the Sex Pistols, this is the record that really spawned punk. The guitar solo in 'Boredom' has to be heard to be believed (two notes ... not as diabolical as it sounds). Followed by the first Clash album, the Ruts, some early Joy Division, and then Jimi Hendrix and Funkadelic.

I then drifted forward a few years to my, err, early-nineties heyday. There were quite a few bands around then that I was fairly obsessed with. First, The Wedding Present - the Four Songs EP. I was amazed to find that this is still most enjoyable. The Weddoes were always a jolly band, despite their love-lorn, doom-laden lyrics. But after a quick jump around to 'Take Me! I'm Yours' I decided to take a deep, dark plunge into the barely remembered world of 'classic' Indie - Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. You might remember them. Me and what seemed like most of the teenage population of London started listening to them in the 6th form, went to a few gigs and were swiftly smitten. Two blokes, Jimbob and Fruitbat, both with guitars, and a drum machine. I suppose some arty music-degree types would say they pioneered sample-laden guitar-based neo-punk, or something. They reached their career apogee by kicking the shit out of Philip Schofield, of all people, live on telly at the Brit awards - vintage stuff. You wouldn't get McFly performing a public service like that nowadays. Carter were also style gurus for a generation; Fruitbat always wore baggy shorts and a cycling hat (copied by me), while Jimbob's head was entirely shaven bar a long, slender river (or, indeed, a horn) of hair at the front that snaked down over the face (copied by me, to disastrous effect). Sadly, Carter's music has stood the test of time about as well as their fashion sense. In fact, its embarrassingly bad. I stuck on their 'breakthrough' album, '30 Something', which I remember at the time thinking was The Greatest Record I've Ever Heard. Oh dear.

But perhaps I am being a bit harsh. They were of their time, and I was a big fan for, oh, a year or so. A few months ago I was at a Chas n' Dave gig, would you believe. In the bar beforehand I saw someone standing with their back to me, shortish with a woolly hat and large ears, and I thought to myself "that's Fruitbat" - and when he turned round it bloody was as well. The last time I'd seen him had been when he signed a T-shirt for me at a gig, back in the Stone Age. I couldn't quite believe that I'd recognised him - from behind - after all these years, but I realised that it was actually all down to the slightly unusual angle of Fruitbat's ears, together with the hat - unique and diagnostic characteristics. Now, (and this is quite a segue but go with me on this), there is a name for this sort of ID in the birding world - where you recognise something without quite knowing why, from shape, size, movement and posture, often out of the corner of one's eye. And its my duty to inform you that the internationally approved term for this, almost unbelievably, is jizz.

Jizz. A word that also means, well, sperm, usually in the context of 'spurting'. Sorry to descend to such vulgarity, but there is so much fun to be had with this in the staid birding world. For once, our transatlantic cousins are a step ahead. Accidentally mention jizz to US birders and you will get uncomprehending looks of astonishment and horror, and occasional helpless mirth. British birders, by contrast, use the term indiscriminately and in the politest of conversations. I have genuinely heard birders discussing 'gull jizz' without a trace of shame; there's also warbler jizz, wader jizz, even bat and dragonfly jizz. So much jizz flying about. So the next time you see someone you faintly recognise but you don't know why, blame it on the jizz. Just try not to step in it.


Celebrity spots
A spectacular, perhaps never-to-be-repeated week. First, Danny Baker buying crisps in the newsagents in Dean Street. Again, the initial ID was 'jizz' based - scruffy, short and balding. The years have not been kind to the former TV funnyman. Later that same day, cowering from the rain during a fire drill at the production company next door, none other than Harry Enfield, Paul Whitehouse and Geoffrey Perkins - who knows what mischief they were planning? And finally, 'star' of reality show 'Its not easy being green' Dick Strawbridge. The possessor of the finest moustache on television, Dick was bravely taking on a Guinness in the pub next door - top work.



Strawbridge (right) with some bint.


Recommendations
Once they came to conquer, pillage and plunder. Nowadays the norsemen simply steal our football clubs. West Ham's brave new era begins at home to Sheffield United on saturday, who I am backing at 4-1 (Paddy Power) to win. Ho hum.
Meanwhile The Ashes starts tomorrow, of course, and England have already been virtually written off. I think it will be much tighter than the pundits are predicting ... 19-5 the draw for the crucial First Test looks pretty long.
Adventure Playground deliver sound electronic funk. Try them.

Torment in Thorrock

I had a wander round Lakeside today. Conveniently located on the junction of the M25 and A13, Lakeside consists of a vast acreage of what our friends across the Atlantic would call 'malls'. It has an irresistible, magnetic attraction for the flotsam of estuary Essex, who travel here from the length and breadth of the 'magic triangle' (that's Romford, Southend and Chelmsford) to snap up trainers, reasonably-priced jewellry, cheap fags and tight-fitting, tarty clothes. Visiting this high temple of rampant consumerism is not, as I'm sure you can imagine, one of my favourite pastimes, but I had to go. I badly needed a new pair of shoes, having discovered to my cost last week that if you have a hole in one shoe in Scotland in late October, you get a soggy sock and exceedingly cold feet; for all its multitude of faults, Lakeside is renowned as the premier spot for footwear in the county.

Anyway, with the shoes in the bag, so to speak, I was having a mooch around W. H. Smiths. Unless you want to buy a cookbook, some miserable paperback trash-lit or a dreary celebrity autobiography, the place is next to useless. The world's only bookshop that doesn't actually specialise in books. Disappointed but not altogether surprised that there was nothing there to take my fancy, I found that the upstairs exit (and my route to a sit-down and a nice cup of tea) was blocked by a big security guard. I tried to shuffle past, only to be told that I 'couldn't go through without buying a copy'. Peering past this uniformed buffoon, who did I see but none other than celebrity nonentity Chantelle Houghton, busy doing a book-signing. Or not.

So much about this is wrong. Look, I bear this woman no malice, but how her agent (or whoever) can justify her 'writing' an autobiography is beyond me. She was on Big Brother, she copped off with a minor pop singer, she got married. Fifteen words is all it takes. Stretching this out to a 300-page hardback would challenge the finest of literary minds, let alone Britain's favourite Paris Hilton impersonator.

I felt a bit for her though. Sales were slow to say the least. Almost nil in fact. I thought about buying a copy and getting her to sign it to show support, but it was £14, and at the end of the day I only wanted a cup of tea. So I retraced my steps to the downstairs exit; going back up I found that a fairly sizeable crowd of non-book buying passers-by had gathered to gawp at Houghton through the plate-glass window. Most fair-minded commentators would say that her 15 minutes of fame is long since past, but it seems Chantelle remains a box-office draw in these parts.

I eventually headed off the Waterstones. Surely they wouldn't let me down, and I would actually be able to buy something sensible to read. But no. Another horde of star-struck shoppers was clustered around the door. Another book signing. Another bloody Big Brother contestant.

This time it was the poor-man's Norman Wisdom, grinning simpleton Pete Bennett. Enough was enough. I wasn't prepared to fight my way in, and I certainly wasn't prepared to pay for a book I'd never read and have the dubious honour of being sworn at by some z-list celebrity for the privilege. There was nothing for it but to wave the white flag of surrender, call it a day and head off home, stopping off to watch the football results in Dixons, of course. You'll be glad to know that neither John Tickle, Shahbaz or Jade Goody was anywhere to be seen.


Recommendations:
Wayne 'Hawaii 501' Mardle. Oh dear. His 50-1 price was for a reason - beaten in the first round by a genuine fat-bastard darts player, Andy Smith. Oh well. Undaunted, this week I am backing West Ham to continue their magnificent, erm, 1-game winning run and trump Arsenal tomorrow at 9/2 (William Hill).
Tiffany Stevenson's blog - well worth a read.
Mashed up electronic beats - featuring a great deal of Yazoo - by the spectacular Divide & Kreate.

Saw-bone spectacular

Another week, another gig, in another distant part of town. I now know how John Otway must feel. This time it was a double bill in celebration of John Peel Day, in a small venue (who's name escapes me) in Kilburn. I had to get there first. Driving in London is a peculiarly unpleasant experience, even on sundays, and this was no different. I trusted to the online AA routefinder to get me safely and swiftly to my destination, and as on countless previous occasions the yellow-clad twats let me down. We actually managed to get lost less than one mile from my house, a new low.

Anyway, having battled through all that Central London could throw at us we finally arrived at the bash late, hot, tired and flustered - but luckily just in time to see the first act, acoustic master Yakbone. Mellow guitar vibes were soon soothing our cares away while we were dazzled by a psychedelic backdrop; I sat back, relaxed and drifted into a multicoloured world of sonic mindscapes while watching the fastest fingers in the west at work. You can take a suck on Yakbone's sauce-bottle of song here.

After a few drinks, the next turn took to the stage - Mara Carlyle. Playing what can only be described as a midget's guitar. This takes considerable gumption. It turns out this is what's known as a ukelele. I had no idea. Something that the Minipops version of John Denver would have wielded, should such a monstrous creation have ever seen the light of day.

I will hold my hands up and admit that folksy ballads are not my cup of tea, but I have to say that Mara has a great voice and I did enjoy her dreamy songs. But not content with the micro-guitar, Carlyle then introduced her tour de force - she also plays the saw. The mechanics of this are mind-bending. Straddling the chair at an oblique angle, the saw is gripped firmly between the thighs and rubbed with a violin bow, with the metal twisted and bent to alter pitch.

Having done some research, its not surprising that saw-playing is a largely female pursuit.

You know how in 50s B-movies, when martians land in Kansas, the flying saucers make a sort of 'woooo-OOOO-oooo' sound? Well that's what Mara's saw sounds like. She must be handy to have around if you're putting up shelves, or laying parquet flooring. Anyway, having entertained us and presumably avoided serious genital mutilation, she wrapped things up with some more ukelele fun before sweeping away to acclaim. Have a listen to Mara's saw song here.


Celebrity spots
Just one to report. And frankly, its weak. Nigel Farrell from TV reality show A Place in France in the pub next door. A quiet week.

Recommendations:
Ignominious defeat for England and a spectacular own goal, sponsored by Borat. It can't get any worse. But England are still, miraculously, 6-1 second favourites to win Euro 2008. Don't ask me ... you've more chance of a return backing Cyprus, to be honest (5,000-1, PremierBet). Portugal at 20-1 (Ladbrokes) seems to be the wisest investment.
Every Tom, Dick and Harry seems to have a blog these days. Tiresome most undoubtedly are (see above) - now read the words of the master. Morrissey enters the fray here.
Stalingrad by Anthony Beevor - one of the top scraps in history.

The photographer's art

Today, some pics for everyone to enjoy. Partly because the world needs to see them, partly because I've just worked out how to do it and want to flex my fairly weedy HTML muscles. A small selection of stupid stuff I've been sent over the years. You no doubt have a similar collection yourself. They're not big, they're not clever, but they made me and my mates laugh at the time.

First its a party, Irish style. You need to click on the image for the full effect:















Darwin award winners don't usually survive ... sadly this one did















Administering extreme unction:




















Trophy time:





















And finally, perhaps my favourite photo of all time, continuing our cock and balls theme. Taken from the roof of Bristol University by my friend 'Dirty' Ray:














It doesn't get much better than that.

Recommendations:
OK. So we lost in Croatia - another fiver down the drain. Never mind. This week I am backing Sri Lanka to win the ICC Champions trophy at 5-1 (Stan James). Don't back England (a stunning 33-1 for the tournament). Our star is definitely not in the ascendant.
This week I have been listening to the splendid White Rose Movement
Birding mayhem. Red-flanked Bluetail in Suffolk, Greenish Warbler in Yorkshire, Roller in Northumberland ... when will the madness end?

Right. Better go do some work now ...

Macedonia and the Lucky Rabbit

More football talk. Sorry Americans.

England. God almighty. I'm sorry but I have to get it off my chest.

I watched the game on saturday at my friend Yakbone's house. If you missed it England were held 0-0 at home by Macedonia - the only team in football history to have lost a game to that mighty footballing powerhouse, Andorra. I think its fair to say that the McLaren honeymoon is over. We were truly diabolical. Even the presence of Yakbone's lucky rabbit (which won Liverpool the FA Cup) failed to lift us. After the cup final I threatened to skin and eat that fucking rabbit, though having seen him in action my feelings have softened a little; miraculously, in the five seconds when he stopped nibbling house plants and actually faced the telly, Gerrard hit the bar. In a performance otherwise utterly devoid of spirit, skill, flair, or shots on goal, I think the two incidents might well be related.

But in the cold light of day, is anyone actually that surprised we're suddenly shit? Middlesborough were hardly world-beaters last season. We remarked before the game that this was genuinely England's best side out there; barring the return of Rio Ferdinand, we simply can't put out a better XI. Yet up front we have Crouch. OK he scores goals against the likes of Liechtenstein, Trinidad & Tobago and Iceland, but haven't we learned that lumping the ball long to the big donkey up front just doesn't work at the highest level? Did Emile Heskey slip, slide and fall over a lot around opposition penalty boxes in vain?

Terry - OK. Robinson - not bad. Stuart Downing, though? Please - he's not even the best left-footer in Middlesborough. I'd sooner have Stuart Hall play there.

Carrick? Hardly Claude Makalele, is he. Then there's Gerrard. Our one remaining world-class star, for some reason, is played out of position on the right. Who's bright idea was that?

And last, but by no means least in this tide of turds, there's Lampard. Clueless and out of his depth. He's supposed to be the new David Platt, ghosting in to the box late, but he's more like the old and very dull Ray 'The Crab' Wilkins - exhibiting a breathtaking array of short, usually sideways passes while moving no more than 20 yards either side of the centre circle.

Which gives me a good excuse to tell my favourite Lampard story. Its West Ham v Chelsea last season, and ex-Hammer Frank is getting the bird from the Upton Park crowd. Collecting the ball in midfield, Lampard is sent into orbit by a crunching tackle from West Ham's midfield hardman, the journeyman Carl Fletcher. Standing over his prostrate victim, Fletcher is then seen to mouth the words

"Welcome back, you fat cunt"

Fantastic. Who says Premiership stars don't care?

Anyway, England. Will we qualify? Yes. Will it lead to yet another feeble finals exit with tears and a sending-off? Yes. I know virtually nothing about Macedonia, save for the fact that its near Greece and spawned Alexander the Great. But sod it, I think I'll support them for a while - they seem to have more fun. And at the moment they have better players too.


This week's celebrity spots: a couple of corkers for you this week. First, the girl who played Beppe's sister in Eastenders striding up Oxford Street. Too much fake tan. Second, former Visage frontman Steve Strange. I was fairly sure he was dead but no, there he was, large as fucking life, outside Tescos.

Recommendations:
Last week I typed this out:
"If Peter Crouch is the answer, what was the question? Macedonia to hold out for a 0-0 draw with England at 12-1 (Stan James)"
Unfortunately I was sidetracked and never finished posting the blog. Bet you don't believe me. But never mind. This week I am backing England to silence the doubters (see above) and bounce back to win in Zagreb, at a best-priced 11/8 (BetSquare)
I am liking the Klaxons' work
Canada Warbler in Cork - a stunning first for the Western Palearctic

Nature red(top) in tooth and claw

If you live in London I expect you've read the Metro. A free newspaper given out to commuters in the morning. Nothing too demanding, a bit of news, the odd fact, a reasonably entertaining letters page. Anyway, up until about a fortnight ago there was a glaring gap in the market - something for the weary evening traveller to read, screw up and throw away. Two rival franchises decided to try to fill this niche at the same time, and the result is anarchy. Its war out there. They say that the first casualty of war is the truth - well, not in this one. It was me.

The protagonists in this shabby tale are The Londoner and London Lite. They offer virtually identical products; a handful of celebrity-led 'news' items, some invented letters from 'readers', a few painfully contrived columns, vast reams of advertising and some sport copied from yesterday's Standard - in short, a colossal waste of paper, ink, money and time. London needs these like it needs another great fire or plague pandemic, but this doesn't matter to the publishing oligarchs who churn out this trash.

The problem is that this town ain't big enough for the both of them. Its a fight to the death and only the strongest will survive. In a desperate effort to get a competitive edge, each paper has hired a band of thugs kitted out in be-logoed t-shirts to distribute their unwanted drivel to the masses. This is how it works; one sets up a little stand, handing out papers to all and sundry. Vendors from the enemy then sneak up and stand about 10 feet away to intimidate the punters into taking their paper instead. The competition is ferocious.

A nadir was reached earlier on today. I was ambling towards the Tube when I found myself standing between a pair of these pushy nobs. Hmmm... who to choose? The Londoner rep, complete with a stall, was a small Chinese lady, while London Lite had gone with a beefy, heavily-jowled man. Both were handing out papers at a furious and prodigious rate; I decided to go for the safer option and take the lady's wares. However, this meant I had to pass jowl-face. As I brushed past he gave me 'that look'; that I'd let him down, betrayed him and his family, and who would feed his wife and children now? So I swiftly changed tack and took his paper after all.

But now I had to walk past Chinese lady to get to the tube. Polite and demure she may have looked, but the gloves are off in the Paper War. She angrily snatched the paper from my hands. Spitting venom, she snarled

"You don't want to read that fucking shit"

She then thrust her own tawdry rag into my quivering hands.

Aghast, I turned and fled to the safety of the Underground, with all the dignity I could muster.

Its ugly out there. Sun Tzu said that "all war is deception"; well this isn't - its naked, raw aggression. I don't care who wins the fucking Paper War, just so long as its settled soon and with minimum bloodshed. Perhaps London Lite and The Londoner will meet for peace talks, realise that they both produce crap that nobody wants and agree to fold. Either way I'm keeping my head down till it gets sorted. I can't risk running into that Chinese woman again. If I'd been reading The Daily Star she might have self-combusted.


This week's recommendations:
We are shit. Humiliated 3-0 by a bunch of Italians in a fetching pink strip, we now haven't scored for six and a half hours. West Ham to go down at a frighteningly short 15-2 (Bet365).
My last golf recommendation wasn't so good .. but here's a winner. Wayne 'Hawaii 501' Mardle to win the PDC darts championship, each-way. A massive 50-1 (Betfred).

The Magic of the Cup (in Hitchin)

If you're an American, don't bother reading this. It won't make any sense. Its nothing personal, but you really won't understand, and I wouldn't want to waste your time.

I love lower-league football. While I support West Ham I like to leaven my Premiership bread with the odd trip to bizarre and far-flung corners of our great footballing land. Such as Barnet in the League Cup, Bath City, Huddersfield, Dagenham and Redbridge (an utter dump), York City, Scarborough United (sponsored by McCain's Oven Chips), Colchester United (a hateful place) and, seminally, Exeter City vs Leyton Orient. One of the best (I use that word advisedly) matches I've enjoyed came on Saturday, when I found myself in the middle of rural Bedfordshire watching Hitchin Town vs Saffron Walden Town in the 1st (preliminary) round of the FA Cup. Why? No idea. Me and my friend Skinny thought it would be fun, and no matter how jaded and cynical one becomes you can never quite resist the magic of the Cup.

Hitchin, apparently, are a team on the slide. They used to be in the Conference but they've since drifted some way down the league ladder. The cheeky bastards still charged us £8 to get in, plus £2 for a programme. Mind you, their gates are so low they probably recognised we weren't from round those parts and quadrupled their prices. 350 hardy souls with nothing better to do on a saturday, and yes there really were a couple of blokes with dogs on bits of string. Saffron Walden are lowlier still, plumbing the depths of the Essex Senior League. It has to be said that their chances of glory in the final in May are slim.

At the start of the game the teams tossed a coin and decided to change ends. We were flabbergasted when the entire home support followed suit and changed ends too! So we decided to stay put and cheer Saffron Walden on to glory. Bollocks to Hitchin. They neither needed nor deserved our enthusiastic backing. The away support amounted to a magnificent 15 people (inclusive of us), which must be some sort of record.

You can imagine what the football itself was like. The ball barely touched the ground for the first 20 minutes. Rather than pass the ball, defenders on both teams tried to simply hoof the ball as high and as hard as possible, with midfield more or less bypassed from the start. Balls were frequently thumped clean out of the ground, and a couple even got lost in the plane trees that shield one side of the stadium from the icy wind. It was dour, dire, desperate stuff. Come half time even the obligatory tea and burger failed to lift our spirits, but we decided to cheer ourselves up by swimming upstream against the gentle trickle of home fans and shuttling round to the 'kop', a vast terrace which, in brighter times, probably held around 1,000 of the Hitchin faithful. The 15 of us looked fairly pathetic, I'd imagine.

Luckily for our sanity the game picked up in the second half - there was actually some pretty neat football played by both sides, while the Saffron Walden keeper was playing out of his skin, keeping the adrenaline-crazed hordes of Hitchin attackers at bay. But endless pressure had to tell and Hitchin finally scored 10 minutes from time, sadly after a keeper error. Then things got interesting. First, Hitchin brought on a sub, a ludicrous-looking streak of piss with a long, curly Keegan-perm who, I expect, is regularly made mincemeat of by more numerous opposition crowds. Anyway, he immediately scythed into a hapless Walden midfielder to get himself booked before he'd actually touched the ball. There followed a most excellent punch-up. After the handbags had died down Hitchin decided that rather than shut up shop and see out a narrow win, it would be more fun for everyone if they took the mick. They took off the goalscorer and brought on someone who I can only assume was the next-door neighbour of the manager, or something. This was a very large, very fat bloke, mid-thirties by the look of him, and very definitely not a footballer. The telltale signs were there - gathering the ball with no opposition player within 20 yards he quickly and nervously shuffled it sideways to someone else, was skinned for pace a couple of times, and committed a number of laughably clumsy fouls. The gods rarely smile on such a lack of respect, and Hitchin duly got their come-uppance; the resurgent Saffron could smell blood, and within a minute or two they equalised, following a classic goalmouth scramble. In the remaining minutes they almost snatched it.

With the final whistle the Saffron players and support celebrated like they'd won the competition, and rightly so - no-hopers maybe, but still living the dream. We had a little cheer for them before we sloped off, dodging furrowed-browed Hitcheners as we strode. The replay's tonight.

By total and utter contrast, I went to see West Ham on Sunday, one among 35,000. We were hopeless, our expensive Argies were anonymous, and we deservedly lost 2-0. Sod the Premiership - give me the so-called dross in football's basement any day. I already have my eye on Redditch United vs Wisbech Town in the next round.


This week's recommendations:
Persian Fire by Tom Holland. A masterpiece of narrative history
Padraig Harrington to be top points scorer in the Ryder Cup at 11-1 (PaddyPower). Though I have a feeling the US will win. ..

Fun with the Fall

I'm not a regular gig-goer. You might be able to guess that from the large number of now-defunct bands on my 'profile' bit. I saw Morrissey about 12 years ago, at his majestic best. Forget the ageing porker on Jonathan Ross, here he was in his bequiffed pomp. As the last of my gladioli arced in a gentle parabola towards the stage, I reasoned that since you couldn't top perfection, you might as well not bother trying. There followed a long hiatus. But earlier this week I dipped my toes into the sweaty, smoky and booze-fuelled world of gigging once more to see one of my all-time favourite bands, The Fall.

Who I've never seen live before. And who change their line-up on an almost weekly basis. Fortuitously, me and my buddy Yakbone managed to sneak in down the front, only to see what appeared to be a bunch of roadies tuning up. They surpised us by launching into a rather spectacular rockabilly pop thrash. We were impressed with this support band, but no, it was actually The Fall. And then Mark E. Smith arrived. Stalking onto the stage like a wraith, he began to rant, chewing gum furiously. How he's got away with it all these years is a mystery - he really can't sing. It was bloody fantastic.

The Fall. John Peel's favourite band, of course. I thought Smith would look more raddled up close and personal - he actually looks quite spry. They played for an hour or so in the furnace of the tiny club, including three encores. Smith looked entirely unruffled. Either he's had all his sweat glands removed like Bruce Lee (ahem), or he's genuinely cool. Its amazing really. At his age he ought to be sitting in a comfy chair with a nice cup of tea at that time of night. He is clearly infused with the spirit of rock.

Why do I love The Fall so much? A look at a selection of song titles may provide some clues:

To Nkroachment: Yarbles
Theme from Sparta FC
Jawbone and the Air Rifle
Mere Pseud Mag Ed
How I Wrote 'Elastic Man'

and my favourite

I Am Damo Suzuki

There you have it. Add some wild, shouted, occasionally mumbled lyrics and a tight, funky backing band and you've got The Fall in a nutshell. I suspect if Smith's stuck for a song title he just snips words he likes from a newsaper, sticks them in a bag and pulls words out at random. Well, it works for me. A quick go on a random word generator gives:

Inspired parking enters the flugelhorn
Cryptogram cowpuncher
Motorcycle witchcraft by torchlight

Any one of which might easily be a Fall song. Mark E. Smith, I think we should be told.


This week's celebritiy spots:
Tom Conti in Pizza Express. Ordering an artichoke pizza - nice work.
Dara O'Brien in the Toucan, Soho. Drinking Guiness, natch. Good man.

This week's recommendations:
Leeds to get relegated from the Championship at 13-1 (Bet365) A massive price as they are in the bottom three. Fingers crossed.
Techno mastery from the Simian Mobile Disco
Keep your eyes to the skies for early east-coast migrants

Fun on the escalators

I've whinged in the past about the Tube. Working in the middle of town, I am often amazed and baffled by the fascination foreign visitors have for this subterranean nightmare. Its not just the general filth, air of underfunding, constant delays, endless 'maintenance' and hopeless overcrowding. Its more the people that it attracts.

Take yesterday, for example. I tend to come home late most days, mostly to avoid other commuters. Tube travel's sole gift is the time to read. Engrossed in a good book, I scarcely noticed a young fellow brush past me onto the escalator. Bedecked in jewellry with the inevitable backwards-baseball cap and ludicrous clothing, this gold-encrusted fool loped up the steps, sporting the unmistakeable gait of the terminally dim. Imagine my surprise when I then sighted two similarly clad oafs coming down the opposite escalator. Only these were sitting down on a step and, remarkably, they had somehow managed to spark up dog-ends in the ten seconds since they'd left the ticket barriers above. Inexorably the chavs moved closer and closer together until, like a burberry meteorite approaching a binary system of bling, they passed. And then the fireworks started. The pair fired a salvo of invective at the loner, for no apparent reason. Naturally our hero responded in kind:

"Come on then, you fucking cunt"
"Yeah come on then you fucking cunt"
"You cunt, come on I'll fucking fuck you up you fucking cunt"

and then, rather limply:

"Come outside now!"

The war of words carried on like this for some time, with the shouting increasing in volume as the distance between the idiots grew. I wept inside.

There would be no battle, with the deadly duo safely at the bottom of the escalator and clearly not taking the bait, but our plucky rude boy's gander was up. So he turned to me and yelled

"What are you fucking looking at, you cunt"

I don't mind admitting I was ruffled.

I wish I had said something mystical and mystifying in response, something to demonstrate my peace-loving credentials as well as a certain mastery of the English language. Sadly all I could muster was a fairly feeble "excuse me" at the top of the escalators. A very British response, I like to think. Next time I'll offer him a cup of tea and a digestive.


Last week I recommended backing West Ham at 500-1 each way for the title. Anyone who took this advice is now sitting pretty; our two new Argentinian signings this evening have stunned the football world. Bye bye Spurs.

This week's recommendations:
The O'Neill bubble to burst. Villa to go down at 10-1 (bet365)
Dinky Loop for some great tunes
Dungeness for some excellent migrant waders.

The wonders of MySpace

I'm new to all this. But I've already found MySpace to offer a wonderful new angle on life.

For example, I am now offically friends with the world's number one human beatbox, Doug E. Fresh.

How cool is that!

They say you're only ever six handshakes away from any other person on the planet, but Doug and I put this well-used maxim to the sternest of tests. Now, though, we are just a mouse click apart, brought together by the wonder of the web.

I was quite a fan of Doug back in the day. Beatbox was my forté, practised and rehearsed endlessly - a turn that offered a surprising degree of kudos in the bearpit of a 1980s boy's school. Others could do robotics, body-popping and break-dancing, but I could roll my 'r's, which just about helped me keep my head above water with the cooler, tougher kids. But sadly Doug and I drifted apart when I discovered Joy Division, started dying my hair black and took to wearing long overcoats. You must understand.

But now Doug's back, and we're friends. Maybe we'll go boating, beagling, or even birding together. I just don't know. If he's prepared to teach me some elementary turntable mixology I'll happily show him the wildfowl of east London. That's what friends are for.


Recommendations:
England to win the Ashes at 4-1. A steal.
Fan of The Hoff? See http://www.flickr.com/photos/vitamin_k/19580114/

Forays into the world of celebrity: a celebration

Here we go then. A 'blog', as I believe the kids call it. God almighty. I might talk about stuff that's happened to me here. Or I might not. I might just waffle on like some silly old twat.

I love celebrities. Well, not all of them. There are some on life's z-list, such as Goody, Ingram, Hamilton (C and N), André, Edmonds, Best (C), Sleep, Elton, Brandreth, Anderton (Sophie as opposed to Darren), McGrath, et al. that I'd happily scalp with a rusty blade. Having said that, brushes with fame are few and far between for most of us, unless you happen to be a pap or a stalker, or you actually are a celebrity. However, while working in the middle of town, with the misery of the tube, pollution, regular doses of pigeon shit, ceaseless boredom and the regular epiphany of a life more or less wasted to contend with, can occasionally be a little tiresome, it certainly does have its celebrity-related compensations. So I thought that for my first entry I'd regale you, dear reader, with some of my crazy exploits in the wonderful world of the business we call show.

As you may or may not know, central London is a celebrity hotspot. I've bumped into McCartney a couple of times. He was still with that dreadful woman then, poor love. Grant Mitchell has stomped about outside my office waiting for people to recognise him. Stephen Fry has been known to lope past . But its really the minutiae of the minor celeb I enjoy most. For example, I've seen Martin Fowler from Eastenders' stalker (you know, that woman with the buckled face) eating an apple before kissing an associate in luvvie fashion (mwah! mwah!). I've watched a beige-suited Peter Purves - now a genuine silver fox - amble down Dean Street. That really got my star-spotting juices flowing. I've seen Irene Raymond from Eastenders buying perfume in Superdrug. I've seen Hugh Dennis frowning, Tamzin Outhwaite checking her makeup, Bob Mills in elasticated jogging bottoms going into Tescos. I've even seen dear old Michelle McManus stuffing her face with cake in Starbucks. That, as you can imagine, was a particular joy.

Celebrity may, in many cases, be a transient and ephemeral phenomenon - but we should embrace and cherish it. Where would we be if we couldn't look snootily down on the vainglorious vanity of others? Is it right to gawp like a slack-jawed redneck at minor celebrities in the street? Of course it is! These clowns knew what they were getting into when they agreed to appear on The Bill, Big Brother, Driving School/Airport/Vets in Practice or any similar BBC docu-drivel, or whatever. Without these winners-but-still-losers London life would be a lot less fun. So keep 'em peeled ...


Recommendations: This week I am recommending:
West Ham to win the premiership at 500-1 (each way)
Thom Yorke's new album
Cider - the new lager
Sports Shack in Oxford Street - superior leisure gear at competitive prices.