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).
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
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. ..
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. ..
Saturday, September 16, 2006
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
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
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