The Winner of our discontent

I heard some interesting news today. Apparently Prince is suing 'fan sites' on the web that have images of him, or that reproduce his lyrics, for supposed breach of copyright. Consequently



This is not a fan site, and I'm not a fan, so on that basis I'm untouchable in the eyes of the law. In fact I'd welcome the opportunity to stand up in court and announce to the world that I find Prince pompous, his music bland and unfulfilling, and his frequent name-changes to symbols, numbers and squiggles and obsession with the colour purple pretentious.

It had to be said.


Sorry, got a bit sidetracked there. Anyway, work's been tough of late. A book that had been taking up a lot of my time - a real whopper - has now finally hit the bookstands (The Birds of Essex; I've heard all the jokes so don't bother), but I've had to switch my attention to a major new project and haven't felt able to face the torment of the keyboard in the evenings. You must understand. There was some excitement a few weeks back, though, when I wrote a column for The London Paper. Sharp-eyed readers with longish memories will recall that I slagged off this tiresome rag on these very pages about a year ago, where I complained that it consisted solely of 'a handful of celebrity-led 'news' items ... a few painfully contrived columns, vast reams of advertising and some sport copied from yesterday's Standard'. How wrong I was - The London Paper is undoubtedly one of the premier newspapers in the UK, combining the highest standards of journalistic flair with features and comment of an exceptional calibre. Or something.

It was for their 'guest columnist' spot, which appears on the letters page on a daily basis. I've always fancied having a go at column writing - if Michael Winner can get paid vast sums of money for broadcasting his ill-informed opinions to the nation, just about anyone can - so on something of a whim I dusted down an old yet reasonably topical blog entry, chopped it in half, took out words like cock, twat and fuck (while substituting in a rogue prick), gave it a quick tidy and sent it off.


Winner: had fling with Calley Donington from Grange Hill


And much to my surprise they agreed to publish it. There's a sting in the tail of this particular column, though; its democratic. The reading public can vote on the quality and entertainment on offer in a subsection titled, with crude yet effective brevity, 'More or Bore'. Newspaper circulation figures suggest that 750,000 copies of the paper are dished out every day, to general irritation. Assuming that at least some of these are read more than once (they get left on train seats in astonishing numbers), this meant that nigh on a million people would be reading the waffle I'd cobbled together; a bore vote with a million-reader mandate would be hard to counter, so there was some apprehension when the paper finally hit the streets. The response from my friends was generally bemused but supportive, though most of them took me to task for using my stage age (29) in the strapline at the bottom. I explained that this was both a comment on our age-obsessed media and a clarion call in support of poor old Menzies Campbell, hounded from office due to his being very, very old, but this protest fell on deaf ears.

Anyway, the good news is that the readership showed their support for my vision of scrapping the Olympics and instead building a 500,000 all-seater Wembley, and I secured a narrow 60:40 win. The bad news is that I'm now allowed to do another column. Next time I shall be 31, I think.



This week's celebrity spots

Only two, and frankly they're not great - an unshaven Ian Hislop, looking cross, going into Tescos on Dean Street, and, yet again, pointless reality TV 'star' Nigel Farrell wandering towards one of the nearby production companies. The man haunts me.



Farrell (right); semi-permanent blight on Soho


That's not enough to dine out on and I apologise, but luckily I do have these gems to share with you, sent in by some friendly readers - see, its not just me. David from Chigwell reports a close encounter at the Fowey Hall Hotel in Cornwall; former film critic Barry Norman was enjoying a spot of breakfast at the next table with Peter Sallis from TVs 'Last of the Summer Wine', while Ken Loach was two tables away. No mention of the breakfasts involved - try harder next time. Lucy and Liz of London delivered the strangest sighting of the week - roly-poly TV funnyman Dom Joly, rummaging around in the bins on Soho Square. We don't know why. Finally, Rob from Eltham reports an angry clash with mayoral candidate and fellow cyclist Boris Johnson, who cut him up on his bike on the Embankment. Rob made sure he overtook the straw-haired fop on Waterloo Bridge to show him who's boss - good work.


Recommendations

Well, the bookies are rarely wrong. As predicted, Willie Thorne and Mr Hopwood were swiftly dumped out of Strictly Come Dancing by a cruel and unforgiving public, along with Tenko veteran Stephanie Beacham, and an out-of-shape John Barnes, who has drifted out to a remote 40/1 for the title, narrowly avoided the chop this week. Barnes has filled out considerably since that heady night in the Maracana (though admittedly that was in 1984).


Barnes shrugs off Burt Reynolds en route to scoring one of the great England goals

Anyway, since my last entry England have somehow contrived to cock up a straightforward qualification process for Euro 2008, capitulating feebly, like Napoleon, in the Muscovite gloom, though in this case General Winter took the form of a plastic fucking pitch. This has particular resonance for me as a West Ham fan. Back in the late 80s, a slew of middle-ranking second division sides got rid of their grass and dropped in the astroturf - like flying cars and robot butlers, this was the future. We had to play on these synthetic monstrosities regularly and usually to calamitous effect, since they gave the home side, used to its vagaries of bounce and inured to agonising carpet-burn, a massive advantage. Perhaps the worst debacle was on 14th February 1990 - a date etched on my heart, known to Hammers fans everywhere as the St Valentines Day Massacre. Semi-final of the League Cup, Oldham Athletic away; lost 6-0. Oldham spent most of the nineties spiralling down through the divisions and are now flirting with relegation to League Two, ha. Anyway, its time to put the memories of that nightmare to bed once and for all, so I am backing West Ham to win the League Cup at a tasty 12/1 (various). We've got the best of the draw (Everton at home in the quarters) and everyone else has more important things to worry about (especially Spurs).

Its time we buried the hatchet with the Germans. And this site might help - The German Joke of the Day, including a Q&A section where English jokes are deconstructed by a panel of skilled Teutonic joke experts, with ruthless and clinical efficiency. There's also the opportunity to win a pig's head.

A night on the sauce (extra chili)

There's something strange taking place in the world of Premiership football. Have they made the goals bigger, or something? This evening Spurs came back from 4-1 down at half time to draw 4-4, while at the weekend we had that ludicrous 7-4 result, plus a few 5-0 and 6-0 thumpings for the whipping boys near the bottom. What is going on? These are the sorts of scores you get in women's football (to pre-empt any angry correspondence, may I flag up this result from the first group stage of the recent Women's World Cup: Germany 11 Argentina 0. My barbs are always doused with fact), table football, or schools football. I remember well my debut for the school team - 1-1 at half time, when I came on as a nervous 10-year old substitute, 1-11 at the final whistle. My magnificent career as a centre half had begun.

With goals flying in everywhere, you might have thought me and a few mates would be guaranteed a hatful on a trip to watch Barnet - my A* pick for the play-offs this season - on Saturday. Sadly, no. Barnet vs Rochdale was drab, dour, dire, depressing, diabolical. 0-0, with both sides lucky to get nil, and we'd paid £75 between us for the privilige; 'the longest half-hour of my life' reflected my friend Spoons ruefully, after 15 minutes. But this was a minor blip in an otherwise excellent week, with highlights including a couple of spectacular lunches, the publication of the latest mammoth tome I've nurtured from manuscript to bookshelf, and a power cut that sent the West End tumbling back to the Stone Age on Friday. While the rest of the Soho media luvvies flapped about wondering where the hell they were going to get their skinny latte and blueberry muffin from now, I took the opportunity to go for a gentle stroll through Bloomsbury. To cut a long story short, I found myself with a sudden urge to see some mummies - you know how it is. A visit to the British Museum was therefore in order. Its a big place, and I haven't been there since I was seven, so I couldn't find the mummies. Oh well. I contented myself with a selection of penis gourds, some interesting totem poles and a load of Ming vases, among other treasures, such as Elizabeth I's guitar. Honest.

But the undoubted highlight of the week was my first-ever celebrity party, complete with paparazzi outside. The invite bore the words "Dress code: Up", which was portentous; this was not the usual shabby night of booze. It turned out to be a tremendous bash, packed to the gills with the cream of publishing, along with a ukelele band playing a selection of post-punk classics and a scattering of stars to add pepper to the stew; I was in hog's heaven. Where to start? Well, I accidentally asked Germaine Greer where the toilets were, and other celebs dotted around the vast, cavern-like arena included Will Self, David Gilmour from Pink Floyd, Tom Stoppard and Sophie Dahl. There were probably others; I must admit that the details are hazy.


Greer: directed Spimmy to toilet

Amazing though the experience was, there was a small problem; the only food I managed to find time to scoff was a solitary cranberry dipped in toffee sauce. Consequently, I did get really quite pissed, drunk enough to throw some significant shapes on the dancefloor. Luckily, the fairy guardian of alcohol dusted herself down and once again kicked into action, whisking me away from the mayhem, placing me gently onto the last tube, and even helping me negotiate a tricky exchange in Kebabland.


One of the great unheralded jewels of London is her kebab shops. Not so much for the greasy trash of indeterminate origin they produce as for the bewildering diversity of names; in a crowded and fiercely competitive market, it pays to make your establishment stand out to people who like words. Kebabland is a good one; other favourites include World of Kebabs (East Ham), Abrekebabra (Kilburn), and the rather splendid The Kebabery (Epping). My favourite at the moment, however, was discovered on a route-march home through Stratford during the last tube strike: Kebab-ish - The Thrill of the Grill. I challenge you to find a more evocative name than that.


Epping's premier eatery; luckily burgers are not a speciality


Recommendations
You know the other week, when I touted Italy as my pick of the outsiders to reach the Rugby World Cup semi-final? Well, I meant Argentina. Oh, arse. Never mind. Who cares about Rugby anyway. You have to feel for the Welsh, as this is the only sport they're any good at. Dumped out by mighty Fiji in the first round.

Anyway, on to this week's recommendations, and there's one event that simply demands a punt. Yes, Strictly Come Dancing is back. A glance at the cast list reveals, joyously, that Brian Capron is taking part. Who he? Well, he was Richard Hillman in Coronation Street, but for people of a certain age he will always be Mr Hopwood from Grange Hill. Sadly, the bookies are no respecters of cult television respectability, and Capron is 4/1 second favourite (William Hill) to take the walk of shame and be the first to get the boot, behind poor old Willie Thorne (6/4), surely the Avram Grant of the ballroom. In the win market, Gabby Logan's gymnastics background suggests that the 7/1 offered by Coral is generous, while the nation awaits John Barnes's jive with baited breath - if he manages a place on the podium (12/1, Bluesquare) the crowd really will go bananas.


Thorne in training for the Argentine Tango

The Taking of Beckham, 123 (viewers)

Well I've finally finished my Arctic book, and what feels like years of toil for little reward are finally drawing to a close; I have the evenings free to live life to the full once more - shall I visit the bars of Hoxton, enjoy some contemporary dance or take in a show? Nah. Too knackered. I need some serious downtime, especially after having to walk home from work for almost an hour and a half this evening, thanks to the odious Bob Crow and his overpaid, workshy train-driving army of despair.



Crow: fat cunt


I've just realised that few people outside London will know who this loathsome slug is; he's the union leader who calls the workforce on the London Underground out on strike with irritating regularity - strangely, the middle of summer, New Years Eve and the Easter long weekend seem to be the times when most union business needs to be done. Any link between that and Crow wanting a day off to waddle down to Southend for the afternoon without having to write it off as 'holiday' like the rest of us is entirely coincidental, I'm sure.

Anyway, after the journey home from hell, I slumped sullenly onto my welcoming settee and flicked on the telly, a spent force. I've got Freeview, but sometimes it gets stuck and won't change channel. Just my luck that the channel it decided to freeze on was the barely-watched ITV2+1, and the programme I was stuck with was Victoria Beckham: Coming to America. God almighty.

Controversially, 'Posh' was always my favourite Spice Girl. I really don't know why, especially as there were posher girls working behind the fish counter in Asda. Anyway, Victoria complained at length about press intrusion (on her own fly-on-the-wall documentary), then set up a hilarious scam by sticking a (gasp!) blow-up sex doll with a 'Posh-bob' wig on in the back of her limo to draw off the paparazzi, so she could go shopping in peace with her hair stylist and other members of her extensive entourage (all the while followed by the docu-cameras). I could actually see my soul being sucked out by this drivel.

I'd quite like to be a paparazzo when I grow up (though I haven't quite given up my dreams of becoming a wrestler, or a footballer. As long as Teddy Sheringham's still playing the dream refuses to die). They surely get the best of all worlds - endless following of minor celebs, which I more or less do anyway, lots of sitting about drinking coffee, which I more or less do anyway, and if you're really lucky an angry Jay Kay, Jude Law or Liam Gallagher will stick one on you and you can sue them for assault.



Jay Kay takes the attack to a hapless photographer

Talking of Gallagher, I must admit I rather admire Liam, less for his moody stage presence and slightly whining voice than for his frequent punch-ups in a losing cause - a real rock star. What I like best is that he doesn't send in flunkeys to do his dirty work, he's prepared to roll up his sleeves and get stuck in. This can backfire though. My favourite tale was from a couple of years back, when a pissed-up Gallagher and some mates clashed with a group of not-seeing-the-funny-side IT experts and estate agents in a Munich bar. Neither side was prepared to back down, and there was a bit of biffo. The Mirror reported gleefully that in the heat of battle, Gallagher had wielded an ashtray (one of those ones on a long metal stalk) 'like a Norse battle-axe'. Gallagher's men came off worst, and in the nick afterwards poor old Liam found he'd had most of his teeth knocked out.

Curiously, Gallagher actually sounds better now he has false teeth. I'd be happy to provide a similar service for James Blunt.




This week's celebrity spots
Two this week, and they're strong.

Soho star-spots are all well and good, but regular readers will know how much I love seeing b-list celebs in more far-flung places. So imagine my delight last Saturday when I found myself standing in a queue next to snooker star 'Rocket' Ronnie O'Sullivan, in the unprepossessing surroundings of 'Onur Kebabs' in Barkingside High Street. O'Sullivan was buying a round of burgers for his mates; he paid with a fifty. Flash bastard.

Secondly, while wandering aimlessly down Oxford Street last week, I bumped into Denis Norden outside HMV. Unbelievable.



Norden: never leaves home without clipboard




Recommendations
Mystic Spim comes up trumps for once. Last week I wrote this:

"The season is off and running, thank god. And West Ham aren't in the bottom three - I'd forgotten what it felt like. Anyway I'll be backing the Hammers to continue their impressive run of away form and pick up three points at Reading on Saturday at a tasty 9/4 (Bet365). Let's not dwell too long on the scoreline in the corresponding fixture last season (Reading 6 West Ham 0)"

Only I forgot to post it. Sorry about that. 3-0 to the Hammers and a tidy profit to start September with a bang.

The other sporting extravaganza of interest at the moment is the Rugby World Cup. As I've admitted before rugby is far from my specialist subject, but I was amused to see that England have sunk from 6/1 favourites four years ago to 28/1 no-hopers this time round. The problem with rugby is that the best side always wins. There's rarely much of interest for the speculative punter. It really is the drabbest team sport, with its endless stoppages for minor infringements and regular ton-plus thumpings for the underdogs. The best I can offer is for Italy - who impressed in the Six Nations - to reach the semi-finals, at a best-priced 9/1 (Ladbrokes).

Searing Cornish pop soundscapes from Thirteen Senses. Who are not necessarily a new band as they've had a hit or two, but I met the bass player in the pub the other day, so a recommendation simply has to follow.

The countdown begins

I had my first dose of Olympic fever this morning, when I peered out from the packed tube through the window at Stratford and noticed construction lorries moving about in a muddy field next to the station. You'll be relieved to know that something at least is happening, and the nation has begun to spend the nine billion quid earmarked for the project in earnest.

I say I had Olympic fever, but to be honest I really couldn't give a rat's arse about this quadrennial farrago of obscure sports, obscene patriotism and industrial-scale drug abuse. I'm trying, I really am, but I just don't care. The reasons for this are varied.

First, the fact that I am paying for it, directly, in the wallet. That does annoy me. I somehow suspect I won't be getting the free tickets to the opening ceremony, the seats behind the starting blocks for the 100 metres and the unfettered access to the beach volleyball locker rooms that I feel the 5% levy on my council tax deserves.

Second, and perhaps most damming of all, its the actual games themselves. Most proper sports are either unrepresented or fucked up in some way. Football? Under-23s only, and England aren't allowed. Cricket - no. Rugby - no. Golf - no. Even Darts and Snooker are denied, presumably because the bureaucrats realised long ago that we'd clean up. Basketball and boxing are included, but for some reason professionals aren't allowed, so you get nonsense like Cuba winning the Gold in Baseball (and the US failing to get through the qualifying tournament). Wrestling is in, but no Hulk Hogan, 'Cyanide' Sid Cooper or Mick McManus, just a load of Central Asians in leotards rolling about on mats.


Giant Haystacks: no place at Olympic jamboree, despite this impressive win over Catweazle.


Instead of genuine sport, we get such wonders as YngLing (that is not a typo), Softball (i.e. rounders), Taekwondo, Madison Cycling and the Uneven Bars. I've been in a few uneven bars, usually after 11 o clock and a few pints of strong continental, but what this has to do with sport I couldn't say.


The Women's 50kg Snatch: no punchline required.


The final hobnailed boot in the gonads is the fact that we aren't going to win anything. Not a thing. Nine billion quid for an outside chance of a bronze in the Fencing does not good value make. Things are so bad that the British Olympic Committee are actually inviting tall, fit people to join our squads for some of the more bizarre team sports like Handball (which we are obliged to enter this time round as hosts), then learn how to actually play. Handball is not a game with a lengthy pedigree in these islands. Apparently its a bit like five-a-side football (with the 'goalie rush' permutation, for those of you who played playground football in the 1980s), only you have to chuck a ball rather than kick it. A quick glance at the International Handball Federation website gives cause for concern - for a start, court dimensions are metric (40m x 20m). This is not a good sign. For example, a cricket wicket's size and shape are based on the dimensions of a Saxon ploughshare; proper sports should be rooted in antiquity, riddled with arcane rules, and be difficult for the French to get to grips with. Humiliation by Handballing powerhouses such as Croatia, Russia, and, inevitably, the Germans, beckons.


Thank God its nearly the football season and I can stop worrying about this sort of thing.



This week's celebrity spots
Some scarcely believable celebrity action to report. First, though, a sighting mainly noteworthy in that it occurred on the tube and not in one of the usual Soho hotspots. Though it is a bit obscure: actor and comedian Ken Campbell, perhaps best known for appearing in an episode of legendary comedy show Fawlty Towers, among a raft of TV ads and (apparently) Brookside. Ken seemed a garrulous fellow, chatting to fellow commuters and eating a large salad sandwich before bounding off the train at Chancery Lane.

But the week's real story comes from Thursday. Lunch in a local Thai restaurant was enlivened by the presence of Kevin Eldon wandering along outside - another Hyperdrive casualty like Nick Frost, Eldon was wearing red flares. Nice. Afterwards, I had to nip to the bank, while my co-lunchers headed back to the office and saw actor Rhys Ifans heading into the pub next door. I wouldn't know Ifans if he came up and bit me, but they were quite impressed. Sadly for them though I managed to play a genuine trump card. At more or less the same time that Ifans was ordering his first pint of the day, none other than Sir Bobby Charlton was marching into the paper shop on Dean Street, presumably on a break from urgent FA business, or something. I didn't have my glasses on and had to get quite close to make sure it was him (not appreciated by the shiny-headed knight of the realm). But Charlton it was, and the afternoon's bragging rights were safely in the bag.


Charlton looms out from the paper shop doorway.



Recommendations
Well, the Indians won the second test. England were quite staggeringly feeble. What makes it even worse is that their 'hilarious' wind ups (such as chucking jelly babies on the pitch to suggest a 'soft centre' within the incoming batsman) seem only to have made the opposition bowling attack want to kill someone (that beamer bowled at Pietersen was deliberate, make no mistake about it). An unedifying spectacle.

If you're going to sledge the opposition, do it properly:

Rodney Marsh (to the incoming Ian Botham): "How's your wife and my kids?"

Botham: "Wife's fine, kids are retarded"

But quite frankly, who cares. Cricket has had its annual three weeks of undivided attention, and its time to move on to more exciting fayre. And where's better than the battle for promotion from League Two? I reckon the 3/1 on Chesterfield (Bet365) is worth a second look, while I'm truly mystified by Barnet's 16/1 (Boylesports) to go up. Obviously the bookies know something I don't, but Barnet had a strong second half of last season and represent a tasty each-way punt as potential play-off candidates. An even more jolly bet to make is for once-mighty Leeds United to go down, again. They've already been docked 15 points before the season has even started, and are 4/1 (SkyBet) to drop into football's basement. And nobody would like to see that happen :-)

Some more electropop wizardry to marvel at - The Projects. Cheerful, breezy and fun - I like.

The Wind Cries Hairy

I've been to Crete. This bald fact partly explains my absence from the blogging community for the last few months, well that and the endless stream of louche women dragging me from my keyboard to play canasta, drink absinthe and pirouette the night away. I had a few adventures on that bejewelled island, and got up to all sorts of ouzo-fuelled mischief. Its a great place if you like mountains, goats and toothless crones - I don't know about you but that's most of my holiday boxes ticked. But despite its location at the heart of the Med, Crete is formidably windy - a warm, dry wind that, as the locals will tell you, blows fiercely for three days before dying away mysteriously. That wind is at the heart of the chilling story I'm going to tell you.

It was hot, my goodness it was hot over there. I was wandering along the beach at the southern resort of Paleochora, wearing just swimming shorts with my binoculars around neck, when I recognised the jizz (see blogs passim) of an interesting wader further along the shore. I was ambling gently towards it when a mighty wind sprung up from nowhere, whipping the sand into a maelstrom of exfoliating hate. Blinded by a combination of airborne particles and a foolish lack of glasses, I staggered on into the vortex for a while before eventually giving up the ghost and hunkering down to ride out the storm.

Eventually, the cruel wind abated. I rose gingerly to my knees, rubbed my eyes, and swiftly wished I'd kept them shut, because I found myself eyeball to, erm, eyeball with what can only be described as a shaven Teutonic vulva. In my blind panic I had stumbled into a German nudist colony.

And not just any old nudists. These ones were middle-aged, proud of their bits and militant. As I stood, I felt a dozen pairs of waspish eyes turn to stare at the Britisher pervert with the binoculars. I fear my pleas that I was following a probable Little Ringed Plover would almost certainly have fallen on deaf ears. Surrounded on all sides, there really was no way out. I'm ashamed to admit that I rather buckled under pressure. My only possible escape without a beating and a period of detention in a Greek jail was to hastily discard the bins and pretend I was one of the nob-out gang. A bit like Invasion of the Bodysnatchers, but with Germans rather than corpse-stealing aliens. So I tentatively dropped my drawers, all the while smiling weakly while desperately trying not to cop an accidental eyeful of wrinkled, sun-bronzed cock. I then turned and marched into the welcoming sea, with all the dignity I could muster.

The Germans were mollified, I was mortified.



Some mollified Germans, yesterday



One of the joys of publishing is the occasional opportunity to work puns, in-jokes and alliteration into headlines and crossheads. Editors and subeditors around the world compete to exhibit their mastery of this complex field, the industry's darkest art. The reason I mention this is because one of my favourite newspaper headlines of all time was spawned by an incident similar to the tale I've recounted above. A BBC cameraman trying to film rare bees on a beach got caught and arrested on suspicion of spying on some local naturists: the headline - Beeb Bee Sea Nudes. Majestic punning by The Mirror's subediting team.

Other favourites include Rhino-sore-arse (TV gladiator gets tattoo on his bottom), Super Cally go Ballistic, Celtic are Atrocious, Diniz in the Oven (racing driver Pedro's car catches fire), and the seminal Book Lack in Ongar (flood damage to a library in Essex). Funnily enough, I noticed another classic in the Metro on the Gatwick Express back from the airport. The story: publishers withhold copies of the new Harry Potter book from superstore prior to launch; the headline - Prisoner of Asda-ban.

Now that's genius.




Celebrity spots
Few and far between I'm afraid. Recent lifestyle changes mean I'm spending far less time huddled on street corners to escape the icy wind, with a corresponding fall in opportunities for bumping into Harry Enfield, Ian Hislop and my other regular celebrity stalkers. But there have been a few pearls among the gloom. Highlight of the 'summer' has been comedian Nick Frost outside Tescos, sporting a striking ginger beard. Turns out he'd grown this for his role in execrable BBC sitcom Hyperdrive. A sighting less worthy of mention was bequiffed film critic Mark Kermode (real name Mark Fairy), striding purposefully along Soho Street last week.


Kermode: purposeful



Recommendations
So the Happy Hammers survived in miraculous fashion, the clincher being victory away at Old Trafford, a truly ludicrous result. Sadly our linchpin, the talismanic Carlos Tevez, is off to Man Utd, but never mind - another season of Premiership struggle awaits. Or does it? The bookies have us as short as 4/1 (Paddy Power) to finish in the top six. You'd be mad to take that on after the season we've just had, but a fixture list of Man City (H), Birmingham (A) and Wigan (H) make Paddy Power's 20/1 on West Ham to be top come the end of August a sound investment. I'll also be piling onto the 9/4 Coral are offering for poor old Derby to finish bottom. Almost certain to be hopelessly out of their depth - you're in with the big boys now.

I've finally recovered from the mauling I took on the Ashes last year, and I feel ready to dip a tentative toe back into the muddy waters of cricketing bets. I was impressed with the Indians in the First Test - lucky not to lose they may have been, but their attack is nothing like as toothless as many predicted. I reckon they'll win one of the remaining tests, and Betdirect's 6/1 for the series to end 1-1 is tempting.

The modern marvel that is MySpace. I've been enjoying some mellow French trip-hop. And you should too - give Cyesm a go, who is kindly giving away an album to download.

Return of the hack

Well, I'm back. Sadly I've been working far too hard knocking a book on the natural wonders of the Arctic into shape, and simply haven't had time to bash out my usual weekly stream of nonsense. Sorry about that.

You haven't missed much. Just the usual round of bookish toil, commuter trouble and long and exhausting lunches. Though I did learn how to cook Prawn Pasanda last week, that was jolly. At the Bengal Cuisine restaurant in Brick Lane. You don a fetching sailor's hat (for 'hygiene' purposes - if I had hair long enough to dangle in curry I'd still be dancing with joy now), then go down into the tiny kitchen (staffed by tiny Bangladeshi cooks) where the head chef shows you how to make your main course. Then you go and eat it. Great fun.

But anyway just a catch up for now (as I have to pay the bills somehow), with a return to more traditional drawing-room comedy soon.


Celebrity spots
Some serious celebrity stalking since last we spoke. Where to start? Well, last week I was walking towards Soho Square when I found Paul Whitehouse and - with a degree of inevitability - Harry Enfield causing an obstruction on the public highway, smoking. Fine - so far, so familiar. But things took a sinister turn when I wandered into Eat, the sandwich shop, only to find the two ageing funnymen had followed me in there. Though this does allow me to tell you what they had - Whitehouse went for the tuna baguette, while Enfield plumped controversially for the cream-of-corn soup.

Other comedy spots include a sulky Jack Dee in the Glasshouse pub two tuesdays ago, and I somehow managed to stop myself from smacking unpleasant smug unfunny twat John Sessions in the chops as he strode past the office later in the week - I'm delighted to tell you that Sessions is now grey and fat.


Sessions: face you want to slap



A wander to the paper shop last week yielded rich dividends, as I brushed past a beaming Sir Trevor Brooking who had just been to buy a sandwich and was heading back to the FA. Maybe I should mention that Brooking is my all-time favourite player and is 95% of the reason why I ended up supporting West Ham (so perhaps I should have smacked him in the chops instead).

But despite the Brooking sighting the pick of the month took place last thursday, and for once it was well away from the usual celebrity haunts. Forgive me because its a bit obscure, but I was delighted to see former Grange Hill hearthrob René Zagger stumbling out of The White Horse in Woodford, complete with token blond on arm. A quick Google reminds me that Zagger went on to greater fame as some copper on The Bill.


Zagger: prefers blondes



'Road to Wembley' latest
Well the road to Wembley is over for another year. Plymouth Argyle's defeat in front of the BBC cameras at home to Watford in the quarters saw to that. But Berman and Babbs did find fleeting fame along the way - check out their appearance in the Argyle programme. Click on the image to read more.




Berman and Babbs: not necessarily in that order



Hare Krishna conversational ice-breaker of the week
Another humdinger on Oxford Street last week.

"Hi there! You look very strong!"

Again, words failed me.


Recommendations
Well, who would have thought it? The West Ham comeback has begun, about six months too late. Victory away at Arsenal last week was surely the most ridiculous result of the season. And now suddenly we're three points from safety. The bookies have adapted to our change in fortunes as you'd expect, and we are now 'only' 1/2 to drop to the second tier (Totesport). The thing is, we really do deserve to go down. We're shit.

Anyway, I missed out on passing on my wisdom on the US Masters - surely the finest golf tournament in the world. Never mind. I didn't pick the winner, some anonymous American called Zach Johnson, so you'd have lost your money anyway. Everyone's had a result there. But I've got horse-racing fever, because I'm going next weekend to Chepstow, and next saturday is Grand National day, of course. I recommend Hedgehunter at 14/1 (various).

In other bets, well the French stormed to victory in the Five Nations, and it would have been a magnificent double had the Scots not been so feeble. Never mind. I'm afraid I haven't a clue who won Comic Relief does Fame Academy, only I know it wasn't my 10/1 pick Colin Murray (on whose elimination all interest in this tepid trash naturally evaporated).

Try LCD Soundsystem. I did and it changed my life.

Total eclipse of the art

There's going to be an eclipse tonight. Apparently the moon will turn red (or possibly blue, I can't remember which). I might make an effort to get out of my chair after Match of the Day, move to the window and peer out, though I probably won't bother. I know I should be buoyant and enthused by this celestial extravaganza, but there are mitigating circumstances. With virtually the entire population of southern Britain, I scurried down to Cornwall for the 'astronomical highlight of the century', the proper eclipse of 1999. It took about three days to get there, trundling down the A30 in my mate's crappy old Honda Civic, followed by a night sleeping in a field. With chilling inevitability, the day of the eclipse saw a solid bank of grey cloud stretching from Land's End to the Tamar and all points between, so you couldn't actually see the sun. Hmmm. Undaunted and casting aside our now-useless 'eclipse sunglasses', we climbed over a large fence and scaled a mountain of spoil from a china clay pit, the only high ground available above the featureless Cornish terrain.

We found a good spot, it got dark for a minute or so, we all 'whooped' (well some of us did), and then it got light again. Bit of a disappointment all round really, though there was some cheer when we discovered that Eastenders, in their wisdom, had decided to pre-record an episode with Ian Beale supposedly in Cornwall on the day (to propose to someone, if memory serves me right), using archive footage from an eclipse somewhere else in the world where you could actually see the fucking sun. Heh. It was poor old Patrick Moore I felt sorry for; not taking any chances, the be-monocled stargazer had pre-booked his hotel room in 1958. Now that's what I call a let-down.

Comet Hale-Bopp was nice though.




Comet Hale-Bopp, yesterday.


Anyway today I had a wander down the South Bank, full of the joys of Spring. The number of 'human statues' along this stretch of the riverbank has increased exponentially to reach plague proportions, with rival statue cartels battling hard to get the best pitches. In my humble opinion, this has to be the lowliest of the street-entertainment franchises on offer. At least the assorted jugglers and musicians clogging the Queen's highway in this part of town have some discernible talent; these silver-sprayed twats seem to think that they deserve a financial reward for keeping very still and occasionally moving very slowly. Don't, repeat don't, give them money; they'll only blow it on WD40.

And so on to St Paul's Cathedral (to see The Duke of Wellington's tomb - he really did have a magnificent conk), then back across the Wobbly Bridge and into the Tate. I like this place - always good for a laugh, and not just at the direst excesses of 20th century art. Its wonderful to see people just sitting staring at a blue piece of canvas, trying to explain hidden meaning to a bored, restless partner who just fancied popping in for a cup of tea and a bun.

But I suppose its all subjective, that's what makes art enjoyable. Having said that, some of the artists who's stuff now hangs revered and resplendent in the Tate really were just taking the piss.




Picasso's Bowl of Fruit, Violin and Bottle: what a cunt.


Not for me, that one. But I do enjoy the mischievous and the downright fun; I really like Gilbert and George's cheeky murals, for example, and its hard not to love Warhol or Roy Lichtenstein (who, incidentally, has a sandgrouse named after him), or the art intelligentsia's current flavour of the month, graffiti master Banksy. I just know what I like, and it doesn't consist of squiggles, wonky lines or random splodges.


Bet Brian Sewell's shitting himself.



This week's celebrity spots
None. So instead some West Ham news. As I'm sure you're well aware from my increasingly desperate and frantic screed on the subject, this season has been a fiasco; doomed to relegation and humiliated by teams like Reading, Chesterfield and Watford, with inadequate, overpaid players in rehab for gambling addiction, inadequate, overpaid players on bail for assault, endless injuries to new players and the club facing a crippling points deduction for fielding ineligible Argentine flops. It simply can't get any worse. But this story did raise a laugh in the midst of the gloom. Earlier this week, Upton Park was evacuated after a mysterious white powder was sent through the post to doom-faced chairman Eggert Magnusson; staff not unreasonably assumed that a fan had finally seen enough and had flipped, deciding to wipe out the club via the medium of anthrax. But no. It turns out that the rogue powder was, in fact, bath salts; these were sent (I kid you not) by a kindly Greek monk, who had seen poor old Eggert slumped in despair after yet another thrashing and thought he needed a good, long soak. You couldn't make it up.


Recommendations
With the 'plucky' Hammers now 1/25 (TotalBet) to go down, I can't face further footballing bets. The sight of that was enough to drive me over the edge. Having said that, we'll probably beat Spurs tomorrow (11/5, Bet365) now our fate's more-or-less guaranteed. Especially if our agents manage to feed them lasagne again.

On to cheerier matters. Tonight saw the start of Comic Relief does Fame Academy. A diabolical show, which I'm delighted to say I mostly missed. Shaun Williamson's the 2/1 favourite; sorry Barry, no chance, you're too good. The public never votes for the semi-talented in trash like this. My pick is Colin Murray at an enticing 10/1 (William Hill), who is on just the right side of atrocious, which is where you want to be for celebrity talent-show dominance.

Echogram will be big: trust me.

Turkey trouble

Blogging is easiest when you've something to rant against. But generally I'm quite jolly at the moment and nothing's really got my goat, apart from Bernard fucking Matthews and his dubious turkey-farming practices. For Matthews its a few weeks bad publicity and a minor dip in sales - he survived relatively unscathed from the fondly remembered 'turkey twizzlers' fiasco, and I expect he'll do the same again. What the public doesn't realise is that its the birder in the field who is stuck in the firing line; thanks to this poultry-rearing prick I now have a statistically higher risk of death by goose shit than I do of winning the lottery, and I never thought I'd have to say that.





Matthews in happier times: They're flu-tiful.


Talking of which, I was having a browse on The Sun's website the other day (as you do) and found myself drifting onto Mystic Meg's page. I was interested to see what the old hag is up to now the lottery work's dried up. Astrology - the revered art of star-gazing - may have a long and ancient history, harking back to the systems of celestial omens championed in Ancient Greece and Persia, but that doesn't necessarily make it anything other than bunkum. Having said that, I couldn't help having a look for, er, research purposes:


You have the brilliant ideas and the staying power to see plans through this time. Your ruling planet Pluto will also help you see the difference between being reckless and chasing opportunities. Single? A different kind of love could be on offer when a pal plays matchmaker.


Meg - who in a less enlightened age would have been burnt at the stake - then helpfully offers to tell me more on what the future holds if I ring her exclusive hotline (at only 75p a minute). Thank goodness for Pluto anyway. Luckily I'm rarely accused of being reckless when chasing opportunities, and I have this insignificant planetoid - so pointless its actually been demoted from planetary status - to thank for that. More disturbing is the 'different kind of love' on offer. Answers on a postcard on what that might be. Whatever it is, I suspect its going to chafe a bit.




Mystic Meg: studies Uranus.


Delving deeper into the hatstand world of the tabloid horoscope, it turned out that The Mirror's effort (author unnamed) was far more pleasing, and they even find it in their hearts to mention their greatest rivals. Hard to find anything too controversial here:

THE Sun's journey through the watery sign of Pisces makes this a gentle, inward time. Creative expression is important for you during this period, as otherwise there's a tendency to let your energy be expressed in a negative way. You know what's good for you, so make sure you devote time to this.


Meanwhile, The Express's Justin Toper (who 'trained at the renowned Faculty of Astrological Studies') goes with:

You may decide to delve deep into your pocket. But this is a day when losers sulk and love and loss go hand in hand. In truth, you couldn't possibly have predicted how lucky you would be.

I couldn't predict how lucky I'd be. Presumably this oaf Toper could have, though, if I'd rung his premium-rate number (75p per minute). Cheeky bastard.

So in conclusion, the same set of stars and planets, in the same position for all, yet three different predictions, one involving inner calm, one requiring me to flash the cash, and the other offering the tantalising prospect of no-holds-barred anal love. Is it any wonder astrology is treated with contempt? They could at least have a ten-minute huddle before going to press to compare visions, cross-reference star charts and get their sodding story straight. I say ditch this twaddle from the tabloids - the papers that made Britain great. Stick a P45 in the post and see if Mystic Meg manages to predict that.



This week's celebrity spots
A good one last week. Some chums and I were enjoying a classic publishing lunch in a Soho restaurant when we realised that comedienne Catherine Tate was feasting quietly at the next table. We spotted her, started earwigging the conversation between Tate and her agent, were spotted ourselves, and were then summarily glared at. Tate has impressive thruppenies in real life.


Recommendations
A hatful of recommendations this week.

With the French soaring (like a magnificent coquerel) at the top of the Six Nations championship table and the Welsh struggling for form at the bottom, last week's bets are looking good for a healthy return. Still suspect it might all go wrong with Wales v Italy. Never mind. This week I'm turning my attention to the ICC Cricket World Cup. The first round is pretty hopeless, with clashes such as Australia v Scotland, India v Bermuda and England v Canada hardly stirring the soul. My pick instead is West Indies to win the tournament (each way) - they've drifted out to 18/2 (Mansion), will enjoy fervent support in the first World Cup to be held on the islands, and have a straightforward qualifying group; only the combustible Pakistanis will offer any sort of challenge, and they've just been annihilated in South Africa.

Switching from the pantomime of sport to some genuine theatre, its Oscars season again. But who gives two shits about that rigged, corporate-sponsored, back-slapping, American-biased nonsense; much more fun are the Golden Raspberry's, alternative Oscars celebrating the very worst that Hollywood has to offer, which brings us full-circle back to turkeys. In the Worst Film category there can only be one winner - Little Man. Basic premise: midget jewel thief pretends to be a baby to steal a diamond from a childless couple. All manner of hilarity ensues. One of the politer reviews from the BBC sums up this new low in cinematic history neatly:

"Taken on its own terms, Little Man isn't bad. In the same way that, as diseases go, cholera is pretty darned successful."

6/4 favourite (VCbet) to scoop the least-wanted award in showbusiness - says it all.

Those Danes can rock! With an electro-twist. Check out Kiona here.

Join Commander Swift's much-needed campaign against textspeak (or is it txtspk? Who knows with these semi-literate twats) here.

Fun on The Farm

Today has been scientifically proven (presumably by 'brain boffins') to be the most depressing day of the year, with vast numbers of people bunking off work at a total cost to the economy of 27 million pounds, this mass exodus being ascribed to factors such as cold, wet, awful weather, spiralling Christmas-induced debt and months without a state-sanctioned holiday to look forward to. Well, it seemed alright to me. I finished reading my book on the siblings of George III and their antics on the tube in to work, enjoyed a long and hearty lunch talking to a man about moths, and the lady in the coffee shop gave me a free cake. A great start to the week.

Even more joyous is the fact that the Big Brother race row is still rumbling on. How long's it been now - two weeks? Surely we've seen and heard enough. But no, every day there's more footage of weeping ex-contestants desperately trying to fan the cooling embers of their moribund careers with laughable claims of denial. I must admit to a frisson of joy every time I see the odious, repugnant, wretched Jade Goody scraping for forgiveness. I know its wrong as she's been skewered in the press and her career's over but ... well, you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Its nice to be nice, but if you are as nasty as she was you deserve to get a good pasting from the fourth estate.

My friend Spoons and I enjoyed a pleasant Sunday lunch the other day, and we were reminiscing about classic reality TV we've enjoyed over the years. I'll accept that maybe our lives are not as rich and fruitful as they might be. But anyway, we were unanimous in our choice of the greatest reality show of all time - The Farm. In which a group of celebrities lived on, erm, a farm. Channel 5's short-lived attempt to latch onto the BB generation ran to just two series, but what televisual gold it delivered, despite universal critical derision. The show is best-known - with some justification - for the moment when Beckham-shagging slagbag Rebecca Loos wanked off a boar, but that was just one in a firmament of stellar TV moments. The cast-list ranged from old pros like Lionel Blair and Keith Harris & Orville (I hate that duck) through genuine Z-list celebs like Emma 'B', the lovely Debbie McGee, Vanilla Ice, porn star Ron Jeremy and legendary dogger Stanley Victor Collymore.

Personal highlights? I loved the fact that Flava Flav from Public Enemy kept his ridiculous giant clock round his neck for the whole of his time on the farm, even when mucking out the pigs, while Spoons went for the moment during a heated row when Lionel Blair called the 'Poison Dwarf', Dallas's Charlene Tilton, a "fucking cunt". Priceless.




Blair: clashed with Dwarf.


Sadly, The Farm is no more - a crying shame. They should definitely bring it back. If you had a choice between seeing the soul of humanity ripped open and laid bare on Big Brother, with bullying, racism, white trash and people being told to 'fuck off home', or watching Vanilla Ice riding a hog round a farmyard, I know which I'd plump for.


'Road to Wembley' update
Well we travelled the short distance to Barnet as Berman and Babbs's cup odyssey continued last saturday. Barnet is one of my favourite lower-league clubs, with a small but fervent support, but unfortunately we couldn't get tickets in the home end and had to support the villains of the piece in my last blog entry, Plymouth Argyle. Astonishingly, Barnet's midfield general is the truly ancient Andy Hessenthaler; the Daily Mirror rather cruelly said that it would be nice if Barnet could make it all the way to Wembley as he was there when it opened first time round. Poor old Hessenthaler did a lot of creative pointing but didn't actually make it out of the centre circle for 90 minutes. Not a classic cup tie, this; the result was never really in doubt, hard as Barnet tried, while Plymouth sealed a comfortable win with a truly stunning goal from one of their young players (on loan from Chelsea, who it seems do actually have a youth policy), who ran the length of the field, leaving defenders in his wake, before slotting home neatly. Plymouth are at home to Derby in the next round; twenty minutes round the North Circular is one thing, but a seven-hour trip to Plymouth is a different matter entirely. Frankly, sod that.


This week's celebrity spots
Three this week. The first two are a bit feeble, I will admit; the actor who played sinister Todd Unctious in Father Ted outside the Private Eye office, followed by boxing commentator and celebrity loudmouth Steve Bunce in Costa Coffee; unsurprisingly, Bunce was shouting into his mobile phone. But these were comfortably trumped by a corker this evening on the way home outside Waterstones - Animal Magic's Terry Nutkins. Nutkins - officially Britain's favourite nonidigit since Dave Allen's sad demise - still seems to be living the 70s dream, wearing as he was a quite splendid tartan kaftan.




Nutkins: kept sealion in bathtub.


Recommendations
Gambling's a mug's game. Or is it? Well, I've been on here for quite a while now, bashing out recommendations week in week out, and I decided it was time for a six-monthly performance review. If someone had put a tenner on each of my suggestions, they would now be £220 up, a total boosted by Serena Williams storming home in the tennis last week - this despite such gems as suggesting West Ham to win the Premiership at 500/1 (fighting a losing battle against relegation) and England to draw the First Test against Australia (lost by a mind-boggling 277 runs). I am fairly gobsmacked by this - even I'm not stupid enough to back up most of my recommendations with hard cash. This week I'm turning my attention to Rugby. I'll admit this is not my field of expertise, but I fancy the French to do well at 5/2 for the tournament and the Welsh to have a stinker and come bottom, at a tasty 25/1. This, however, will require them to lose at home to Italy. Hmmm.
Some class electronic pop here. I think its called VogueTunes, but your guess is as good as mine. Good stuff though.

The Oxford Roadshow(down)

I've suddenly got a lot of time on my hands. I'm hoping this will lead to a revolution in creative writing the likes of which has never been seen before, with volumes of wit-spiced narrative disseminated to the furthest reaches of the web to become the toast of the blogging community. Alternatively, I might just waffle on about football and celebrities, as I usually do.

Tempted though I am to bang on about Big Brother and those three ghastly harridans - the abominable and newly career-shorn Goody, Teddy's bimbo and the fat one from S-Club - they've enjoyed more than enough column inches already. Not that I watch Big Brother any more ... taking a stance of the highest moral probity, I've turned my back on the show. Its on now as I type, in fact. Actually that's a lie, but I feel I really ought to ignore it, if that's any consolation. Spimmy does not endorse bullying of any form, fun though it undoubtedly is.

But I digress. I've come over all Ronny Corbett. Now that would be something to set the video for.


No, actually I wanted to tell you about something that happened to me today. Oxford Street is well known for many things - expensive tourist shops, people handing out leaflets for language schools, folks holding up portable adverts for Subway, that sort of thing - but its also a Hare Krishna hotspot. I think their HQ is opposite Starbucks - its hard to imagine two organisations more diametrically opposed - though why I don't know; the rent alone must be astronomical. Its a green property in Monopoly, for goodness' sake. Old Kent Road or Whitechapel I could understand.

I'm quite fond of them, though, as they seem an inoffensive and pleasant enough bunch - can there be a more noble objective in life than to spread peace and harmony through meditation and prayer? Though the endless afternoon chanting through a loud-hailer, accompanied by the beat of drums and the tinkle of tambourines, can get a little trying, especially in summer when you have a window open and you're frantically trying to edit text of enormous complexity on the workings of the avian respiratory system, or something. But generally relations between us are cordial, although they do keep trying to convert me. I can't think of many people who look less ready for a damascene conversion to Hare Krishna-ism than me, but my doom-faced scientific countenance matters little, it seems. If it has two legs and moves they'll have a crack. Today, for example, I was accosted on the walk home by a youngish chap in full garb - beige tunic, skirt, sandals, shaved head, the lot, bearing pamphlets. As I meandered past he said to me

"Hi! I like your glasses!"

What do you say to that? I like your skirt? I was flummoxed. Making the fatal mistake of stopping to think of a suitable answer, all I could manage was a weak

"Aren't your feet cold in those?"

He must have sensed his quarry was on the back foot. Moving in for the kill, he added

"I also like your jacket"

Was he going to mug me or flatter me into submission? There was no adequate response. Caving in, I mumbled a quick "erm... thanks" before scarpering, with the poor fellow following me for a fair way to tell me that he just wanted to give me some books....

I felt a bit mean.

Maybe that's the idea. But you have to admire his grim persistence in the absence of any possibility of success. I think we need more of this bulldog spirit in Britain today – pick one in the England cricket team, for example. West Ham could do with about eleven.


Celebrity spots
The Mighty Boosh were having a fag outside my office on Monday. I was earwigging their conversation; the dull one is just as dull in real life, while the trendy one that most of the girls fancy really is a classic weed in leather.
I've had a number of queries (OK, one) regarding Roxanne, former lead singer of the band Th'Faith Healers, who I described the other day as 'really fit'. Well, what do you think? Please send me your views, either a) yes, b) no or c) don't care. While I'll accept she's perhaps an acquired taste I remain firmly in the 'a' camp. I met her once, donkeys years ago of course, and shuddered with hormone-induced teenage lust as she signed my t-shirt with the legend 'Keep Th'Faith'. There is indeed a light that never goes out.




Tasty temptress or rough as a butcher's dog? You decide.



'Road to Wembley' latest
I received a text-photo a few days ago from Gavin showing the main stand at Home Park, Plymouth. In the rain. On a tuesday night. The poor, sad bastard. Well, Plymouth won and they are playing lowly but lovable Barnet (at Underhill) in the next round - I shall be joining the lads for that one I expect. Ho hum.

Recommendations
Spectacular successes last week, with Barnet, Cardiff and Martin 'The Wolfman' Adams all coming in at longish odds. I am on a roll, but with the darts drifting to a dramatic close last week its time to search for fresh fields (to gambol in). Namely tennis. With Federer a laughable 4/11 to win the Australian Open, its to the Ladies game that we must turn for value, and my pick is Serena Wiliams at a healthy 4/1 (Pinnacle), who struggled a bit in her last match but remains a serious contender.
I like The View: too late with this recommendation as it seems they have already made it reasonably big. Bravo.

The Road to Wembley (via Peterborough)

After the hiatus of December I'm back blogging with a vengeance, on a one-man crusade to clog up the web with as much tat as I can produce. This week's roadkill on the information super-highway is another tale of derring-do from the lower reaches of the football league.

A couple of my friends, Gavin Berman and Daniel Babbs, are doing 'The Road to Wembley'. For the uninitiated, this involves picking a tie in the early stages of the competition and following the winners of each match, all the way to the final in May. This requires dedication and commitment way beyond that of the average supporter. They started off at, erm, Barkingside vs Clacton Town, I think, in the Extra Preliminary Round, and have since visited places as diverse as Tranmere, Margate and Woking. Today, of course, was third round day - a magical time for lovers of cup football everywhere, with shocks, spills, romance and drama as the big teams entered the fray. Sadly not for Berman and Babbs, though - their personal oddyssey had reached the dizzying heights of Peterborough United vs Plymouth Argyle. Having already dabbled in cup football this season (Gillingham vs Bromley and, seminally, Hitchin Town vs St Albans), my friend Spoons and I were more than happy to join in the fun.

First, though, a hellish trip to Peterborough in monsoon conditions, followed by the usual problems of actually finding the ground amidst a nightmare of roundabouts, pointless chicanes and housing estates. Peterborough's main selling point seems to be that its 'quite near' a few rather nicer places, and London is just about commutable - that's it. But never mind the scenery, a quick pint and we were on the terrace - a proper, old fashioned terrace with singing, shouting and abuse, just like back in the good old days.

Plymouth were red-hot favourites for this, being two divisions higher up the league ladder than their lowly hosts. They are, however, sponsored by Ginsters; I can only assume the team receives a healthy stipend of free pasties and pies as they were, with the greatest respect, fucking appalling. The first half featured some of the worst football I've ever seen, with neither side able to string more than two passes together, and the spectacle was hardly helped by a pedantic and officious ref. The second half was no better, but it was enlivened by an incident of pure and tragic farce. First, an Argyle player was sent off after receiving two yellow cards; almost immediately after this setback, their speedy striker fell theatrically in the box, conning the ref and gaining a penalty. This was saved spectacularly by the home keeper to general rejoicing, but the ref made them take it again for 'enroachment' - you can imagine the abuse that triggered. The Plymouth player tucked the penalty home second time around, but then seriously lost it with a genuine goal-related brain malfunction. Sauntering over to the massed and enraged home support, he cupped one hand to his ear, apeing the scum from the higher divisions that regularly do this to annoy opposition supporters (notably El-Hadji Diouf). He then placed a finger to his lips, blew a kiss, and finally did a long 'Klinsmann' dive. It all kicked off. The Peterborough fans (or 'Posh' as they are known) responded with a volley of coins as a prelude to the moment of the match - a perfectly flighted half-full plastic bottle, which may well have been 'refilled' with second-hand Coke for the occasion, came from somewhere just behind us, arcing a perfect parabola to smack the idiot square on the bonce. Its not big, its not clever, but it was very funny and the twat was asking for it. Stung, he turned, charged towards the jubilant terrace and, to coin a phrase, 'offered out' the entire home support, screaming 'COME ON THEN YOU FUCKING WANKERS!'. The locals responded with an El-Hadji Diouf tribute of their own by coating him and a few unfortunate team-mates with a film of well-deserved flob. Fantastic stuff.

After this outrage it seemed inevitable that the baddies would hold on to the win, but no, Peterborough scored a good goal to set up a tense final five minutes. 1-1 and honours even. I will not be going to the replay, I'm afraid - a seven-hour trip to Plymouth on a cold, wet wednesday evening in January doesn't sound that much fun, to be honest. Bad luck, Berman and Babbs.


Celebrity spots
None. Nobody is in London at the moment - the rest of the city is bunking off work. Its like a ghost town. Even the ubiquitous Harry Enfield has been conspicuous by his absence.


Enfield: absent.


Recommendations
First some music I've enjoyed rediscovering over the last few weeks. Babes in Toyland were virtually ignored when they were actually around (early 90s) and are now only ever mentioned as being a band that Courtney (Fucking) Love used to be in. But they are long overdue some critical acclaim. Another band from that era worth giving a go is Th'Faith Healers; they too never got the fame their fast, bass-heavy rock deserved. Plus their lead singer was really fit.
As for my cup bets, well Stockport lost at Watford (despite taking the lead), while Barnet v Colchester was rained off. Yes, rained off. I'm still hopeful for Cardiff to get a result at Spurs tomorrow. Switching to the darts, I am backing Martin 'The Wolfman' Adams to win the BDO World title at a healthy 4/1 (Bluesq.com). Always the bridesmaid but, until now, never the bride - will 2007 be The Wolfman's year?


Adams: fearsome tungsten warrior.

Addendum (added Sunday)
Just to prove I'm not some hopeless one-eyed oaf, here is what legendary Plymouth manager Ian Holloway had to say in today's Sunday Mirror (under the excellent headline 'Posh show their bottle'):

Ian Holloway blasted his side's goalscoring celebrations after a Peterborough fan threw a plastic bottle at this rejoicing players.
Argyle's players dived to the floor in a gleeful scrum yards from the home fans after Hasney Aljofree's twice-taken penalty had given them the lead in the 74th minute.
Plymouth boss Holloway said "I've had a go at my players over that celebration - except for Lilian Nalis who was trying to get them back to the halfway line.
"We should have run back and not alienated the crowd. We should have taken the sting out of it. It was disgraceful. I don't know if my player was hit by a bottle. I'd have hit him with a bottle myself if I'd been a home fan."

Me too. Hats off to Holloway.

Beating the blues with Big Brother

I haven't, erm, 'blogged' for a while. That's partly because I went on holiday to India for the best part of a month, followed by Christmas, when frankly I had better things to do. You must understand.


Its been a dismal week so far. Raining, cold, skint, and back at work for the first time since November, with England destroyed in the Ashes and West Ham humiliated at the Madejski Stadium, Reading and seemingly doomed to the misery of Championship football next season. I think I definitely have the January blues. Things have got so bad that I found I was actually looking in the paper on the way to work to find out when Celebrity Big Brother was on this evening.

You know you're in trouble when this is the highlight of your day.

And true to form it was diabolical. Sadly rumours that Grotbags was going to be on it were wide of the mark.




Grotbags: sad absence.



Instead we get Leo Sayer desperately trying to kickstart a career that stumbled terminally in 1978, 'H' from Steps desperately trying to kickstart a career that stumbled terminally in 1998, Ken Russell, Teddy Sheringham's dim-but-busty girlfriend, Cleo fucking Rocos, and Face from the A-Team. Oh, and talking of faces, Jermaine Jackson, proving that Michael isn't the only member of that ill-starred family addicted to lifts, nips and tucks. Plus that bint from the Sunday Mirror.




Bint: unwelcome presence.



And a few other people that nobody has ever heard of. Who's going to win? Face is a shoe-in surely. Checking the odds he's 9/2 second favourite, behind Jo O'Meara (4/1), whoever she may be. Odds are not given for Face literally getting behind the fragrant Miss O'Meara and giving her a good seeing to though.

God I hate this show. Every year I swear to stay away but it sucks you in. The great unwashed can't say no to car-crash telly. For example, we've already had a flash of Ken Russell's withered, 80-year old cock. It would take a stronger man than me to resist a peek at that.


Celebrity spots
Yet again Dean Street in Soho is comedy central; Enfield again, wandering past the pub - I have now passively smoked one of his fags. While in the rain just before christmas, a win-double; a doom-faced Hugh Dennis hurrying past Pizza Express, followed by Ian Hislop outside Tescos.

This week's recommendations
Having looked further into this, PaddyPower are offering odds on Big Brother sex, and not necessarily between Benedict and O'Meara either. But only 20/1. Scandalous - I shall look elsewhere for gambling pleasure this week. Some decent bets in the Cup on saturday: Barnet to beat Colchester Utd at 100/30 (various) is among the better bets for an upset, and I'm almost tempted to nibble at Stockport to win at Watford at 9/1 (Stan James). More realistically, Cardiff to draw with Spurs (5/2, Betdirect) looks a good price.
See what birders do in India here.
Learn to love Freestylers old school grooves. I liked it so much I put them on my main page.