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.