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.