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.