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
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
2 comments:
My favourite will always be Jason DonerVan.
I am in genuine awe
Post a Comment