Ayr on a shoestring / Majorcalamity

This week, a tale of two trips.


It was mid-October, and my friend Spoons and I were trying to work out where to go for my annual birthday treat, which is almost always a journey to some godforsaken footballing backwater. Last year saw a jaunt up the M1 to Luton Town vs Brentford - exotic enough, but this time around I thought I'd push the boat out a bit. "How about one of the Birmingham clubs ... Walsall?". Spoons countered with Lincoln City. 'Notts County?' 'Rochdale!' We were now in dangerous territory. Before I knew it, our risky game of bluff and double-bluff had landed us about as far north as we could get - Ayr United vs East Fife. It was stalemate; neither of us blinked. In a trice plane tickets were booked and railway timetables consulted. Somerset Park, Ayr, here we come ...

Anyway, the day of reckoning arrived. No pulling out now. Its November, and we are going to fucking Scotland for the day, for the gag.

I needn't have worried. Here are some highlights:



Pre-match adventures in Glasgow: the world's worst Eminem impersonator, next to a statue of Donald Dewar, would you believe; healthy eating, Scottish style; some genuine Scotsmen.



This was extraordinary. For some reason there's a blue Police Box in Glasgow's main street. Then this bloke sauntered up to it with his wife (top) ... a future incarnation, perhaps? When he saw the long lens of Spimmy he certainly scurried away sharply (bottom).



The crowds thronging to Somerset Park (l); the Home of Good Football (r).



We shuffled round the side for the second half; the East Fife faithful can be seen huddled for warmth in the distance.



When in Rome ... deep-fried Haggis and chips for tea.



By complete and utter contrast, I have just returned from a week in Majorca, having shelled out a small fortune for a spot of winter sun. I carefully packed my swimming shorts, sombrero and sun cream in anticipation, but as Palma airport hove into view the captain of the aeroplane gleefully reported that the local temperature was 'a chilly 3°c'. Things went downhill from there, really. Where to start? Well, I was staying in a place called Magaluf which, in summer, is better known as 'Shagaluf'. There was no shagging going on when I was there, believe me; the place was almost completely deserted, with all the shops and bars long-since boarded up. Virtually the only other people around were a coach party of Spanish pensioners who did nothing but play shove h'apenny (or perhaps its 'shove p'sata') in the hotel lobby all week, and a gaggle of teenaged Spaniards in the room next to me, who liked a little singalong until 3am (and then started again at 8).

There was also a small band of very old northerners in town, almost all of whom were to be found watching Coronation Street or Sky Sports in the only bar that remained open, the Prince William Pub (next door to Prince Harry's Kebabs). It took me a while to figure this out, but these ancient ex-pats all smoked, which explains the sole reason why they're there. Another winter of enforced al fresco smoking back home would probably have finished most of them off; in Majorca there'd be another Civil War if the government tried to ban smoking indoors. So the ageing smokers of northern England head south for the winter so they can puff away in the warm to their heart's content. A rare example of smoking actually prolonging lives.

Literally the only high-point of this fiasco was a raft of quite bizarre place names. These were accumulated during my increasingly desperate drives around the island in search of somewhere to do a spot of birding out of the icy wind, ceaseless rain and, on one memorable afternoon, snow; Puigpunyent was good, Lluc (pronounced 'yuck') I enjoyed, but my favourite for a host of reasons was always going to be Bini-faldo. Unfortunately, even the joy of motoring was soon denied to me, as the local hoodies successfully resuscitated the near-extinct crime of nicking the hub caps off my hire car. Imagine my delight at having to explain that (in pidgin-Spanish) to the hire car company and, subsequently, to an uncomprehending, gun-toting Guardia Civil.


So in conclusion, if you're at a loose end in late November, go to the east coast of Scotland - its braw. Don't go to Majorca, its quite unbelivably fucking shit, unless you feel a desperate need to see Black Vultures, Audouin's Gull or Marmora's Warbler. Which, I'll accept, is unlikely.



Celebrity spots
As we scrambled through passport control at Prestwick on the way home from our Scottish extravaganza, I felt a nudge from Spoons who pointed me in the direction of ex-West Ham and Scotland international Christian Dailly. So we went to say hello. He now plays for Rangers (and presumably still lives in Plaistow, or something) but there's none of the trappings of the millionaire footballer's lifestyle for our Christian; Easyjet was good enough for him. He seemed reasonably pleasant. I didn't mention that I'd seen him score not one but two comedy own-goals during his long and unhappy spell at West Ham, nor that he comfortably makes most Hammers fans all-time worst XI.

In other news, I was jubilant on Friday morning when I bumped into former Bucks Fizz star Cheryl Baker, getting on the tube at Tottenham Court Road. I wanted to tell her how her skirt-removing antics on Eurovision had been a crucial and formative part of my sexual awakening, and how much I enjoyed Record Breakers. But she looked grumpy, so I let her be.



Baker: big in the eighties.


Recommendations
As I write, England have somehow managed to lose the first test by an outrageous 6 wickets, despite setting a victory target of a near-impossible 387. Ludicrous. India to win the series 2-0 is now a virtual certainty unless it pisses down, and a shattered and demoralised England have no chance (7/1, Coral). In short, don't waste your money on cricket. Its the depths of winter, for gods sake, and fucking freezing outdoors. The Englishman in December generally sticks to football, rugby and grumbling, but our European brethren love to head outdoors and get stuck in whatever the weather, so let's take a look at some true winter sports. This week the Ski Jumping World Cup moves on to Engelberg, Switzerland, where I recommend an each-way punt on the flying Austrian, Thomas Morgenstern, at 14/1 (Bet365), while for those who prefer their skiing to be slightly more horizontal, a tenner on Axel Teichmann to romp home in front of his home crowd in Düsseldorf in the Cross Country Skiing World Championship (7/1, Bet365) represents a sound investment.

Winters describe themselves as a 'three-piece power trio'. Just like the classic Mötörhead line up of Lemmy, Fast Eddie and 'Philthy' Phil Taylor, but with fewer warts. Have a listen.

Oval Land and Sea

Another funny old week. Endless rows with dumbo authors, a distinct absence of louche women to romp with and a disastrous trip to see the Happy Hammers (1-0 up till the 81st minute, lost 3-1), while the nation continues its seemingly inexorable slide into devastating recession. Its enough to push even the most cheerful among us to consider selling up and starting a Cypriot goat farm instead. Has to be an option. Incidentally, I actually dangled this carrot of a future life in the sun in the direction of a shapely young lady friend of mine a few weeks back. Her withering response was that she would be unable to join me in this exciting venture unless I could guarantee the goats would be non-allergenic, as animal hair makes her sneeze. This successfully put me in my place.

There is some better news knocking about to lift our rain-sodden spirits, though. Lewis Hamilton's magnificent triumph in the Formula One championship, for a start. Especially the bit where the Ferrari pit crew began to celebrate their hard-fought championship victory ... ah, hang on. Like most people I don't really give a toss about Formula One, but it would have taken the stoniest of hearts not to laugh at that. Well done Timo Glock.

Then there's the US presidential election, of course. Sadly Paris Hilton didn't make it all the way to the White House, not this time anyway. I did feel a bit sorry for dear old John McCain - the Bruce Forsyth of American politics - as his campaign was truly, astonishingly hopeless, and his rather gracious speech of concession was barely noticed amidst the worst excesses of Obamania. Anyway, we all love Obama, and in my case not just for his progressive policies and electrifying oratory. It turns out - and this is not a wind up - that Barack Obama, the US President Elect, supports West Ham United FC. Unbelievable.

One of many things we have in common, of course. Apparently he has extended family in Kent, and on a trip over in the late nineties (when, even more bizarrely, Obama went on a boozy stag night in Wokingham) they imposed a trip to Upton Park on him, the poor sod. I rather like the thought of the world's most powerful man spending an afternoon in the company of Steve Lomas, John Moncur and Trevor Sinclair.

Anyway, it turns out that he's followed us loosely ever since. So in January, when Obama's freshly installed in the Oval Office and supposed to be sorting out welfare reform, insurgency in Iraq and a national debt of ten trillion dollars, we now know there's a reasonable chance he'll be wondering why Luis Boa Morte is still getting picked ahead of Matthew Etherington, and worrying about how to solve a problem like Carlton Fucking Cole. Its an Obamination alright.




"Can we stay up? Yes we can!"


Celebrity spots
Two relatively strong sightings to tell you about. First Harry Hill last Thursday, outside Pret a Minger on Frith Street. A classic 'jizz' based ID (see blogs passim), with Hill in baseball cap and anorak to resist the remorseless November rain. Secondly, grizzled Geordie actor Jimmy Nail, outside the gay bar on the corner of Soho Street. We exchanged glances.

Its been a mixed postbag this week. Pete E. from Washington DC whetted my appetite with boasts of making a drunken twat of himself in front of an unnamed celebrity. However, when challenged, it transpired that the 'star' in question was someone called 'Murray from Flight of the Conchords'. I was underwhelmed. However, kudos go to Lionkiller from Woodford. Following on from my repeated sightings of Martin Fowler's buckle-faced stalker in and around W1, Lionkiller reports going head-to-head with Fowler himself at an unlicensed high-stakes poker game in Walthamstow. Lionkiller goes on to complain that Fowler "... folded about 30 hands on the trot in a £20 tournament ... I was amazed that anyone could play that tight". The devil's in the detail.


Recommendations
Poor old Russell Brand. One slip and he's toast. This tawdry Daily Mail-inspired witch hunt has dominated the news agenda all month. I'd be amazed if any of the 27,000 morons who 'complained' either listened to the show or really, in their heart of hearts, gives two shits about Manuel and his sensibilities. It does, however, give them a chance to take Jonathan Ross down a peg or two - how dare he earn six million quid a year? And then there's Russell Brand. How dare he have all that sex, all that lovely, filthy sex? Its just envy - the nastiest of all the deadly sins - of two people who are richer, more attractive and more talented than they'll ever be. Well, I love fast, fearsome wits. Brand is a true master of the English language, creative and flamboyant, and he should be cherished; instead he's been crucified by the bigots, the bandwagon-jumpers and the BBC. What I've found most surprising has been the response of fellow telly folk - Brand must have really upset, well, most of them. Ian Hislop, for example, launched an extraordinary tirade, when its his show that'll be next for the chop, now 'edgy' comedy is officially on the cusp of extirpation. It won't be long before there's nothing left bar Last of the Summer Wine and Hyacinth Bucket - now there's a real satanic slut.




Bouquet: strumpet.


Russell Brand went too far with some old actor, and subsequently apologised. The Daily Mail, on the other hand, was once a big fan of that marvellous Herr Hitler, and thought those Blackshirts were a jolly decent bunch. In who's eyes does the salt of public opinion really deserve to be flung? Sorry to bang on; as you can probably tell I'm very annoyed, and doubly disgruntled as I still seem to be a lone voice, more or less. Anyway, Brand to defy the odds and become the new Doctor Who at 100/1 (Paddy Power).

The Tottenham rennaisance hasn't cheered me up much, either. A couple of outrageous results and suddenly Redknapp is the new Messiah. So last week's smug recommendation to pile onto their imminent relegation looks like it was money down the drain. Sorry about that.

Last month's musical choice Theoretical Girl was kind enough to drop me a line to thank me for recommending her. So I'll recommend her again - its nice to hear from somebody with some manners in this cut-throat age. In addition, this week I have mostly been enjoying CHEW LiPS, who I suspect will be big. Have a listen now before the hype machine takes over.

Crisis? What crisis?

Its official, Britain is now in recession. We weren't last week, but we are now, because the Daily Mail and the Torygraph said so on Thursday. It would be easy to simply blame this crisis on a bunch of greedy, grasping bankers, futures traders and hedge-fund managers and their insane lust for profit. So let's do just that. Though my own personal credit crunch started in about 1991, and it stubbornly refuses to show any sign of improvement.

I'm not going to dwell on this gloomy economic news, though, mainly because I don't really understand any of it. You can stick your liquidity, stagflation and short-selling up your arse, though I do like the idea of a 'dead-cat bounce'. Football's more my bag, and as the nation's shares plummet, England's footballing stock continues to rise. To what can we ascribe this sudden rennaisance? I'm at a loss to explain it. The absence of either Neville brother has to help. Even Emile Heskey suddenly looks a world-beater, despite his astonishing career return of five goals in 50 (yes, 50) appearances. Maybe it really is just the tactical mastery of Capello, though to be fair we've only given pastings to ski resorts, tax havens and breakaway regions of the former Soviet Union so far.


Capello: has a 'Hasselhoff-Grandma' face.

So it looks like we've more or less booked our ticket to South Africa 2010. Who's clever idea was it to hold the World Cup there? Not only is it a spectacularly violent and dangerous place to visit, but the locals genuinely don't care - they might as well have held the tournament in Alabama, or Bangalore. And I can't see the home nation making much of an impression anyway. They didn't make it to the last World Cup, failing to progress from a qualifying group that included Burkina Faso, Uganda and the Cape Verde Islands – an excellent place to see endemic larks and seabirds, but hardly a footballing powerhouse. Why does FIFA consistently fail to learn from the mistakes of the past? At the last European Championships, for example, the Swiss put up something of a fight (for once) but ultimately stumbled at the first group stage, while co-hosts Austria – the land of schnitzel and Fritzl – were unanimously acclaimed as the feeblest host nation in the history of sport. Without host participation in the latter stages, a tournament is always going to struggle to maintain momentum; I do not say this as a blinkered, still-furious, jealous and angry England supporter, though of course I am one. I will never, ever forgive the Wally with the Brolly.

The obvious solution is to hold the World Cup in one place - say, for argument's sake, the home of football, England. Then the global footballing public would get a permanent place of pilgrimage to the nation that gave this great game to the world, and we wouldn't have to play pointless qualifiers against the likes of Andorra, San Marino and Kazakhstan.

I bet we'd still get knocked out in the quarters on penalties.


This week's celebrity spots
Back with a bang this week. No more of that René Zagger or Nigel Farrell bollocks. First, scruffy and unfathomably popular drug addict Pete Doherty talking loudly in Dean Street outside the 'Make Mine' sandwich shop last week, wearing his trademark porkpie hat. Doherty was with a bunch of similarly clad trendy types, who I assumed at the time were simply fawning flunkeys but may well have been the rest of Babyshambles. Let's face it, they're hardly household names so you can surely forgive me this one.


Doherty instantly regretted plumping for the Moroccan chicken sandwich.

The second of the week's trio came in the form of author and 'comedian' Danny Wallace, on the phone outside Mildred's Cafe. Probably planning yet another dreary bet-based docu-book. And finally, outside the Toucan pub last Friday, Griff Rhys-Jones. We recognised him, he scowled, we moved away. A proper grumpy star.

On to reader's letters, and its a welcome return to form for Julie from Leighton Buzzard, who reports former Olympic hurdler Kris Akabusi alighting at Leighton Buzzard railway station. However, sighting of the week goes to GT from Docklands, who reported bumping into Mark Burdis on Islington's Upper Street. Who he? Well, these days he's perhaps best known as the balding, uncomprehending face of AA Car Insurance, for whom he stars in their staggeringly annoying 'Bev? Kev?' commercials (surely a contender for the worst TV ad campaign of all time, though while fucking Howard from the Halifax is still drawing breath it will never claim the crown). However, for readers over the age of, say, 35, Burdis is more fondly remembered as Stewpot from TV's Grange Hill.


Recommendations
Tottenham are definitely going down. As I type, news is filtering through that hapless Juande Ramos has been sacked, and former West Ham manager Harry Redknapp has become the next to take his chance with Spurs's revolving door of management. Hilarious. He's also known as 'Agent' Redknapp, of course, after he left Portsmouth for deadly rivals Southampton, took them down to the Championship, then immediately rejoined the jubilant Pompey. What price lightning striking twice? Well, I'll tell you. 7/2 (Coral). Place your bets - this one's as safe as the Bank of England.

You can't help but notice that Peter Mandelson is back in government. He's been there for five minutes and already he's mired in sleaze, for allegedly accepting backhanders from some aluminium magnate on a yacht. The 7/1 that Paddy Power are offering for Mandelson to be forced to resign for a third time before the year's out looks good value – would anyone be even slightly surprised?

Have a bash on Theoretical Girl if you find yourself in the mood for folksy electronica, as I often do.

I love Powys in the fall

What a week. Most of the known world is undergoing catastrophic economic collapse; you know its bad when the Daily Mail is advising people to shop in Aldi, or to forage for autumn nuts and seeds and seasonal fungi. Well, I've had better things to do than worry about this global financial meltdown, frankly. For a start, last weekend I had a wedding to celebrate, in distant North Wales.

The long drive was enlivened by a handful of classic daft rural place names – Feltup Butler was one, Beeples Barton another – and, once Offa's Dyke had been successfully traversed, Welsh road signs helped the miles roll by. For example, I now know that 'Araf!' means 'slow', 'Gwasanaethau' is a motorway service station, and – pleasingly – 'Alan' is Welsh for 'Car Park'. The wedding itself starred two old friends of mine from university days. It was sumptuous and very jolly. Almost all of my friends from that era now have young children; in many ways I feel they now view me as just another errant child to be looked after, which is quite nice. The actual children generally remain too young to appreciate the importance of a solid forward-defensive, which is where I am hoping Uncle Spim will one day come into his own. Instead, I made it my mission to teach advanced combat techniques to as many of them as possible. This backfired, though, when one of the little blighters administered first an accurate volley of pine cones, then a bone-jarring rugby tackle, and finally a perfectly executed People's Elbow to the sternum.


Things got nasty while waiting for the canapés

The next day I returned to the wedding venue – an impressive Georgian mansion – to do a spot of birding in the extensive grounds. Please don't judge me. Without going into too much detail it was a success, with the pick of the avifauna being a Lesser Spotted Woodpecker. These are tricky little fuckers to see at the best of times, and I've tried and failed on a number of previous occasions. The most recent attempt took place a few months ago, when I went for a romantic Sunday afternoon stroll with a friend to a little patch of woodland near my house which, when I was a lad, was reputed to hold a pair. As we wandered further into the sun-dappled copse, it soon became apparent that I'd accidentally taken this poor girl into a surprisingly well-populated gay dogging area.

We saw no woodpeckers.

Undaunted, a few weeks later I thought I'd bring out the big guns and take her batting. No, not a trip to the local cricket nets, but a stroll around a nearby park at sunset with my trusty bat detector – a treat indeed. The first sign that events were drifting out of my control was the appearance of a police helicopter, which hovered into view just before dusk; rather than zooming away, it, err, followed us. Next, a police car pulled up. The copper inside told me that we had to leave, immediately. Why? Because an escaped convict was on the loose and he was hiding out in the park somewhere. You couldn't make it up.

No wonder I'm single.



This week's celebrity spots
Just the two, and both are utterly feeble - first, Grange Hill and The Bill's René Zagger yet again, this time getting on the tube at Leytonstone. Zagger has remarkably hairy hands. Too much wanking, I'd say. And secondly, Martin Fowler's stalker from Eastenders in HMV Oxford Street, looking crumpled. To actually recognise this obscure woman is both a blessing and a curse.

Not up to scratch, I know. Even regular correspondent Julie from Leighton Buzzard has struggled a bit this week, with a sighting in Soho Square of 'that bloke who used to be in This Life' failing to cut the celebrity mustard. However, Julie rallied strongly with another sighting of Lenny Henry on friday, successfully fighting off the attentions of one of the charity muggers that carpet the streets of Soho. To be fair, Henry really has done his bit for charity over the years. Certainly enough to quite legitimately tell one of these irritating twats to fuck off. And there's more; Cornish Julie has chipped in to report Mrs Henry herself, Dawn French, stroking her dog (which had apparently just rolled in something nasty) in a field in rural east Cornwall a little while back. However, the garlands of victory this week go to Kieren from Bristol. Kieren was visiting the lighthouse at Start Point, Devon, when he and his wife were surprised to find 'Red' Ken Livingstone admiring the sea views beside them. Livingstone was wearing what appeared to be some sort of dog collar underneath a tweed jacket.


Livingstone: shafted by New Labour again.


Recommendations
Its too early to really recognise anything more than underlying trends for the season to come, but isn't the Premiership table joyful at the moment? Hull City are soaring and pulled off the result of the decade in beating Arsenal at The Emirates, Stoke and West Brom are holding their own, while Tottenham are lucky to be as high as 20th, so weak have they been thus far. You had to laugh when they sold three of the best strikers in the league – Keane, Defoe and Berbatov – but hung onto the hopelessly average yet breathtakingly overpriced Darren Bent. And now they're wondering why they don't score any goals, and why they keep losing. Joining them in the basement are Newcastle, now a genuine laughing stock, who really are deep in the shit. Join me in making merry at the geordies' discomfort and pile onto the extremely generous 4/1 offered by Totesport for the Magpies to be doomed to life in the second tier come May.

The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry to win the Man Booker prize (3/1, Paddy Power). Turgid, clunking and difficult to read – judging panels love this sort of trash. Disgracefully, The Birds of Essex didn't make this year's longlist.

Try A Place to Bury Strangers. A bit like The Cure, a bit like AC/DC, if you can imagine that.

Spimdiana Jones and the Bookcase of Gloom

Will it ever stop fucking raining? For the second consecutive 'summer' much of lowland Britain is underwater and undergoing monsoon-like weather. For example, today it was reported that Worcestershire CC's New Road ground is once again under several feet of floodwater.



Simon Jones opened the bowling from the Shallow End.


Its not just the cricket-watching public of Worcester that are suffering – all this rain means no cricket for me either. This is probably just as well; this season has seen a sudden, alarming and near-total collapse in form. If I'm honest I've been desperate for the season to end so I can retire gracefully since about early May. Anyway, another rain-sodden abandonment this weekend meant I had a free saturday to do stuff; for some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to take a trip to the poor-man's MFI, Ikea. In his Divine Comedy, Dante famously detailed his journey through the nine circles of Hell. Well, I have now seen the tenth; its Ikea (Lakeside) on a saturday afternoon in early September.

To cut a long story short, I had to take something back that I'd picked up on a previous visit – that favourite of the urban middle classes, a Billy bookcase. It was clear there was trouble brewing when I couldn't actually get into Ikea's vast car park, with traffic backing up for some distance. I ended up parking in B&Q's car park, miles away. I'm rather ashamed to admit that I was then forced to liberate a B&Q trolley and use that to wheel Billy back to Ikea, dodging around both the stationary vehicles of people fighting to get in and the deep puddles produced by the ceasless rain. It was mayhem.

I somehow made it in one piece to "Ikea: Customer Returns", and now the fun really began. I'd harboured hopes that I'd be greeted by a smiling sales assistant and invited to part with Billy before being offered a complementary cup of tea and some meatballs, but no. There were, frankly, dozens of other lost souls taking broken, defective and otherwise knackered tat back. You have to collect a number from a machine before you can join the amorphous 'queue', then when its your turn you get called up to explain yourself. After an hour my number came in - 'House' I cried merrily. Thirty-six or so angry, agitated shoppers scowled in response. A tough crowd. Things were already fraught, and they got worse when the spotty, monosyllabic teenager behind the desk refused to give me a refund without my address, which I declined to give on the grounds of it being an outrageous violation of my civil liberties. There was a stand-off; my new-found enemies in the queue began to tut loudly, but much to my surprise young snotty eventually gave way. Maybe he could see the desperation in my eyes, who knows. One-nil to Spim vs The Man, anyway.

I now had to dodge back into the main 'store' bit, find myself a new Billy, queue for half an hour to pay, then pinch an Ikea trolley and wend my way back to the relative calm of B&Q, my own personal Mount Purgatory. As a result, B&Q now have a nice Ikea trolley to add vibrancy and colour to their fleet, and vice versa. Karma was restored; the yin and yang of the Lakeside trolley fleet was back in balance.

But this was a rare positive from an afternoon of unparallelled gloom. The people who run Ikea really are a bunch of jokers; from their Swedish-themed cafe to enhance the 'experience' to the stupid, often vaguely sexual names they give their products (Jerker the desk, anyone? Or perhaps Lessebo the sofa's more your cup of tea). However, they're nothing if not shrewd; by making shopping in their soulless store such a breathtakingly unpleasant process, they've ensured that nobody will ever take anything back unless they have literally nothing else to do. This allows Ikea to maintain rock-bottom prices, with these low prices tempting in customers looking for cheap, tatty furniture, novelty ice cube trays, or packs of 24 tea lights.

And with this the circle is complete.




This week's celebrity spots
Last Friday I was walking to the tube when who should cross my path outside Hare Krishna HQ but Lenny Henry. Our eyes met; a glimmer of recognition from me, a shiver of irritation from him. I briefly considered hailing him with a hearty 'Katanga, my friend' before common sense prevailed. So like ships in the night we passed. Henry looks really rather spry considering he must be pushing 50; it must be all that energetic sex with Dawn French. Talking of porky funsters, my personal celebrity highlight of the week was Gavin and Stacy star James Corden, arguing loudly with his agent on his mobile outside my office. Corden was wearing ill-fitting green shorts.



Corden: chunky.

Admittedly these are only so-so sightings, and when it comes to celebrity action I know when I'm beaten. 'Matt' from Canary Wharf supplied a detailed dossier listing numerous sightings of Kenny Everett's sidekick Cleo Rocos at various points around Docklands - presumably Rocos has a pad there. Either that or she's got a job at HSBC. However, this week's plaudits go to seasoned celebrity-watcher Julie from Leighton Buzzard, who watched aghast as weedy lothario Russell Brand pawed his latest squeeze in Mildred's Cafe on Lexington Street, Soho.


Paul Ince insult of the week
West Ham vs Blackburn last saturday, and a new twist on an old favourite:

"Fat Eddie Murphy - you're just a fat Eddie Murphy"

Ince had the last laugh though, saying "'It's always like a circus when I come back here. Today I thought it was pretty tepid". A robust response.


Recommendations
So there we go, another transfer window slams shut. Rarely have I felt so unsettled, with Manchester City throwing money around like confetti, Chelsea-style, buying Brazilians and - hilariously - publicly announcing a £142 million bid for Ronaldo in January. Another English club falls into the hands of super-rich foreign owners, pledging instant accession to the 'Big Four'. The problem is, there's now about 10 clubs on a two-year plan for forcing their way into the 'Big Four' and the promised land of the Champions League. Soon there isn't going to be room in the 'Big Four' for the big four.

I greatly enjoyed the Robinhio deal, in particular - a gentleman of untrammelled dignity and probity. As the midnight transfer deadline approached, this malignant mercenary said that he was refusing to play for Real Madrid again, since "all I think about is Chelsea. Chelsea, Chelsea". Imagine my surprise when I woke up the next morning to find out that actually, when he said Chelsea, he meant Manchester City, who presumably offered more money. Meanwhile, crappy old West Ham has stuck with what it knows best, picking up 32-year old journeyman striker David di Mechele on the cheap, plus a couple of unknowns on loan to plug the groaning chasms in our leaky defence. No Tevez/Mascherano this year.


Robinhio: King of the Kippax.

I'm seriously falling out of love with the once-beautiful game. English football is consuming itself with greed. A personal nadir was reached the other day when I received an email from West Ham, telling me that match tickets for the forthcoming Blackburn game "started at just £35". Yes, £35, for the shittiest seats in the ground. My first ever game at Upton Park cost £1.80 to get in, and for that I got entry to the North Bank, a free orange box to stand on and a firm pre-match handshake with Alan Devonshire.

Anyway, I am tipping Manchester City to fall flat on their arses and finish in the bottom half (3/1, BlueSquare), though I will admit there's an air of wishful thinking here. To show there's more to me than just football, I'm also pleased to recommend a punt on our old friend Serena Williams in the US Open (2/1, Betfair), while in the Ryder Cup a European win looks a formality, so I'm nominating Jim Furyk to be top US points scorer (11/2, various) as my pick of the week's action.

I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that I first stumbled on beatbox maestra Butterscotch in the final of America's got Talent. Despite this, she's truly incredible. Have a look.

From Paris Hilton to Chester Travelodge

If there's one story that's made me laugh this week its Paris Hilton's dramatic intervention into the US presidential race. "I want America to know that I'm, like, totally ready to lead", she suggests.

Until now, there have been few if any people that have had less of an impact on my life than Hilton, but having researched her policies – which include repainting the White House pink – I've developed a healthy respect for the woman.

Hilton is, of course, famous for her innovative approach to bedroom cinematography, but she's clearly not the utter airhead she'd have us believe. For a start she's loaded, and secondly she's managed to hole the hapless and truly ancient John McCain well below the waterline with some telling jibes. McCain – who roused Hilton's ire by comparing presidential rival Barack Obama to 'lightweight celebrities' like her and Britney Spears - was dismissed as "that wrinkly, white-haired guy". Hilton then delivered her coup de grâce, calling McCain "the oldest celebrity in the world, like super-old; old enough to remember when dancing was a sin and beer was served in a bucket". Ouch.


Hilton and McCain: at loggerheads


These cutting remarks mark Paris Hilton out as a true master of the political insult. She's in distinguished company. Top of the list, of course, is Sir Winston Churchill; there's as many stories of Churchillian rudeness as the great man had cigars, but my favourite is this attack on Clement Atlee, who he described as "a sheep in sheep's clothing". Churchill also said that Charles de Gaulle looked "like a female llama who has been surprised in the bath". What a guy.

Lesser politicians have also enjoyed sticking the boot in over the ages. Continuing Churchill's ungulate-based theme, being attacked by Geoffrey Howe was, according to Denis Healey, like "being savaged by a dead sheep". Former Russian ambassador Sir Rodric Braithwaite recently described Tony Blair as a "frayed and waxy zombie straight from Madame Tussauds", while Liberal Democrat Vince Cable famously mocked Gordon Brown's apparent transformation "from Stalin to Mr Bean", which turned out to be a surprisingly devastating critique of Brown's premiership. A similar slow-burner came from Alan Clarke, who referred to Nigel Lawson as a 'fat bounder'; having been scolded by the Speaker for crossing the line of acceptable wordplay in the House he retracted his comments, only to refer to Lawson subsequently as a 'corpulent cad'. Heh.

Its not just politicians that command such verbal weaponry. Perhaps the finest jibe that's been spun in my direction came about a year ago, courtesy of my friend Amy from Foreign Rights. I was having one of my regular work-related flaps, and was threatening to leave the cruel world of natural history publishing to take up a vacancy at Wisden. A deadpan Amy skillfully floored me with this classic:

"You can't go and work on cricket books, Spim. You'd be even more boring than you already are".

Despite having had more than a year to think about it, I'm still unable to summon an adequate response.

This week's celebrity spots
With six months-worth of sightings to unload it would require a significant misfire for me to fail to hit the celebrity bullseye, and frankly I'm not about to disappoint. July alone yielded Brian Blessed carrying his shopping down D'Arblay Street, Fabio Capello outside the FA carrying a sandwich back to eat at his desk (he said hello when challenged) and Gok Wan outside my office, sporting a jaunty 'shark's tooth' earring; Wan gave me a thumb's up and a broad smile. Summer might be proving to be yet another rain-blighted damp squib, but the stars are still out in force; on Monday I was privileged to pass two genuine comedy icons as I shambled into work at a quarter to ten, loitering outside different (and presumably rival) Soho production companies; first a beaming Paul Merton, and moments later Kathy Burke, complete with obligatory fag.



Blessed en route to the shops


There's also some spectacular reader's sightings to report. Regular correspondents Yakbone and Julie from Leighton Buzzard BOTH report observations of former Madness frontman Suggs in Soho - on one occasion smoking outside The Toucan, while Nick from Soho reports Simon Callow bustling in self-important fashion along Greek Street. But the plaudits this week have to go to Rob from East Finchley, who reports three stellar spots, all stemming from a weekend trip to the north. First, Badly Drawn Boy in a Chinese restaurant in Knutsford. Apparently he was wearing his stupid fucking hat indoors so people would recognise him, the twat. This was soon followed by Paul Young at Corley Services, and finally by my personal favourite – Paul Ince in Chester Travelodge, presumably on his way north to accept the Blackburn job. Ince. Still despised at West Ham, of course, where his very name has become the currency of unpopularity and disloyalty. For instance, Frank Lampard is regularly greeted at Upton Park with a chant of 'You're just a Fat Paul Ince', while Jermain Defoe receives 'You're just a Short Paul Ince'. In 1989, Ince posed in a Man United shirt while still technically a West Ham player. A bit naughty, but compared to the shenanigans that cocks like Ronaldo get up to these days it was small beer. A more innocent age I guess - its time to forgive and forget.


Recommendations
I can't remember ever being so depressed at the start of a season before. We all know who the top four will be. West Ham will win fuck all and finish tenth, and the odds are good that the bottom three will be this year's promoted clubs - the bookies go as short as 5/1 for Hull, Stoke and West Brom to be spinnng back to oblivion come next May. So instead its to speciality bets that we must turn for Premiership interest - starting with the managerial sack race. I'm amazed Curbishley is favourite (5/1, Bet365). Mark my words, this represents nothing more than wishful thinking from a handful of one-eyed cockneys. He ain't going nowhere. Far more appealing is the eternally under-pressure Gary Megson (6/1, various) while spoon-faced Steve Bruce is not the outsider that 25/1 (Paddy Power) suggests.

Judas Ince; will be out of the Blackburn hotseat by Christmas

You might have noticed that the Olympics are on. My views on this are well-known and have already been widely broadcast, but I couldn't help watching the women's 48kg snatch on sunday, and not just for the gag; these tiny women lifted some truly epic weights. However, you have to question the cards life has dealt you when you find yourself watching women's weightlifting at one in the morning. Nonetheless, I am recommending Lin Ma in the Men's Table Tennis (9/4, Skybet), the unbeatable Javier Gomez in the Triathlon (7/4, Skybet) and Tyson Gay at 5/2 (Ladbrokes) in the 100 metres, though you must appreciate that this is based mainly on the fact that I like his name, rather than any sage insider knowledge.

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone – stupid name, great songs.

April Tools

Heston: we should be able to prise that gun off him now


So there goes another April 1st, with all the jokes and japery that it entails. I've a visceral hatred of this festival of foolishness, and in particular those hilarious spoofs the papers insist on printing, year after year. I don't care what day it is, if I buy a newspaper I expect news, not some feeble wind-up dreamed up by a second-year media student on work experience. A trawl through this year's bibliography of shame brings up such delights as the car that electrocutes dogs that wee on its tyres (various, but notably the Metro), penguins flying north to tropical wintering grounds (BBC - I found this one particularly irksome, though better than the Today programme's limp (and RSPB-sponsored) repatriation of migrant finches to Denmark), compulsory red wine for toddlers at meal times (Grauniad), Big Ben going digital (The Express), and drug-cheat sprinter Dwayne Chambers playing Rugby League for Castleford ... oh, hang on ...

I must admit that I did quite enjoy The Sun's April Fools effort this year, though, mainly because it represented a fairly naked insult to a prominent Frenchman; pint-sized president Nicolas Sarkozy is undergoing radical stretching therapy to make him as tall as his statuesque Italian bride. The article even included a helpful 'how it works' diagram, and came complete with quotes from French government spokesman Luc Bigger. Heh.

I suspect The Sun's main thrust behind the story was an excuse to show yet more photos of Sarkozy's fit wife, but nonetheless I was interested to see whether the French had taken the bait. Their official government website records only that Le Président spent the day meeting someone from the IOC and the Mayor of Lens. So I had a look at the website of the French Embassy. Rien of interest there either - instead of responding with some jibes of their own, they instead go big on Sarko's latest speech to the French National Federation of Farmers. Oh dear.

Diplomatic silence on a subject of such international importance speaks volumes. The French have again been put firmly in their place, only this time through gratuitous insult rather than the pointy stick of Henry V or the big howitzer of Wellington. Quite simply, when it comes to piss-taking, the British remain untouchable.


This week's celebrity spots
I actually bumped into my nemesis Nigel Farrell last week. He was coming into Pizza Express on Dean Street as I was ambling out, having just enjoyed a classic publishing lunch talking to a man about Dodos. I thought for a moment that Farrell was going to cut loose, after I described him the other week as a 'semi-permanent blight on Soho'. Then I realised he doesn't know who I am, and he almost certainly hasn't read my blog. Instead, he rather sweetly held the door open for me, reminding me what an embittered and loathsome scumbag I truly am.

Anyway, the week's real news comes from lunchtime today, and again the hub of celebrity action was Pizza Express. And its topical - none other than Heather Mills, who obviously gets about a bit, as she was in New York at the weekend spending her ill-gotten gains, according to the News of the Screws. I'm afraid I didn't notice who she was lunching with, or what toppings she selected.


Mills: hectoring witch


Apparently, since the divorce hearing Mills has bought a plane. Though she's sticking to Immac for the other leg.

Sorry.


Recommendations
Last week I asked my friend Gav whether he fancied a trip to Brighton to see the home team take on relegation-doomed Port Vale, the Derby County of League One. 'Arsenal v Liverpool is slightly more enticing' was his condescending reply. Well, I had the last laugh. Yet another dour, drab draw between two of the 'big four' was contrasted by a five-goal thriller on the south coast. To everyone's surprise, Port Vale were excellent value for a 3-2 win, and managed to hit the post four times in ten crazy second-half minutes, which must be some sort of record. Shame only 81 of their fans (I counted them) bothered to make the journey south, though to be fair The Withdean Stadium, Brighton really is the most atrocious dump; seated miles from the pitch and without anything resembling roofing, we were particularly unimpressed when it began to sleet.



Port Vale's jubilant if sparse away support



With the Premiership's relegation places seeming more or less settled barring a West Ham-style escape (see blogs passim) for Fulham, its to the battle for promotion that we must turn for intrigue and interest. Bristol City continue to (Lee) trundle on, but I can't quite see them limping over the finish line. Instead, I am backing in-form Hull City (4/1, BetDirect) to claim automatic promotion (alongside favourites West Brom) and become the unsexiest and least fashionable team in the top flight since Carlisle United (1974-75). And then almost certainly tumble straight back down.

Christina Martin's blog. As soon as I read the headline 'Beadle's Still About' I knew I was dealing with a rare genius.

Everyone should learn to love Mouse on Mars.

The day the Earth moved (for Menswear)

Once upon a time we asked our friends bleary-eyed whether we 'stayed up for Portillo'. This week the question has been whether we were awake for the great Market Rasen earthquake. Bloody hell. A natural phenomenon that was breathtaking in its mediocrity. Having said that, yes I was awake and yes I did enjoy an authentic earthquake experience. I was lying on my bed and as the shockwave hit I felt my arms wibble and my viscerae vibrate - it seems my internal organs share a resonant frequency with Mother Earth, proving that I am truly at one with the soil. Either that or my abs aren't as taut as I often pretend. A bizarre sensation anyway. The press was in its element the next day; even the Express interrupted its never-ending Diana/Maddy duopoly to lead with "Earthquake Shakes England" in its later editions. I didn't delve inside but no doubt those pesky immigrants are somehow involved, while house prices are bound to have been affected.


Luckily I forgot to turn off the seismograph before turning in.

Anyway, the reason why I was awake enough to be vibrated at 12.56 am was because I was engrossed in an interesting book on the history of Burma. A left-field choice, I'll grant you. To cut a long story short, I'd had a row with one of my authors, who was insisting on using the word 'Myanmar' in his text, the name used by the junta currently in power to legitimise their régime. I won the argument but realised I knew next to nothing about that part of the world. Hence the book. Its an enjoyable read, partly because I find Burmese names curiously pleasing. You might have heard of U-Thant, who was once UN Secretary-General, but there's also U-Nu, U-Ba-U, U-Ne-Win, and U-Saw, which for reasons I can't explain is my current favourite.

I think if I was Burmese I'd quite like to be called U-Saw. Maybe its because I've been short-changed on syllables in real life, but I must admit the idea of changing my name by deed poll to something more exotic does have its appeal. I wonder whether I would have more dosh in my back pocket, more luck on the gaming table and more red-hot rumpo with the ladies if I changed my name to Faroukh Engineer (Indian cricketer), Ken Saladin (evolutionary biologist), Juanjio (Spanish footballer) or Olaf Ludwig (cyclist)? Almost certainly.

Maybe everyone has a secret hankering to try out being somebody different for a while. We've all imagined what it would be like to be mistaken for someone else, preferably someone famous. It actually happened to me once; a lady in a Chinese takeaway in Bristol thought I was Morrissey, and asked me why I had a T-shirt of myself on. I was more than happy to play along. I remember a pal of mine being ecstatic when he was mistaken for Essex cricketer Ronnie Irani; it takes all sorts. But my favourite story of mistaken identity - with a sinister twist - involves my friend Greg, a renowned cad back in the day. A few years back we were on holiday in Tenerife, and on the cop with a group of strikingly attractive young nubiles. I don't mind admitting I was way out of my depth, but in an astonishing coup Greg somehow managed to persuade them that he was actually Chris Gentry, bass player with short-lived (and now long-forgotten) brit-pop group Menswear. With the scam well-rooted and bearing the green shoots of success it was only a matter of time until the canoodling began, and another result for Greg was safely in the bag.

Unfortunately, the next day one of the girls produced a copy of the NME, seemingly from nowhere. Britain's premier music mag revealed that at the exact same moment her mate was romping with 'Chris Gentry', Menswear were actually live on stage at Glastonbury. Greg's feeble offering that the gig had been cancelled fell on deaf, uncomprehending and unforgiving ears.

A morality tale for us all to learn from.


Menswear: don't ask me which one's Gentry


This week's celebrity spots
Not many so far this year to be honest - until the other day, when my friend Spoons came to join me in Soho for lunch and experienced at first hand the magic of the Square. First, sometime Sky Rugby frontperson and son of Judith Chalmers Mark Durden-Smith scurried past. Recognised, Durden-Smith - who has nowadays slipped right off the radar, presenting as he does ITV2's post-I'm a Celebrity discussion show - gave a cheeky wink. Then, following a hearty Chinese buffet lunch, Chelsea chief executive Peter Kenyon hove into view. Welcome to my world.



Kenyon: Grand Moff Tarkin to Emperor Abramovitch

Things have picked up somewhat of late though. This week I've strolled past The Mighty Boosh, once again mooching along Dean Street, and Rowan Atkison in Soho Square itself. Atkinson was wearing what looked like a Victorian peasant's smock.



Recommendations
I'm sure I wasn't alone in being enthralled by the magic of the cup this weekend. I watched slack-jawed and disbelieving as Barnsley clung on to an astonishing 1-0 win over Chelsea, soon to be followed by Cardiff City's clinical dismemberment of Middlesborough. Bristol Rovers couldn't quite manage to triumph over West Brom but it was much closer than a 5-1 scoreline would suggest.

So, for the first time in years, the FA Cup semi-finals do not contain Liverpool, Man Utd, Chelsea or Arsenal. Instead, four crappy teams from footballing backwaters have battled their way to the cusp of Wembley, and I think its fantastic. For the time being we can ignore the managers, players and supporters of the so-called 'Big Four' and their tiresome views - they can stick their fucking Champions League up their arse. We can forget about money, and sponsorship, and advertising, and diving to get other players booked, and appealing to the lucrative far-eastern market, and the importance of shirt sales, and focusing on finishing 14th in the league, and revenue from the new stadium, and boardroom takeovers by foreign oligarchs, and Game Fucking 39, and the endless quest for money, more money, more money, and all the other things that have destroyed football in the Premiership era. Probably for the last time, all that matters between now and the final whistle on 17th May is glory. Make the most of it - this is what real football's about. We're going to have a proper cup final between two teams that want to win silverware - not as a stepping stone to some miserable second-round UEFA cup exit, but simply for the right to say 'FA Cup Champions 2007-08'.

And yet still the greed intrudes. I've read in most of the papers today about how the FA are worrying that the teams left in the competition aren't a big enough 'draw', and they'll lose out on commerical sponsorship, with up to 15,000 corporate seats empty at the semis. And that, my friends, sums up neatly why the FA are so hopelessly out of touch, and why they and the top clubs are so despised by supporters the length and breadth of the land.

Sorry. I have now finished ranting. Cardiff City to win the cup at 4/1 (Bet365).

Von Südenfed. You will be amazed and enchanted.