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.
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.
1 comment:
Cracking post, Spim!
I suspect you've read it but I've just finished My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes by Gary Imlach. It's a brilliant book and highlights how greed has totally transformed football.
Cheers
Kieren
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