Snow business like (half-time) show business

I don't think I'm alone in complaining that this January was the most miserable and unpleasant since records began. Long, cold, wet and skint – that's the long and the short of it. But no sooner does this month of despair end than twenty year's-worth of snow falls in twenty-four hours; the hopeless inefficiency of our transport system actually pays dividends for once, as everybody gets a day off work to snowball, sledge and toboggan, and in a trice the flagging spirits of a nation on the edge have soared. Fuck the credit crunch – let's all just make snowmen.

I have some grainy, faded photos of the snowman I made the last time we had proper snow, but in the intervening decades technology has moved on apace; its a sign of the times that every Tom, Dick and Harry has seen fit to put digital photos of their snowmen on their Facebook pages. The snowmen of 2009 may prove to be ephemeral, but their legend will live on in cyberspace forever.


A selection of friends' snowmen (reproduced without kind permission).

Anyway, my spirits were already on the rise before the great snowfall. On Sunday night, as London was experiencing a taste of the tundra, I was huddling for warmth under the duvet, watching this year's Superbowl. Say what you like about Americans and their national sport, they know how to put on a show, though much of it is painful for the more reserved Englishman to bear; the overblown drama of the National Anthem, for example, sung by some warbling has-been, and the whooping to greet the head of the US Armed Forces, an epauletted, bemedalled (and, to be fair, slightly embarrassed-looking) General David Petraeus, who was wheeled out for the pre-match coin toss.

So far as I could tell, the match itself was quite an exciting clash between the all-conquering Pittsburgh Steelers and the Arizona Cardinals – the Bolton Wanderers of American Football. Its easy to poke fun at Gridiron, with its reliance on shoulder pads and helmets, its frequent interruptions for television advertising and the ludicrous sight of the referees throwing little yellow flannels on the pitch to signal an infringement – but I must admit that I did see something truly extraordinary in the final seconds of the first half. One of the Pittsburgh defenders intercepted the ball and then set off on a mazy 100-yard run to the endzone to score a touchdown, dodging about a dozen desperate tacklers in the process. Uplifting.

Followed by an immediate down-turn, as the match halted for the half-time show – one of the great traditions of American sport. This year's offering served only to remind me why I've never liked Bruce Spingsteen. The cheeky fucker didn't even do Born in the USA, which is the only one of his dirges anyone really knows. Things did pick up a bit when Bruce rammed his groin into a stage-side camera, but that was about as good as it got. Nothing along the lines of the fondly remembered Justin Trousersnake/Janet Jackson 'wardrobe malfunction' of a couple of years ago, when – gasp! – one of Jackson's nipples was exposed, to widespread condemnation. I think they still have a warrant for her arrest and summary execution in a number of southern states. But forget about Jackson. I had a wardrobe malfunction of my own not so long ago, and it was about eight billion times worse.

I'd just got back after a horrendous 14-hour flight from India, and I had been forced to go straight in to work, having run out of holiday entitlement. So I was hallucinatory with sleep deprivation and mind-rotting fatigue; there were also the distant rumblings of gastric issues to contend with. After a nightmare day at the coal face of British birding I somehow managed to pour myself onto a train despite the fug of jetlag. As I drifted in and out of consciousness on the tortuous journey east, I noticed that despite it being rush hour and the train being packed there was a seat next to me that nobody seemed to want to sit in. Strange.

I thought nothing of it until I stood to drag my sorry ass off the train; a Red Sea of commuters parted to permit easy passage. However, it was only as I stepped from the carriage into the cool night air that I realised that I had suffered not only a catastrophic wardrobe malfunction of the trouser zip, but also one of the boxer-short button-fly. In essence, I had just sat gurgling on a tube train with my cock out for the nine stops between Tottenham Court Road and Snaresbrook. I hurriedly zipped up but the damage was long since done; there was nothing for it but to turn and scurry for the ticket barriers, with all the dignity I could muster.

And with that a new low was successfully achieved.



Celebrity spots
Only one, and its feeble - unfunny sketch-show comedian Peter Serafinowitz outside Costa Coffee in Soho Square. For some reason he was wearing a dinner jacket. But as few if any of you will have heard of him this is not of relevance.

Perhaps its just a bad time of year - January represents a good opportunity for the well-heeled celeb to skip off to the second home in the Dordogne, for example. Or maybe I'm just not moving in the right celebrity circles any more and am growing increasingly out of touch. For example, in the last couple of weeks I've received news of sightings of Naboo from The Mighty Boosh in the Square (Julie from Leighton Buzzard), Kim Marsh shopping for bras in House of Fraser, Manchester (Kendal King-Pin) and Henry Holland in Carlisle Street (Holly from Dorking); I must admit I haven't the faintest idea who any of these people are, and I apologise. But garlands this week are offered to 'Matt' from Canary Wharf, who reports a weekend sighting of Mikey from Big Brother 9 at the London Aquarium, wearing a bright red suit jacket with red tartan trousers. That's more my cup of tea.


Recommendations
Tottenham's Harry Redknapp seems intent on simply buying back all the players that left during hapless Juande Ramos's hilariously inept time at the helm. Jermain Defoe, Pascal Chimbonda and now Robbie Keane have all returned to the fold. I suppose it saves on scouting costs. Who's next - Steve Archibald? Tony Galvin? Maybe my favourite ex-Spurs player, the ridiculous Paolo Tramezzani?


Dave MacKay: Redknapp transfer target

Anyway, much as it pains me, I think Spurs will move slowly up the league now the last absurd vestiges of Ramos have been obliterated. He's now at Real Madrid, of course, where he's taken West Ham's perpetually injured and utterly useless utility man Julien Faubert on loan – as Jeff Stelling archly put it on Saturday "That Juande Ramos has certainly got an eye for a player!" Anyway, Spurs to reach the UEFA cup final at 10/1 (SkyBet) is this week's pick.

One of the quotes on The Grandaughters webpage compares them to 'early Coldplay', which is very harsh – they are actually quite tuneful and jolly, while Coldplay remain one of the most turgid and unlistenable acts its ever been my misfortune to hear.

Addendum (5th February)


Thanks to Julie and Amelie for this strong effort.