Fortune Teller

Forest Fire - Fortune Teller from Johan Hesselgren on Vimeo.

I have just endured enjoyed an exciting weekend. Myself and my mate were allowed out without adult supervision and we went to the End of the Road festival, which, as everyone knows, is the best festival there is. Without wives to control us, nor children to be cared for, we set off like a pair of decrepit teenagers, and, I am profoundly embarrassed and humiliated to report, we acted like a pair of decrepit teenagers too.

We arrived about midday on Friday and were a bit surprised to find that there were loads more people than were there at the same time last year, so we had to walk further from the car park and base ourselves at the far end of the field, which was OK by me, especially as, compared to previous festivals, we had hardly anything to carry.

We got ourselves established and had a bit of scoff and some drink and, as always happens, became extremely chilled and comfortable; so much so, that it was a bit of wrench to leave the bucolic bliss of the field and take ourselves off to the actual festival.

The first band we saw was Eliott Brood, who blew me, and the rest of the tent away. I was dimly aware of them before, but they took me completely by surprise. Just 3 of them, one on banjo and occasionally ukele, the guitarist remaining seated. The racket that these 3 made was glorious and as much as they blew the crowd away, it seemed that the crowd response also blew them away, they were clearly having a brilliant time themselves. This rates as one of the best and most enjoyable gigs I have seen. Ever. And I have been to a lot of gigs.

Nothing else quite matched up to that on Friday, not that I am complaining, it was still a beautiful place to be. I have seen EOTR described elsewhere (can’t remember where) as like crossing over into Narnia, before it all went tits up, and it is as good a description as I have seen. Everywhere you turn there is something just a bit different, just a bit lovely, just a bit wonderful, and despite all the noise and the hubbub and the bacchanalia, there is always a quiet spot, for those occasions when only a quiet spot will do.

I had been looking forward to Trembling Bells, as I really like their new album and I think Baby Lay Your Burden Down is the song of the year so far. I love it. They were disappointing. Don’t know why, maybe it was me, but there seemed to be something lacking and I soon got distracted by the guitarists stout brogues and the comings and goings of  other bands hauling their equipment in. The poor sound quality didn’t help. They were alright, but they didn’t quite do it for me.

We followed that by having a peek at Jessica Lee Mayfield……………the winsome and wonderful Jessica Lee Mayfield. She played her sad songs in the Tipi tent, to an appreciative, but seated and, in some cases, unconscious audience and seemed to win most people over, although she couldn’t quite wake everybody up. She put me in mind of the female characters in books by the likes of William Gay or Daniel Woodrell……fragile, damaged, mistreated, fatalistic, but sparky and spirited. Like Elliot Brood, she seemed to be enjoying herself hugely, which is always a great help and it was evident that she was hanging out in the Tipi hours after she had finished her set.

After this, we somehow got all our timings mixed up, so, going into the Big Top to see….er…… can’t remember who, I was surprised to find Edwyn Collins halfway through his set. Dunno what the first half was like but the second half was wonderful and I am fairly sure that he will have been chuffed with the warmth and enthusiasm of his reception, but he has probably grown used to that. We got a bit distracted by the physiology of the human brain during this set. Although his speech was OK, he was much clearer when he was singing. Why the hell is that? I am assuming here that everyone who reads this blog is aware that Ed suffered a massive stroke a couple of years ago.

We only caught the end of Modest Mouse, but what we saw made us wish we had seen more, but then we would have missed something else. We peeked at the New Pornographers, but the tent was so packed we couldn’t be arsed with it, so retired to the tipi, where we found  a hay bale to rest our weary arses on and continued drinking and congratulating ourselves for being so wise as to find ourselves at such a great festival. A couple of young Americans appeared on the stage at some point, I have no idea who they were and, frankly, was past caring, but they were alright.

Winding our happy way back to the tents, at time far too late for people of my age and shape, my pal suddenly disappeared. He had tripped over a guy rope and went down with alarming speed, and was lying face down on the ground, imitating a starfish, while trying to pretend that nothing untoward had happened. Rather gallantly, I tried to assist him, but he believed that me efforts were insincere and responded to my good graces with extreme profanity and petulance, which left me helpless with laughter.

Saturday

A few years ago, we bought a huge polycotton Bear Lake tent and alongside it we bought a cheap pop up tent to use as an extra sleeping pod for the eldest nipper. Rather unwisely, this is what I took to the festival with me. It had rained in the night, and it was wetter in the tent than it was outside it. I had put the sleeping mat on top of a yoga mat and a picnic blanket, so apart from the water dripping down from the roof of the thing, I was quite dry, but everything that hadn’t been so protected was sodden, wet through. The water had got through my trousers, through my wallet and and out the other side, it was as though they had come out of a washing machine that had failed to spin. The universe had paid me back for my hilarity at my pals misfortune. Another punishment was having to listen to a grown man whinge and whine about his bruises and swellings for the rest of the weekend!

Aside from that, I felt pretty rough, and the dope I had chosen to spend the weekend with had been kind enough to bringer a cooker, but……………..no gas. It was grey and drizzly, but warm, and little by little I summoned up the energy to drag myself to my favourite spot on the whole site, Café Dish, where I turned my nose up at the herbal brews on offer in favour of two cups of coffee.  They did not revive me.

What did revive me was Forest Fires, the first band up on the main stage. This festival has a genius for putting bands on very early, of whom few have heard, who turn out to be brilliant. To be honest, I can’t remember too much anymore, too much else happened, but I do remember that they didn’t play a duff tune, that the singer is a very cool dude and that the strange guitarist is a genuine axe hero. I would see them again without any hesitation whatsoever.

Saturday just got better and better, one of the highlights of which was the wonderfully spiced goat curry from the Caribbean stall, which both lifted the spirits and provided a bit of ballast. Phosphoresence was one of the way up there highlights of the weekend. The singer looked a bit like Harry Dean Stanton in Paris, Texas, and there was yet another genuine axe hero on stage, not that band were heavy. The chaps songs are wonderful stories, a bit like Richmond Fontaine, and, like Vlautin, I’m sure the bloke could write a novel. Anyway, it was mid afternoon and they hit the spot.

Moddi were on just after and I missed them (or is it him) which is a pity, because later on I saw him (or is it they) put on a rather lovely set in the woods. I have since spotified them (or him) and they would been worth seeing.

In complete contrast, we did see Voice of the Seven Thunders. Strange lot, this lot. The main chap seemed to be in a bad, or at least a sarky mood. Maybe it is just part of his schtick, and, not being an aficionado, I didn’t get it, but he seemed like a right moody fucker. It didn’t help that he is a dead ringer for Tim Lovejoy, a man who is probably hated by his own mother. To begin with, they seemed to be enjoying themselves, amongst themselves, but they did not seem to appreciate their surroundings, then, when one of his pedals started playing up, even the good humour that they had shown between themselves went. Whatever, it was brilliant, thunderous music.

It may be beer related, but our sense of time went askew then. We headed back to the tents to get our night time attire on, namely, a fleece, and enjoy a drink sitting down and headed back over, by which time we had missed most of the Unthanks. We enjoyed what we did see, good, warm and fun.

I’m not a huge fan of Iron and Wine, but I don’t dislike him. We watched the first bit of his set and it was obvious that he is held in some reverence but we soon wandered off. I have since read on blogs and message boards and in the papers that he put on a warm and beautiful set. In fact, a peerless set, and I missed it, or most of it. It didn’t matter though because while he was being warm, beautiful and peerless, Caitlin Rose was being warm, impish and brilliant. She is virtually a child, but by God, she has a fine pair of classic country and western pipes with which to sing her literate and edgy country songs.  She is going to be absolutely massive.

We popped in to see Black Mountain but they were not cutting it for either of us, so we headed back to the main stage for Yo La Tengo. I can pretty much take or leave this lot and hadn’t really planned on seeing them, but, and this seems to be a matter of some debate, they were superb. They played some of their quiet songs, which I generally prefer, but the last half hour or so was serious wig out shit, and was spellbinding. The drummer has some stamina, in her little arms to keep that beat going. They were another band who seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely and it really does make a difference.

The Tipi tent last year was a bit of a pain in the arse so I hadn’t really planned on seeing anyone in there this year, but they had added another huge tent to it and it was much improved; in fact, the bands were not really in the tipi, they were in the adjoining tent, which left the actual tip itself as very rustic drinking joint. So long as you got a bale of hay to sit on it was great. You could sit down, drink, enjoy the ambience and then when something started up, just stroll around and enjoy it. So we repaired to the Tipi tent.

It was something else, another way up there highlight. The Low Anthem and Christ knows who else were on stage, all dressed like loons, behaving like loons and playing raucous stompalongs like loons. Everyone, band included had huge smiles on their faces and the place was jumping. Just one more brilliant and unexpected surprise.

Sunday.

Sunday dawned and I felt like shit. There had been no rain but still water was dripping onto my head. On the plus side, the weather was looking superb. We roused ourselves and trudged like refugees to the Café Dish for more coffee, which we enjoyed in some little garden effort while the peacocks pecked around for food. Then we had  a wonderful breakfast of pie, mash, peas and gravy, which was just about the job and set us up nicely.

Dylan Le Blanc kicked things off and his exquisite country tinged soft rock was just what was needed at this early hour. It was noticeable that the main stage area was much fuller than at the same time last year, so we made the decision to get there very early for all the bands we wanted to see there in order  secure a good spot. We hadn’t bothered all that much with the main stage up until now, but today was different. Today promised to be special. Timing was crucial. Timing is not our strong point.

We had a general wander around all the loveliness and relaxed with a cider (over rated) sitting on a stone and watched the world go by. We saw a bit of Kath Bloom, but were too knackered and out of sorts to really appreciate her and got back over to the main stage for Daniel Lefkowitz. Fuck me. How can this man not be a huge star? Just on his own, with a guitar, a voice and a very wry look on his face he held the by now packed Garden Stage spellbound. He can’t be too much of a secret, because there were plenty of other artists at the back of the stage watching him. EOTR had done it again…………taken my breath clean away.

Dunno what we did then, mainly dossed about, keeping our beer intake up and taking in little bits and pieces here and there. The timing. The crucial timing. It still wasn’t our strong point. One of the bands I was most looking forward to was The Felice Brothers. We managed to miss the start. Only just though and we did manage to get a good spot. The Felice Brothers were superb. As mad as shithouse rats, every one of them, but superb. I don’t know what was going on behind me, but around me and in front of me everyone was going apeshit. I could go apeshit now, 3 days later, just thinking about it.

We stayed put for The Low Anthem who had possibly been the highlight last year and didn’t disappoint this time either. They seemed a bit warmer and looser if anything, and, once again, seemed to be really enjoying the spirit of the place and having fun, which, I feel the need to repeat, makes a huge difference; it seemed to be a very short set though.

Wilco were the band I was most looking forward to; I think Tweedy is one of the all time great songwriters and it is hard to think of anyone else who has written so consistently over such a long period…..it must be at least 20 years he's been at it. I was a bit wary, as this was the first time I have seen them and I was prepared to be disappointed, but I needn't have worried. They were magnificent, from start to finish. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, brilliant song after brilliant song, Tweedy invited the audience to shut the hell up towards the end so keen was he to just get on with it and bang out as many songs as possible. The garden was packed and everyone was going for it, in their own ways, whoops, roars, headbanging, footstamping, bloody air guitar, silent, rapt attention. In my not so humble opinion, it was a classic.

That was the end of the garden stage and it would have been a brilliant way to end a brilliant day. But the day was not over. Dengue Fever were supposed to be playing last in the Big Top, but they pulled out, to be replaced by Steve Mason, which was fine by me, as I love his new album. Walking over, it occurred that the music didn't sound familiar, or rather, it did sound familiar, it sounded like Caitlin Rose. God knows what happened to the other feller, but I don't care, because once again, Rose was ace.

The goodness still wasn't over. While James Felice was exuding bonhomie at the merchandise stall after his set, I asked if they were doing any other sets, and he said they would be in the Tipi at half twelve. Once Rose finished I wasted no time getting there. Someone else was on, don't know who but their audience evidently thought they were good because they were getting a brilliant reception. They finished and as their crowd headed away, another crowd was heading straight for the stage. It was clear that the Felice set was no secret.

After a longish wait, they ambled on, and tore the place down. It was utterly brilliant, and I am now more convinced than ever that they are all insane. The place was rocking and the goodness was added to by the presence of sundry Low Anthems and Deer Ticks on the stage, joining in. The set ended with a good natured stage invasion (started by James Felice) which left security looking extremely nervous. All that was left to do was to hang around and drink and talk shit with any passing kindred spirit until far too late. 

The festival surpassed all my expectations, and once again I discovered plenty that I wouldn't otherwise have done, and missed loads that was probably just as good as the stuff I saw. Apart from the bands, the whole ambience, the vibe, is just special, and it is great to be around like minded souls, who do not think I am a posing obscurantist for liking bands hardly anyone else has heard of. 

As a final thought I tip my hat to the bar staff who remained cheerful and patient to the very end of what was clearly a weekend of epic drinking for at least half the crowd.

Some snaps what I took, rather a lot, actually.

Guardian review

Independent review

Mind you………….I felt a bit sorry for myself on Monday. And Tuesday. Today as well, actually.

The Valley Town

ELLIOTT BROOD - The Valley Town (FD Session)
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Football fans are mad, completely irrational. A week ago Blues fans were in despair at our lack of signings, and then we had the Nzogbia debacle and we were all suicidal, then, on deadline day, three hats, three rabbits. Unconfined joy. We have the best manager and the best board in the world.  The small matter of never having heard of two of them is beside the point. In the end it doesn't matter who we sign, as long as we sign someone. We would have been just as delighted if we had signed the players Stoke nabbed. The signing of Hleb is genuinely exciting though, and I am very interested to see what our formation will be.

I thought the 5 man midfield worked well against Bolton, until they had a man sent off and then somehow managed to over run us. It was nice (while it lasted) to see Blues players knocking the ball around and always having an option. With the added quality of Hleb, as well as, who knows, the Chile guy and Derbyshire, I think this could be the way forward, which, obviously, means we will be 4-4-2 against Liverpool. I know nothing, I am happy to admit it, but I do know that it feels as if the season is starting anew, only this time, with that old, familiar glow of happy anticipation.

As usual Harry Redknapp insisted he wouldn't be doing any business, which could only signify one thing………a new player for Tottenham. He said that he had to go for the chap because at 8 million it was too good a bargain. 8 million would represent a huge gamble for the likes of us, for Tottenham it is chump change. Good job we have the best manager in the world and don't need money to succeed!

For all the hatred and scorn that gets poured onto Gordon Browns poor head, he seems to be the only one out of the whole sorry cabal who is capable of maintaining some dignity.

I don't much care wether or not William Hague has been slipping his special friend advisor one, but since his tales of epic drinking, and his heroic dissembling over Michael Ashcroft, the more he proclaims that he is telling the truth, the less inclined I am to believe him.

Shaky

Christina Patterson has a good piece in today Independent, gently mocking Cameron and Osborne. We could do with more of that.

I’m not sure what to make of the labour candidates, they all seem a bit anodyne and lacking in character; lacking hinterland. I confess, I haven’t studied their policies and I base my views solely on my perception of their characters.

Ed Balls knee jerk response to the Baby P case and his appalling jumping on to any passing media bandwagon disgusts me and I could never warm to him. I’m sure Andy Burnham is a magnificently intelligent chap, but he comes across as bit dull and he seems to struggle when it comes to spontaneous repartee. Minds like Cameron, Clegg and Osborne, finely honed in the debating societies of our finest schools and universities, will make mincemeat of him.

All through the life of New Labour, I have disliked the Millibands. They are both distinctly odd looking, for a start. David looks as if you dipped his head in a pot of paint, you could do the garden fence with it, Ed just looks strange. Sounds strange too. But I am hardly an oil painting myself, so I shouldn’t judge them on looks. So I will judge them on background. They represent an element of politics that I really dislike; the apparatchiks. It seems as if they have been groomed for high office since birth; lots of front, but little bottom.

It doesn’t really matter what I think, because I am not a member of the party, so won’t be voting, but for what it’s worth, I am edging towards Ed. He seems to have the intellectual capacity and sharpness of mind to be able to deal with the pantomime of Prime Ministers Questions, and he could make Cameron or Clegg uncomfortable in the pointless exchanges over the despatch box, as well as deal with the hostile interrogations of the likes of John Humphreys . His brother could do that too, but Ed seems to me to be a bit less rigid in his thinking, a bit more open to ideas, and he has said that Labour must re-engage with the working class ………….bloody radical for a Labour man!

I went to see Simone Felice again last night, this time in Bristol. It was a very different experience to last week in Cardiff. Last week he came on quite late, the all standing crowd being pretty well oiled, and up for it, having seen two excellent support acts. They responded to Felice enthusiastically and immediately. I have noticed before that Cardiff crowds, particulary in smaller venues, can be a bit raucous. Felice evidently fed off this energy and played a long and excellent set, involving the crowd at every opportunity. As far as you can tell, he seemed to be really enjoying himself.

Last night was different. The gig was in a social club, for a start, (albeit serving a very nice pint of Doom Bar, or whatever the hell it was called), there was no support act, so he came on early and everyone was sitting down. It was a much more subdued, respectful audience, it felt like being in a folk club, which is OK, I like folk clubs.

As in Cardiff, he started with “Scarecrow”, which some might argue is his best song, he followed that with “The Morning I Get to Hell” “One More American Song” and “If You Ever Get Famous” Possibly his four best songs, certainly four of  his best songs, and you wondered, where is he going to go now? Surely, he should be saving songs as good as that for later on. Well, he played some covers, including a brilliant version of Tom Waits “Old 55” and he played more of his own stuff, such as “Mercy” and “Union Street”, which are as good as any of his other songs, and you realised that this man just writes brilliant song after brilliant song. It is pointless having a favourite, because they are all favourites. He did a couple of new ones, “New York Times” and “ Shaky” ,presumably, off the fortchcoming Duke and the King album and they showed that if anything, he is improving.

The night ended early and fairly abruptly, he left out another of my favourites, “Radio Song” which had been a boisterous and enjoyable singalong in Cardiff. He had tried, manfully, to get the Bristol crowd singing, reminding us at one point that we were in a social club, not a library, and to be fair to the audience, they did respond, but it lacked a bit of oomph . Felice was superb, but he seemed a bit out of sorts; he didn’t really seem to be getting into it. The night was great while it lasted, but the shortness of it was a bit disappointing. Typically, he hung around for ages afterwards, happy to talk with anyone who approached, happy to pose for pics.


The transfer window is near it's end, and day by day, we are told or there are rumours, encouraged by the local press, that Blues are in for this one, or that one, or we are near to deals with 2 or 3, and, day by groundhog day, nothing happens. We went in for Nzogbia, were knocked back, then went in again this week. Apparently we have been knocked back again. No news of other, unnamed players that we were supposed to be close to doing deals with. It was the same in January. I don't mind that much if we don't sign marquee players, I don't mind if we refuse to pay inflated prices, but I am becoming bored shitless by the endless hype and the endless dithering. Eck, either shit, or get off the pot, but don't tell us about it until the deed is done. Bobo Bleeding Balde, Babel, Pavluchenko, Chris Bloody Boyd, now Nzogbia, what do they all have in common?

Roberto Martinez has complained about the window and the unsettling effect it has on players. He has a point, Nzogbia and Mascherano have both missed games because, in the vernacular, their heads weren't right, and Stoke's reserve keeper appears to have gone on strike.My preference would be for them to do away with the window altogether, but, if we must have it, it should close before the start of the season.

I have blipped

Happy birthday, "Deliverance" I confess, I haven't read the book, I must put that right. I hear that like "Cutters Way" (Cutter and Bone) the book is a lot better than the film.

Crying Time

Well, that was quite a hilarious weekend of football. As much as we are all supposed to love plucky little Blackpool, the clubs owners have always seemed a bit dubious to me, what with Owen being a convicted rapist and all that. At the end of last week, we heard that the chairman had resigned because he is fed up with the avarice of agents: they forgot to mention that he is about to be made bankrupt and would not be allowed to carry on as chairman anyway. He jumped, just before he was pushed, Having said that, I have nothing against the team or the town, and didn't take any pleasure from their hammering; I did take some pleasure from Ian Holloway's post match thoughts though.

Poor old Wigan, once again, looked hapless, which is a real pity because I really like Martinez; we shall see how genial the Wigan owner is over the coming weeks. West Ham continue to embarrass themselves, which is always fine by me and  Sunderland and their marvellously loyal fans are finding out just how good Steve Bruce is.

Blues showed resilience once again, coming from behind to beat a frankly terrifying Blackburn side. Big Sam gets some stick for his Neanderthal ways, but they are much more than hoofball merchants. They certainly do not take any prisoners, but they have some pace and skill in that team, and those 3 points on Saturday will turn out to have been very good points indeed. Blackburn will finish in the top half, no question.

Eck made 3 changes on Saturday, the most telling being Gardner for Bowyer. Bowyer was very good when he first came to us and still hasn't really let anyone down, so it was quite brave of Mcleish to drop him, but it worked. I hope Gardner now gets a run in the team in central midfield, because he will only improve. Bowyer must accept the impermanence of shit and learn to enjoy sitting on the bench, coming on late in the game to help protect a lead.

I saw Newcastle on the box last week. Even allowing for the fact that they were playing Manchester Utd and that, as one or two commentators may have mentioned in passing, Paul Scholes is in a rich vein of form, they looked bloody hopeless, certain candidates for a quick return to the chumpionship, So it was easily the funniest and most unexpected delight of the weekend when they put 6 past our much loved and revered neighbours. It would not be seemly to dwell on it though.

I haven't really listened to 606 for years, I might listen to a bit here and there but it is never long before I am driven away by the inane banality of it, but I listened to it yesterday on the I player and was pleasantly surprised. Mark Chapman and Robbie Savage are very good, and Savage, in particular is happy to tell the callers that they are talking shit. As professional talking heads go, Savage is refreshingly honest and will also concede the point occasionally. Have a listen before it gets hyped to the heavens and becomes a parody of itself.

I went to see Simone Felice last week. It was a very good venue, the Buffalo Bar in Cardiff, which is not only a very cool place, but also serves a very good range of very well kept beer, which is a rare treat indeed. Felice recently underwent open heart surgery and this was, I think, only his second gig since his recovery, and it was brilliant. The man is probably the best, the most honest and the most poetic songwriter around at the moment, but he is also a showman into the very core of his being. He is either going to be huge, or he is going to go prematurely to his maker, so go and see him while you have the chance. He is touring Britain now, and will be back withThe Duke and the King later in the year, unmissable, either way. He made some solo, very stripped down versions of some of his songs when he first got out of hospital………it is a beautiful CD, only seems to be available at his gigs.

He was supported by Jeb Loy Nichols, who really, really surprised me. I had seen him before, supporting Richard Thomspon, and his music just drifted by; but in this more intimate venue, he was astonishing, he has a beautiful, rich, warm singing voice and writes songs of humour and poignancy. Having researched him a bit, he seems to be something of a renaissance man and his output is very eclectic. Well worth checking out.

While I was my holiday, I read Truth, by Peter Temple, and I have a mate, who also read the book on his holiday. We both agree that it is brilliant. Temple has an ability to evoke time, place and atmosphere using little more than dialogue which borders on genius. Don't read his very early books though, they are shit.

Anyone who may have glanced at this blog over the years will know that I have long banged on about inequality and the harm that it causes to everyone in society, those who gain from the iniquity as well as those who lose.  There is a good piece here discussing the work of  Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett, Even David Cameron has praised The Spirit Level, so it is really pissing me off that the Condems are intent on pursuing policies that will make the poor poorer and increase inequality. There is a brilliant piece in todays FT (sorry, you have to register, but it is free) which explains pretty cogently why the policies of this government are not progressive and will hit the poor very hard.


I recall saying, maybe even on here, that as much as New Labour may have disappointed some of us, we should never forget what a bunch of bastards the Tories are; what I had failed to realise is that the liberals are as bad!

When You See Me In The Pouring Rain

Don't read that, read this.

So, it has begun. West Brom hammered, West Ham hammered. Joe Hart showing his class for Man City, bet he misses having Johnson and Dann in front of him, I doubt he was ever required to be that busy for us, Blackpool win 4-0, away, mental. Refs making the news. Meet the new season, pretty much the same as any other season.

We managed a draw at Sunderland. The team was a bit of a surprise with O Connor starting ahead of Zigic and Fahey starting ahead of McFadden, and we took our first strides into the new campaign, with a faltering gait. In short, we were shit, Sunderland looked very sharp from the off and we really struggled to get into the game; for all that, Sunderland did not really look like scoring.   They took the lead from a penalty, which should not have been awarded. The ref has taken a bit of a metaphorical kicking, but I think the linesman was more at fault.

Sunderland then had Cattermole sent off, quite rightly, because he really shouldn't be on the pitch in the first place. This was the signal for Blues to carry on exactly as they did before: haplessly. They looked no better against 10 than they did against 11.

The second half and Blues improved, and were very unlucky to go a further goal behind. We had a decent break on, McFadden payed a beautiful ball through to Jerome, who fucking gave it away, Sunderland attacked at speed, some northern chump crossed it, Carr got his head to it and it looped over Foster into the goal. It was one of those strange ones, where there is a little delay before the crowd celebrates,as they are not quite sure what happened.

Zigic came on soon after and Blues improved somewhat. We put Sunderland under significant and sustained pressure and we got our rewards, with two goals coming from good crosses. We were the more likely winners by the end, but, given that we had been two down and playing, poor, poor, mediocre  football, a point away against one of our main rivals to win the little league of mid table mediocrity is not to be sniffed at.

Overall, I am not happy. The late rally (against 10 knackered men) should not be allowed to disguise how poor we were. Jerome is no good and we badly need someone else up there. We do not play a fluid game, our midfield is detached from the attack; this would be OK if we had someone who could hold the ball up and let the midfield get up there, but Jerome is not that man, he proves it week after week. We tailed off badly at the end of last year, and while our resilience and bouncebackability is nothing short of astonishing, we must remember two things, Sunderland are shit and they only had 10 men for most of the match. Better, teams, with better discipline will take us to the cleaners.

Sunderland supporters left by the thousand in the last few minutes. The game was anyones, but they were streaming out………..what the fuck is that all about? I thought they were supposed to be the best and most loyal supporters in the history of football.

Steve Bruce does not think that Cattermole should have been sent off. Steve Bruce is barking mad. Cattermole was a menace, and should have been sent off for his assault on O Connor. Bruce doesn't see that though, he thinks that Cattermoles first booking was harsh. Even if it was, he got away with the challenge on O Connor. It is a skewed moral universe that is inhabited by football managers, where discretions that go unpunished are OK, but discretions which are punished too harshly are mortal sins. Eck, as ever was dignity personified

Something I learned today. Robbie Savage does not know what the word "monosyllabic"means, and gets the right hump with anyone who uses it.

If Time Was For Wasting

Cameron is targeting welfare cheats………..thank Christ for that, for a horrible moment I thought he was going to go after tax evaders, what with us all being in together.

Go get 'em, Floyd

There was a very good article in the Guardian the other day on Jimi Hendrix.

Good article on the role of the modern number 10

The world cup, as viewed by Magnum photographers. There are some incredibly striking and beautiful images in there

The football season is nearly upon us and the first manager has already bitten the dust; fortunately, it affects our much loved and revered neighbours, so it has been the source of much mirth in the fraternity of Small Heathens. I only hope we are still chuckling, come May 2011.

The bi polar nature of the average Blues fan has been in evidence over the summer, and at the moment, with 4 days to go until the start of the season, we are in a down phase. This is not good news. Traditionally, the pre season is when all reason disappears and we ignore the evidence of  history and we all convince ourselves, that this season, it is going to be different; this is the year things start to happen. This will be the year we really start to achieve, when we manage to score more than one goal in a game or progress to the latter stages of a cup competition. Not this year though. The pre season euphoria is missing.

At the end of last season, there was good deal of optimism about, although I didn't share it. People seemed to feel that we had arrived and that we will push on and were salivating at the prospect of all our new signings. It has become a bit of a cliche to say that we overachieved last year, and we did, but our overachievement was due in part to the underachievement of others. We played solidly, without really playing all that well,  (although we did play well in patches, usually when chasing the game) and, to an extent, we got away with having little or no creativity and no consistent goalscorer. It was great, but it ain't sustainable. The end of the season was poor, either because we had been sussed out or because we were knackered. The amazing run in the middle of the season covered up a poor start and a poor finish.

As the summer has progressed, the mood amongst some fans has shifted from hope to well, not despair, but frustration and unease. We signed Foster and Zigic, then, nothing (yes, I know, Valles) and, days away from the start of the season, we look to be very short handed, and now Phillips has knackered himself. There is still time to get some players in and we are supposed to be in for 3 internationals, but as ever, there is a lot of pissing about going on. The frustrating thing is that if we had signed players before we got back for pre season, they would be bedded in, as it is, they will be learning the ropes in actual meaningful games. Not ideal.

Having said that, I still think we will be OK. By all accounts we have played some decent stuff pre season and have played a patient, passing game despite the presence of the huge Zigic. They can only have grown in confidence after last year and players like Johnson, Dann and Fahey will have learned and improved from their first extended appearances in the top flight. Zigic could be crucial. If he is better than Jerome at receiving the ball and holding on to it, and more thoughtful and accurate with his passes, the midfield might develop the confidence to get forward a bit quicker, and we might actually score a few goals. I predict another top half finish.

The Guardian has described us as a team full of Brits up for a fight supported by a smattering of Irishmen and Spaniards, just like Magaluf of a Saturday night. It made me chuckle, anyway.

The last 15 minutes of the 1982 world cup final, re enacted. Rather brilliant;

Refait from Pied La Biche on Vimeo.

Fisherman

Wait all month for a post and then a massive bleeder arrives all at once. This is an account of my holiday, I typed it at the end of several days, tired and pissed, on a tiny tablet that kept running out of battery, so it is very disjointed and clumsy. I won’t edit, now, not much anyway, so as to give an accurate feel of the holiday experience.

Happy Birthday to me, I am 53. Not really, I am much younger than that, by at least two years, but, you know, I feel playful, and 3 rhymes.  It’s not my birthday either, not today, but it was when I wrote it, in a field, in France, when I was too tight to pay the outrageous wifi fee.

I didn’t expect to be in France today, I expected to be en route. I knew I was travelling on my birthday, but for some reason, I believed I was traveling across on the 21^st, not traveling down. What a palaver. Nearly missed the damned holiday. I was happily sitting there on the 20^th, having ordered some stuff from Amazon, that day, which I was confident would arrive the following day, to take with us. I checked the ticket at about half five in the afternoon. And then I checked it again, and then again, because I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. Our ferry was today, the fucking 20^th, not tomorrow, the fucking 21st.  From Plymouth. We had 3 hours to get there, we hadn’t packed, and I had no idea where my Mrs was. And I hadn’t had my goddamn tea!

Not to put too fine a point on it, I had the screaming ab dabs. I will elucidate, but this battery is about to die, and I wish to record several things, which I promise myself I will not edit, when I am less tired, more sober, more rational. My kids are the most wonderful kids in the world and I am a very lucky man to be married to my Mrs. This has been an absolute shocker of a 20 hours……………..no sleep, little food:  a genuine possibility of a holiday ruined, our first in  years, and which has been very difficult to finance…….. and there have been no tears, no tantrums, few sulks. They are all sleeping the sleep of the just, I am sat out in the dark, typing this bollocks and listening to the absolutely wonderful Steve Mason, while drinking the fabled cheap, but good plonk. Happy Birthday to me. Despite everything, life is good, which is not a statement that I ever thought I would utter at about 4.30 yesterday a.m.

Mind you, after traveling 600 odd difficult miles, it was a bit of a pisser that the first  person I saw was some chump in a Villa shirt.

It,s not midnight. You cannot hear a peep on this campsite and all is in darkness  It is pitch  back apart from the starry , starry night, Vincent, and it seems like I have had the place to myself, for at least an hour. My younger self would have hated this, but the older me is in paradise.

Day two. I said I would elucidate, but I won’t, yesterday has gone and having just re read, I think the general impression is made. I fucked up. I panicked. Nuff said.

I am typing this in the tent, having been driven inside by a spectacular downpour. The rest of my tribe is already in the land of nod, as is the rest of the campsite, by the sound of it. Again, it is not yet midnight. I am enjoying the best disco in town, any town, which is the sound of the rain drumming off the roof of the tent, but apart from that, you couldn’t hear a pin drop. There must be at least a couple of thousand people on here, and it is incredibly peaceful, apart from my sausage fingers abusing the keyboard.

It has been a bit of eventful day, but a good day, and between the five of us we  have done a fair bit. It’s amazing to think that we haven\t been here for two full days yet, but we have done more than we would do in 6 months at home. I am chuffed that out of everyone I was the first to “make a friend” as everyone thinks I am completely anti social……………..tis a pity my new friend is a Villa fan, and not even the one I saw  yesterday. The motherlovers get everywhere.

I’m afraid I have to tell you that this morning I had a row, a big, huge, lengthy row, with the Eurocamp reps. (yep, our huge and wonderful Bear Lake is at home, forlorn and unloved, as we took the easy option of Eurocamp) We have not been impressed by Eurocamp from the moment we booked, and there were quite a few things wrong when we arrived, but we let all that go, being desirous of going with the flow. But that is another story, for another day.

This row though, concerned my youngest nipper and his soccer school: the soccer school being one of the deciding factors in choosing this site. There was an early warning yesterday, when the two fat birds who run it cycled down to our tent soon after we arrived, trying to sell us the idea of the soccer camp, which would cost us 6 euros per session. We explained that we were already sold on their camp, and that we had pre booked and paid for an unlimited pass to it, so they could expect to see him every day, twice a day if it turned out so hot we couldn’t contemplate moving from the campsite.

The fine specimens of the nations athletic young females looked at each other, mumbled, and said, “paying up front for an unlimited pass doesn’t guarantee him a place”. I let it go, thinking that theses words were just a catch all to be used on rare occasions, but thinking, if there is ever a day he can’t get in, I will have a bit of moan. He was in this morning and when it finished I said leg it to the tent, make sure you get booked in tomorrow.

I shall digress here for just a little bit, because there are pertinent points. As I signed him in this morning, a girl who was wearing sunglasses even though there was no sun (hiding her eyes?) told him to just go down to the field. Being his first time I had to fill in a consent form, but there was huge queue waiting to sign in and only one pen, so I rather gallantly waited for them all to sign in before filling in the form, then wandered over to the field. Of the 4 named coaches, none of them were there, and the kids were having a bit of  free for all, and enjoying it, but, I thought, it would be polite to have some chump there welcoming the kids and easing them in. A nervous kid would not have enjoyed it…………we are talking about half an hour here,  not a couple of minutes.

Anyway, it all kicked off in a fairly ad hoc and haphazard fashion and I wandered  back to our tent. There is a huge lake here…………….very peaceful, very romantic and me and the Mrs wondered around it, romantically, before strolling over to the soccer camp, where, immediately, I had an issue, and had to have a word with myself to chill the fuck out. The issue was that the coaches had organised two games and then just sat down, paying no attention, and chatting among themselves; there was some good play, but I was the only idiot commenting upon it…………..the coaches were completely unaware of it.

My nipper, aged 9 took a ball at some force and from close range full in the face. A coach was aware, only because the session was coming to an end, and he was collecting up cones  and was stood next to him. The nippers nose was pissing blood and he was obviously upset…………..the guy didn’t know what to do and his mates hadn’t noticed. All the other kids had, because they formed an orderly queue to view the carnage of his face! It was the first time that the little perishers had managed to organize themselves all day. The coaches  realised  that the nippers parents were there and offloaded him (reasonably enough) The Mrs. asked if there was any kind of first aid kit……………the chap shit himself, run off and came back a while later with a bit of kitchen towel.

But that is by the by and is not the issue.

The issue is this. At the end, I said, leg it to the tent Charlie, get yourself booked in for tomorrow, which he did. Only to find it fully booked. Battery gone again. Will continue tomorrow. I bet you can’t wait.

Day 3

Just to finish yesterday’s moan. He couldn’t get in for the next day. I resaonably pointed out that we had paid up front and was met with the utter disdain of three bored students........which set me off on one. I can’t be bothered with the details now, but the more obtuse they became, the more I was able to point out the absurd inconsistencies of their logic, and in the end several other parents joined in. It became a bit of a bear pit, and I ended up with a bit of an audience.

Despite that mega whinge…………………….we are having a brilliant time…………….honest!

It seems a bit daft typing all this when I can’t or won’t post immediately, but I will not edit anything I post……………..it will be an accurate reflection of how I feel or felt , at the time. There should be a government warning on all holidays sold……………”Remember, holidays can be STRESSFUL!”

It’s strange not having the internet. I fire this scoundrel up and then think………….what the hell am I supposed to do now? Who invented this useless gadget? Maybe I should just pretend to tweet   ...........  I never seem to have any trouble posting inconsequential nonsense on that. Here we go……….slightly pissed a tweet:

Couldn’t find my sandals without incurring wrath of  Mrs, so strolled to piss corner barefoot. Feet ripped to shreds. Was that more than 140 characters, do you think?

Day 5

Did I miss a bit? I did. 

It’s one of the beauties of campsite life that your world changes every day. People come, people go, day after day after day. Thinking of the butterfly’s wing, imagine the difference several daily changes to the neighborhood will have ……………not to mention a huge  population shift every Friday and Saturday. The ambience has changed, and not for the better. I can feel another whinge coming on.

But first things first. We are having a beautiful and a brilliant time, and it is hot, Goddamn hot. Trying to keep 3 kids of different ages and genders happy is difficult , so we haven’t really bothered trying, and although initially nervous of the unaccustomed freedom, they soon found their wings and learned  how to fly. The daughter is having a sleepover as I type. Which brings me to a whinge. The daughter and her new friend came legging it down from wherever to ask if she could sleepover. The Mrs is a child care social worker; she ain’t letting her little darling sleep with any Tom Dick or Harry on a campsite, so she went off to check their bona fides. 

We had been out for a bit of mooch and arrived back on site at  8.36 ( I know this because I marvelled at the accuracy of the sat nav)  The young un’s disappeared straight off the bat, and the young ladies turned up at about 10 30. The Mrs and the other mother were bollocked by security at about 10.45 for  making too much noise as they discussed,  how safe our child would  be with them. Meanwhile, we were enduring the drunken and banal raucousness of 3 huge multi family groups who had recently arrived.  Last nights raucousness , lets face it, selfishness was understandable……………….they had arrived late, tired, hot, bothered and excited. Huge pause here. Damn tablet gave up on me.

It is now 1 a.m on day 8 and for the 4^th night running I an sat out, drinking, because there is no point being abed, because others are enjoying their holiday in a loud and unthinking way. There was nearly a scrap the other night when some poor bloke reached the end of his tether and asked one group to pipe down. It only made things worse and  the other loud group didn’t even notice the fracas, so wrapped up in their own entertainment were they, We feel a bit unlucky. The rest of the campsite is dead quiet; I know because I tour it each night to and from the bogs, several times……………we have just been unlucky enough to be wedged between two tribes of utter bastards.  One of the group aren\t bastards actually, I really don.t think they meant offense when they arrived and have tried to keep it down since………………the other lot are bastards though, 

I like a whinge, as is obvious, but the fact remains that we are having a splendid holiday. The Vendee is supposed to be drab and featureless, but we find this corner of it lovely and the cycling is nothing short of idyllic: the campsite is fantastic, apart from the neighbours.

My littlest doesn’t know he has been born and we don’t see him from early morning until late night, unless he is after some euros for something from the takeaway. He has developed the art of mooching around, looking for pals, and usually ends up getting a  huge game of football started,. The daughter, as is her wont, has made friends and they walk around all day chattering nonsense. I don’t know about the oldest, it’s probably not the best kind of thing for him, but he seems chilled enough. As for me and the Mrs, we don’t really matter, our job is to keep everyone else happy.

That’s it. For some damn reason, this tablet is only  giving me about half hour of life, despite being on charge all day, and I want to listen to some Felice Brothers and tune.tune all the other buggers out.

Day whatever………….I have lost track, and I have to be quick……………..I leave this damn thing charging all day and all the battery time I get is about half hour. The neighbours are still being absolute arses…….it’s a beautiful starlit night,  the like of which I rarely see and they are enjoying the spectacle, juts like me, but loudly. The only buggers on the campsite making noise. 1 am  and a couple of corks have popped and more logs have gone on the fire…..and Wend has just turned up. It may be another late night. Wend is a right fat, thick sounding  tart by the way, just in case any of ‘em should happen upon this blog…………..and her husband is clearly retarded.

But enough of that shit………….I only dwell upon upon it because it is going on while I am typing…………………our enjoyment levels continue to increase. Little Charlie is playing football with other kids for at leat 8 hours a day………….heaven. The daughter spends all day with horses or in the pool or talking girl talk…………..heaven for her…………Louis has just chilled out………………..cycling around the miles and miles of dirt tracks and farm tracksthrough the woods next to the site, or fishing in one of the lakes, or just arsing about around the tent…………..I have managed to injure myself and spend the week hobbling around in pain (as tradition dictates)……………the Mrs has discovered cycling heaven and even been in the pool and enjoyed it and we have come across some wonderfully good and generous people

Having taken couple  of days the kids have tuned in to the rhythm of site and found their own niches. The Mrs is a bit fed up that we haven’t found the perfect beach, nor been to a little hidden away auberge for the plat de jour, but has also attuned to the beat of the drum and I have become like a child again…………….even to the extent of falling off my motherfucking bike! It was ace, I only wish I was more badly injured, just to impress the kids. I can’t believe we used to do all this off road shit on racers, It really is like an old fashioned, long hot summer, except that in Tyseley we were not surrounded by huge fields of sunflowers and corn and the ground was not necessarily baked so hard

The campsite is abuzz. The two lady soccer coaches did a moonlight flit, presumably fed up with all the flak they were getting. Numbers allowed on each session now further reduced.

Her we are again, another late, starry night, another ambience shift. Hundreds left today to be replaced by hundreds of others. We enjoyed a largely bucolic day………….the kids did what the kids did; football, fishing, cycling, chilling , arsing about with horses, making friends, having an old fashioned childhood. I dossed, I watched a bit of the nippers football, , I cooked, I fished, I cycled, I knackered myself.

We went off to a nearby resort town………….very French in feel, had tea in a little caff by a harbour with a couple of guitarists doing Django tunes, while crazy French traffic did it’s crazy French thing. So the kids have had at least a taste of what is like to be in actual France, as opposed to a taste of a bit of Britain Ireland and Holland, at rest/

We got back about half nine and immediately noticed the new ambience shift. The place was much noisier. It was alright. Hundreds of new families had been arriving, most of them knackered………………hundreds of new kids had arrived, knackered and excited, and had set about enjoying themselves. Our first noisy neighbours were well into the swing of it and being as noisy as they had been all through the week, but it was still early, so that was OK.

The other buggers though, were just getting into it as the rest of the site calmed down and closed down. It is now 1 am. It is quiet, except for our neighbours. I have noticed that they all arrive back at their three tents with their hundreds of kids at about half ten and while they settle their kids down they light their fire and mutter away in a civilized fashion……………….once their kids have nodded off, and the women come out, the volume goes up and keeps going up. The intelligence level of their late night chat falls some way short of banal. They all met at college, 17 years ago and they are still getting drunk and acting like kids on their first trip to the beer garden now. Their words. Not mine: 1.30 am. I am typing this shit, listening to Low Anthem on I pod. I can hear them over it.

The I Pod is another sore point. I had read good reviews of Cherry Ghost and the Coral, neither of whom are my particular cup of tea, but downloaded them and stuck them on, in the mean time deleting nearly everything else. I am left with the aforementioned albums both of which I have already tired of, a Low Anthen live doodah a Beach Boys for the kids in and a Beatles. Oh, and some awful, wailing Pink Floyd live effort. This holiday, on the whole is great and all the kids want to come back, but, fuck me, I have committed some schoolboy errors. 

Had tablet charging all day and it says I have 30 mins battery life, so I shall be brief

The bad neighbors are on form again. My Mrs reckons that while I was in the bog  at half 1ish this morning, someone, at the end of his tether, had a word. She was pissed off with me because she thought it was me, I don't know why she would think I go around seeking confrontation with groups of drunk men. 

Next night, it’s about half ten, the Mrs said that the other bloke must have had an effect, because they were much quieter. I said that they are always quiet at that time, because they hadn’t even started at that point………………sure enough, the sound of the first corks popping went at about 11, at about the time everyone was settling down. And it is getting louder. They are not people who have respect or consideration for others.

We had some new neighbours arrive earler……………..very loud, very full of bonhomie with their friends. It seems that they have all been coming for 7 or 8 years, and between them they seem to have dozens of kids,.............at about half ten, they shut it, like switching off a light. Nice people, considerate people.

But. What a day we have had.  The daughter spent it with the horses, scuppering our chances of having a beach day, so the rest of us went off, found a wonderful little town, had a wonderful meal, in a wonderful restaurant, followed by a wonderful ride up the river in a pedalo, powered by the nippersand finished that little trip off with some wonderful cakes.

Cut off in my prime again. That last post was about 2 days ago. It is now the last night and once again, all is calm, all is peace and it is another beautiful night. A magnificent night. The good noisy crowd have gone, and while they were no trouble, the environment has become much calmer. The bad noisy crowd are still here, but reduced by one family unit. Also, someone complained and I heard them being told by the night man that there is a 10.30 noise curfew. They were not happy and they muttered, but,fair play to them, they have been quiet ever since.

It’s our last night and despite all my moans this holiday has been wonderful, never mind the kids having had a an idyllic 60’s style two weeks and carrying the bums, bruises, cuts and scratches to prove it, I have enjoyed an idyllic two week return to childhood myself. And I have the bumps, bruises, cuts and scratches to prove it too. The two youngest look like they have spent two weeks cage fighting, not camping, and you have never seen a pair so proud of their wounds..

As last days go, this will take some beating. . I fished with daughter.  I swam in  a fairly empty pool, I relaxed by pool, with good book, I watched youngest play football, I went to a leclerc and stocked up on vino and bought the most incredible boxes of hot grub, for pennies, I cycled around deserted country roads,and dirt tracks, I went to a very good caff for scallops and what not and I cycled some more dirt tracks; I had a right laugh  with the kids, I polished off a very good and very cheap bubbly and I am now finishing off a very good and cheap local white.. I have some very good memories to take home

That’s it, it is midnight, it is warm, I am enjoying a glass of local wine and the night is beautiful. And I appear to be the last person awake on the whole campsite, and I am very aware of my noisy tapping, so, see you back in blighty!

Pieces

So, with Germany having just beaten Uruguay in an entertaining 3rd place game, we are down to the last two. I don't normally like to run with the crowd, but as far as this world cup goes, I am with the crowd………it has been mediocre. There has been no outstanding player, no one who has you on the edge of your seat with anticipation; no Pele, or Cruyff, or Kempes or Maradona and there has been no outstanding team. Germany have played with some vibrancy and Spains ability to pick teams apart with the utmost delicacy is a delight, but, as with individual players, we have not seen masters at work, but, you know, it's been alright. Any football through the long, long summer is better than no football.


As the World Cup enters its final game on Sunday, be sure to admire the poetic and sometimes melancholic Total Football of the Netherlands and Spain—and compare it to the prosaic, rather efficient style of Germany in Saturday's third-place match



There is a certain puritanism about Spain's approach, a kind of "talibanismo de tiki-taka" -- as if scoring a goal from distance is a bit crass, as if bundling one in or scoring from a corner is rather grubby, as if hitting a team on the break or with a long ball is vulgar

This is a brilliant article on Englishness.

Can You Tell

Watching Argentina the other night was difficult and I felt a bit like a voyeur. Germany murdered ‘em. It was sad to see players as talented as Argentina first look baffled and bewildered, and then lose all hope. It was heartbreaking to observe Maradonas increasing despair as the game reached its conclusion. Maradona will probab;y be gone now, which is a shame, because he provides genuine entertainment on the touchline, and his press conferences are legendary.

So that was Argentina and Brazil both gone, both of them with a whimper and Brazil bid goodbye to their manager. Some very good, or at least well though of teams have now left earlier than expected, which I hope puts Englands performance into some perspective. 32 of the worlds best teams started in South Africa and it was inevitable that well fancied teams would go out. Someone has to lose, sometimes (often, in fact) it will be your team that loses, so be it. It’s not just England, but, it seems every other nation that overreacts to sporting disappointment; I’m not sure if that makes me happy or not.  

For once, the FA have behaved reasonably, in not sacking Capello, which would have represented the most violent of knee jerks. I maintain that given the respective records of the manager and the players, you have to conclude that it is the players that failed, not the manager. This leaves us with a huge problem. There has been loads written and said about Englands failings over the last week, but the harshest condemnation of the game lies in the figures for the number of qualified coaches we have in comparison to other countries.

The Observer reported yesterday that England has only 2,769 coaches holding Uefa's B, A and Pro badges, its top qualifications. Spain has produced 23,995, Italy 29,420, Germany 34,970 and France 17,588.


This is shocking, truly shocking. The Lewis report, which someone must have paid for, seems to have been ignored, because of bickering at the disjointed top levels. I manage to keep a calm, rational head when it comes to the teams performance; I am, despite my advanced age, quite naïve, and I firmly believe that every player tries his absolute best in every game, so I can forgive defeat. This structural disgrace though is something else, and is unforgivable. Who holds these chumps to account?

Should I mention the national football centre? Er, no, perhaps not, I might pop a vessel.

When You See Me in the Pouring Rain

I have to confess that once England go out of a competition, I lose a bit of interest. I continue watching, but the frisson has gone, and unless it is a really, really good game, I remain aloof, dispassionate. Luckily, yesterday was a day of high drama, and the denouement of the Ghana game was almost unbearable to watch.

I am glad Brazil have gone out, not because I have a dislike for Brazil, but because I have a dislike of the commentators undue reverence towards them. Every pass is exquisite, every nonchalant flick is the work of some innately gifted God of football. Towards the end yesterday, I kept hearing stuff like "time for the best team in the world to perform" and "time for the best player (Kaka) in the world to perform". I beg your chuffing pardon, but there is no recent evidence for this kind of horse shit, and I am glad that we will no longer be subject to it. Until Messi turns up this afternoon.

Suarez seems rather pleased with himself, which I find unfortunate. I wouldn't jump on the moral bandwagon which is currently rolling along at great pace, but I would prefer to see him at least pretend to be a bit shame faced. Apparently FIFA are considering extending his ban so that he misses the final, if Uruguay get there; bloody nonsense. They might just as well ban the German goalie. He knew he had cheated against England, and boasted and joked about it afterwards. I wish the buggers played with more of the Corinthian spirit about them, but they don't, and singling out Suarez for harsh treatment would be unjust. The free kick which led to the incident was a bit of a dodgy decision anyway, was it not?

Peter Singer on cheating in football

The two best teams so far meet this afternoon, and I can't wait for it, which probably means it will be a shit game. There will be strife in our house. The Mrs seems to have fallen in love with Maradona. I really don't know what she sees in short fat chaps who struggle to control their appetites! Youngest idolises Messi. I have been banished to the smaller, less comfy settee. It will be noisy. She can be quite excitable. Hopefully, the marriage will survive.

This world cup has been enlivened by the Mrs discovering a previously hidden love of the game. Actually, that's putting it a bit strong, but she has been watching it, and enjoying it. I have been enjoying her enjoying it, because she provides a non stop narrative on the action that she is observing, and asks constant questions. I wish I had been keeping notes. Here is some of the stuff, up with which, I have had to put:

"OOOHHH, THAT'S NOT NICE, HE SHOULD BE SENT OFF FOR THAT!" (After the most innocuous of pushes)

"IS THAT MARADONA, I CAN'T BELIEVE HE IS SO TINY………..AAWW, LOVE HIM" (Every time Maradona appears on screen)

"IS THAT THE SPANISH MANAGER? I LIKE HIS FACE, I'M GOING FOR SPAIN NOW!) (Every time Del Bosque appears on screen)

"IT WOULD BE NICE IF THEY COULD SCORE NOW" (Every time a team goes behind)

"WHY DON'T THE PLAYERS JUST STOP PLAYING WHEN THEY KNOW THEY ARE OFFSIDE, YOU CAN'T EXPECT THE REF TO SEE EVERYTHING"

'I WISH THEY WOULD STOP SPITTING……WHY DO THEY KEEP SPITTING???!!!)

'WHY ARE THERE SO MANY FOULS? THERE WEREN'T SO MANY FOULS IN THE SIXTIES AND SEVENTIES)

" THEIR BODIES TAKE A RIGHT BATTERING, THEY MUST BE BLACK AND BLUE BY THE TIME THEY HAVE FINISHED; I THOUGHT THEY COULD ONLY USE THEIR FEET"

"WHY ARE THEY ALL GOING TOWARDS THE SAME GOAL" (when a corner has been awarded)

It's been hilarious.

One Day

Well, that was one hell of a dramatic day. Unfortunately, it has been a long day, a day characterised by drinking, plenty. I have many thoughts, but at this stage, it would be unwise to share them.

Tomorrow!