A Bit Of Worcestershire….And Gloucestershire….

Days gone by and you’d never have got me out of the house on FA Cup Final day. Now I took the opportunity of a full tank of petrol and a lovely sunny day to take the beloved and the border collie on a drive to the countryside.

Some pictures of the day…

Moreton-In-Marsh - Sunny May Afternoon

Sometimes Cars Just Get In The Way... Moreton-in-Marsh

Worcester Cathedral, The River Severn, Sunshine. Perfect.

There's A Party Going On...

More From The Bridge On The Severn...Swans Too...

Looking Up The Severn...

Can't Get Enough Of Worcester Cathedral...

Saturday Afternoon By The Severn - Oh, There's The Cathedral Again..

Pre-Match At A Large Building In A North London Industrial Estate

Some pictures from last Sunday…

The Stadium Filling Up - Sort Of!

Pre-Match Capers, and the bloke in front ruins this (among other) photos!

WindyBricks Walk Out With The Firewall Favourites

Lining Up For The National Anthem....

Walking Up Wemberley Way

Looking Back Down Wemberley Way..

No pictures of the game – I had far too much on my plate. I had a team I wanted to win…..

Hoping For The Best For Roatan

All seems quiet about the Roatan Earthquake yesterday. As my reader might know, the beloved and I stopped off there on our honeymoon last year, and although we won’t be rushing back there is certainly no ill will on my part and the fact that a 7.3 earthquake hit it 30 odd miles offshore sounds serious enough to me. There certainly did not appear to be too much in the way of sturdy infrastructure when I was there, so maybe that is a saving grace.

I thought I’d add a couple more photos from our visit, which wasn’t in the greatest of weather and probably hindered the look of the place as a Caribbean hot-spot…

Grey Skies Over West Bay

The Beach

It Could Have Been So Different - If Only The Weather Played Ball

Darkness Descends On Roatan

Selling In A Force 8

Everything Open!

Storm Clouds Over West Bay

Leaving In The Evening

Roatan In Blue....

If Only The Weather....

Map Of The Island...

For No Particular Reason

I thought I would upload a couple of my old pictures from several trips in the past. Sights and sounds, places and views I’ve seen, all from the recesses of my “my pictures” file which was transferred some time ago…

Exhibit A – Entitled “Sunset At Key West”

"Sunset At Key West"

Exhibit B – Entitled “Get Out Of The Road”

"Get Out Of The Road"

Exhibit C – Entitled “Under The Lights At Camden Yards”

Under The Lights At Camden Yards

Exhibit D – Entitled “What Is This Doing Here?”

What Is This Doing Here?

Note on this one – I did not take this picture – I have some pictures somewhere that I never got developed from Almaty, but in lieu of this, I “borrowed this one from online”.

Exhibit E – Entitled “Overlooking The Office”

Overlooking The Office

Exhibit F – Entitled “Blue Sky-Scraper Thinking”

Blue Sky-Scraper Thinking

Exhibit G – Entitled “I Hear Them ” (Margaret River Nativity Scene – December 2006)

"I Hear Them"

 

More randomness as I see fit….

Oh No… Big Head Nicks My Thoughts

My diminutive companion in drives home knows which Barcelona player I bang on about all the time. He knows how much I rate Xavi. Without him there is a gaping hole in the way Barcelona play, and has been for the years he’s been there. He is a vital cog in the wheel that is Spain, turning towards World Cup glory next summer. He doesn’t necessarily do the things that get you off your seat, but he facilitates them. When people moan, mainly from North London, that they don’t understand how such a great talent like Fabregas can’t get in the Spain team, it is because they have better players. Contrary to Sky and their oft-repeated “the best league in the world” mantra, not every superstar is plying his trade in England. Xavi is Barcelona’s rock, and has been for ages. It seems, now, after last night’s dismantling of England’s sacred cows, that some have noticed him too.

Most notably, so far, is my old mate… Big Head Barclay.

In his article he says “although it proved a close call, let’s accept Xavi as man of the match and player of the planet.” Disturbing lazy hyperbole the last bit may be, but he was my man of the match yesterday, even if those with ADHD just thought that it would be a matter of which team won to anoint Messi or Ronaldo as World Player of the Year (and one of them will be, because chicks dig the scorer of goals more than creators or facilitators - as do journos).

Football has always been a team game and Maradona’s Argentina ‘86 aside, one man can’t lead a team single-handedly to glory. So while idiots focused on Zidane’s ability to find himself unmarked from two corners in 1998 to lead France to the World Cup, those who can focus past that nonsense (and not ignoring the muppet missing three games due to suspension) would point out that maybe the best player in that team was Lilian Thuram? No, he wasn’t a wizard like Zidane, but they’s have been in lumber without him. Behind every great player, you generally find the unsung star hiding in the wings.

So, the “story” was Ronaldo v Messi. Messi integrated himself into the team concept, Ronaldo shot at every opportunity and is still labelled as a genius. He may have all the talent to burn, but he isn’t, and never has been, a team player despite what people think about his undoubted talent. Ronaldo would probably run back and take the ball off a Xavi or Iniesta, whereas Messi waits for the ball to come to him. Chelsea smothered Messi, and made Xavi and Iniesta much less effective, and hence Barcelona were cut down to mere human status. Manchester United’s ego refused to coutenance such a style.

I loathe Ronaldo because he has no sense of the greater good, no conveyance of how fortunate he is to be given the gifts he has, and he possesses the total unfettered arrogance of a man who is never wrong, and will never even admit it even if he thought he could be. Needless to say, it isn’t his fault they lost, it was the tactics, the team did not play well. The last twenty minutes were him in microcosm. As soon as Messi got that second, he got the hump. Puyol is a master wind-up merchant and Ronaldo bit. The self-pitying crap we saw from Ronaldo in the past came out. Bad losers keep it inside and redouble their efforts next time. He just pouts. You may love the way he plays, but can you love the footballers? It is not in me I’m afraid.

So Barclay recognises, at last, how good Xavi is. I feel as though my pride is intact. Like being praised by the headmaster at school. Me and Paddy on the same page. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and its pay day tomorrow. And Ronaldo is a loser. Life is decent today.

Not Funny, Never Has Been Funny

A minor point from last night, but one that really needs to be pointed out every now and then. Once again Paul Scholes was booked for an appalling late challenge that may well have been deserving of a red. He certainly couldn’t have complained if that diabolical lunge had seen him walk. Every time this happens though, the commentators (whoever it may be) laugh it off with the “Paul Scholes, chuckle chuckle chuckle, just can’t tackle”.

Well, for crying out loud, if at his age he can’t tackle properly, then maybe I suggest, even at this late stage of his career he learn? Or, possibly, not lunge in recklessly late on such a regular basis. For as he gets older, and the reactions and pace dull a bit, that late tackle will get later and maybe some poor sod will chuckle along with the commentators as he examines the compound fracture of his shin that has finished his career at the top level. I can just imagine the player being stretchered off in agony but laughing to himself “oh well, it was only Scholesy, and we know he can’t tackle. Never mind.”

It has bugged me for years how Scholes’s tackling is treated as some sort of Morecambe and Wise routine. I know the media are all scared shitless of Ferguson, and criticism of his players or himself results in a puerile ostracism of that outlet (Sky, you notice, never tweak his tail – is his son still working there?), but you have a responsibility to the sport. A bit late now, but is someone ever going to have a word on this?

Champions League Instant Thoughts

Barcelona are a very good passing side. No, an excellent passing side. They love to be able to stroke it around and control the pace of the game. They like to play it slow and methodical, then get incisive.

So I tell you what you do. You tailor your style to fit Barcelona’s. You try to pass it like they do. You play it at their pace. You try to outdo them at their game. You ignore the clues Chelsea gave you.  According to ZS Chelsea got what all small-minded teams deserved, likening them to Falkirk! Manchester United were outclassed.

When your threat is pace and power, why would you try to get into a pissing contest with the best passing team in the world. Arsenal are a fair passing side, and Manchester United steamrollered them in the semi. Here they had a go in the first ten minutes, and then tried to beat the masters at their own game. It was madness.

Ferguson did what he always did. Chucked everyone up front, stretching the game, and playing into Barca’s hands even more. Manchester United are never more vulnerable when the manager thinks he is a tactical genius.

I wonder what Mr Barclay will have to say about that?

In addition – although the plaudits rightly go to Iniesta and Messi, phenomenal talents that they are, the key to that team is the understated genius that is Xavi. I have always rated the bloke, he’s a top player, doesn’t give the ball away, and his cross for the second goal was beautiful. I’d also say well played to Sylvinho, who held his own, and to Man Utd reject Pique, who, that early colly-wobble apart, was very sound at the back for a second choice defender.

Driving Me Mad

So there I was this morning, minding my own business, trying to find out who won the Orlando v Cleveland NBA Conference Final last night when I went out into the kitchen to prefer a breakfast. I don’t (yet) have Sky out there in the kitchen but the TV does have BBC1; which means my old favourite show is on at 8:20ish….

Today we had a discussion on the (lack of) knowledge of the Highway Code. Should people be tested on it at regular intervals to maintain their driving licence? In my humble opinion, and having driven in both the UK and the US, the sheer amount of “street furniture” is getting in the way of concentrating on the road. Take the Bus Lanes, for instance. If you are new to a road you need to (a) know a bus lane is coming up to avoid veering into another lane, potentially late (b) at the same time look at the signage to find out if you are permitted in at that time or not and (c) if you are at or about that time, check your clock / watch. In addition, sometimes to turn left, or get into a driveway, you need to cross the bus lane and on one occasion in the past, I’ve been nicked for that. I’m not bitter…..

The point of today’s ire wasn’t the sheer stupidity of people coming on thinking it would be a cracking idea for us to sit the test or lose our licence. Do you really need to know what this sign means (I always thought it meant Eddie Kidd was making a comeback) in everyday life.

I Thought Eddie Kidd Was Out Of Commission

More trouble is caused by ill thought out road works, poor light phasing, and dawdlers on the M2 two lane stretch driving at 40 mph than failure to know what a Stag’s Crossing sign is.

Of course, I’d have no objection to taking a refresher test, provided it was free. Oh, and there’s the present tense of Swine Flew….

But where there’s a “safety” campaign, and where there’s “lives to save” there will be a campaign group. In this case, the duo are the wholly uninterested Direct Line (and their ever increasing premia) and an organisation called Brake! I’ll come to them in a minute…

One of the signs we aren’t supposed to know the meaning of is the Zebra Crossing sign…

 

Where's the Zebra?

 Actually, unless we have the picture of a zebra inside a red triangle, I would say you have a technically incorrect answer as the Code says “Pedestrian Crossing”. I digress.. The genius came up with this obvious point. Don’t recognise the sign (or the other ever so subtle clues of BIG ORANGE FLASHING LIGHTS, or TRAFFIC LIGHTS) and you are bound to kill…

“With this study finding two-thirds of motorists don’t recognise a zebra crossing sign, it is easy to see why there were 773 people killed or injured on zebra crossings in 2007.”

Ever recall seeing a “Pedestrian Crossing” sign? Sorry, I don’t. I get my clues from traffic lights or beacons, and not from irrelevant street furniture. I’ve managed, in 22 years of driving, never to have hit someone on a zebra crossing who wasn’t drunk and decided to run out just as I was pulling away on a green light!

Please also note the canny use of statisticsin that quote. How many of these 773 were “killed”, how many were “badly injured” and how many sprained their ankles on a fucking pot hole or tripped over the kerb? How many of these involved drunk pedestrians marching out feeling omnipotent or coke heads who think they can fly or something? That statistic is known as, in the trade, bollocks.

And so on to Brake! Oooooh, I like these people, who want to cut my speed down to 20 mph (ever tried driving your car that slowly for any length of time – the clutch really enjoys it, and it does wonders for the fuel efficiency) everywhere and anywhere because at 30 mph I am a death machine waiting to happen.

Brake is a registered charity which seeks to influence government policy in an area where I believe vast majorities of the public really don’t think it needs to interfere. When Brake complains, the authorities see an opportunity to dip into my pocket to teach me to be a better civilian, and when I do, they make the rules even tougher to make sure I’m an even better civilian. Meanwhile, someone can murder a child and get a couple of years inside.

I digress again. Brake is a registered charity – it proclaims itself so on its website. Registered Charity no. 1093244. Whenever I hear a charity that wants to impose restrictions on our way of life to the financial benefit of the gorgon state, I like to know how much money is given voluntarily by individuals. To do this you can go to the Charities Commission website to read their annual accounts, or you can see if they are on fakecharities.org. Indeed, Brake are there, where you can find out that of its income, 6.5% was funded by us, the Government, for various campaigns in the form of grants, while only 30% came from the traditional charitable funding route of voluntary donations. By no means the worst offender in the “we the taxpayer, through no choice of our own, (part) fund a charity I might find meaningless, useless or downright hostile” but still, you are paying some money towards it. There are much worse examples – ASH, for example – but it is symptomatic of what is going on. Once a charity takes the public penny through tax revenues, and then lobbies the government, it ceases being a charity, in my eyes, and becomes another lobby group who should not benefit from the double whammy of tax breaks from the paying out side of the ledger, and receiving a penny of my taxpayer’s money.

Meanwhile, the nanny state continues apace, as this unthinking country, which managed to survive all these years without really being told what to do, reads stunning nonsense like this…

http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/feedarticle/8527611

You wonder how the University of Leicester tested this theory under laboratory conditions (are there hundreds of self confessed Man Utd fans in the test area tonight with car radios on, ready to kill and maim at a Berbatov near miss), and why this has been done.

It really is enough to drive me mad.

Patrick Barclay – Could Your Head Get Any Bigger?

I think the worst thing ever to happen to football journalism was the advent of a Sky programme called “Hold The Back Page”, and then the advent of the wonderful rolling 24 hour Sky Sports News with ages of time to fill, and plenty of egotistical journalists ready to fill it.

I confess, I used to watch it before the overkill sensor in my brain registered that it was time to wake up and smell the coffee and I got off the drug called “punditry dependence”. The symptoms of this was that you watched a football game involving another team and you wanted the pundit to agree with your point of view, or if your team were on TV, you wanted the pundit to say how good you were. Such were the insecurities of football life. Now, when you see pundits like Paul Merson, who is incoherent at best, Scott Minto, who my mate wrote a letter to (he was in his mid 40s at the time), Ray Parlour (who was actually asked to comment on Ledley King’s recent bar antics) and when Lee Dixon takes on some sort of guru status, you know it has been fool’s gold. I couldn’t give a fuck what Carlton Palmer sees in a game. When you get someone decent on to be the pundit in our recent games against the Dog Chains, like Sadlier, you bump him off for an injured player in the second leg who, bless him, could hardly speak. Its retarded.

But Hold The Back Page, then Jimmy Hill’s Sunday Supplement (where a clearly senile James went off on a pet hobby horse, and vindictive journalists who should have known better took the piss out of him), and now whatever it is called gave the football journalist a chance to be a celebrity. The benefits of this were lost on me. Martin Samuel does, definitively, not need to be on television. I know I am a bit on the chubby side, so I do my best to keep myself and my ego out of the public eye, and as there is no demand for me to be in it, this is a mutually acceptable position for all concerned. Samuel is a mouthy fat c***, and needs to spend more time doctoring his newspaper head shot than shout his mouth off on some Sunday programme.

This show can also put on for all to see, idiocy in its purest form. Is there any rational thought in Martin Lipton’s head? Does Henry Winter really think he is that intellectually superior to the competition, albeit the rivals are as lacking in self awareness as a Britain’s Got Talent contestant? Do the “heavyweight” paper’s journalists really think they know it all? And the most important question from a questionable show that gave Brian Woolnough far too much air time… can Patrick Barclay’s head get any bigger?

The last time I saw this show he was on with some creatures or other – I’m pretty sure the super sneer Paul Hayward wasn’t one of them, nor was so far up his own arse his head’s tickling his lungs Oliver Holt – and every time one of the other journos wanted to speak, he just spoke over them. It was akin to a senior teacher talking over pupils, and he gave the impression that was what he was to them. He put up obscure arguments as if they were fact and did little to disguise his contempt at anyone who disagreed. The chair may not as well have bothered – Barclay was having none of it. My view is the view. The rest of you, have no view. No view I am in interested in.

Why now, Dmitri? Why the ire now?

Aaaah – if there’s ire, it is BBC Breakfast, and in an interview with chimp Hollins in Rome, Barclay had me raging before my bagel. Dressed in a t-shirt befitting a man twenty years his junior, he pontificated, no, he decreed, that Sir Alex Ferguson had long since passed the achievements of Bob Paisley. Ferguson had built his team from nothing, and if he wins tonight’s Champions League with those players he brought up from “nothing”, although numerically he would match Paisley with three European crowns, he’s gone beyond him.

There is a debate to be had, sure. And I know which way I’m leaning. Paisley, as much as I hated Liverpool in the 70s and 80s was a man of utter dignity. I never recall a bad word said about the man, and I never heard him bleat or moan in public. Morally, I’m on his side already. The “knock” so far as it went, was that he took Shankly’s team and built on it. Shankly left in 1974, Paisley won a European Cup as late as 1983. How long did Shankly’s legacy last, Barclay, you utter twat? Of course, Bob Paisley had sod all to do with the Shankly team, seeing as though he was with him all the way since 1959. No, that contribution doesn’t count either. Plus, of course, in that era you had a lot of teams to beat for the league title – and lots of different teams won the league, or challenged, which isn’t what happens now – and financial advantage didn’t mean that much (as Manchester United’s title drought so brutally proved). In that time of nine seasons at the helm Paisley’s Liverpool won the European Cup three times (when competition came from all over Europe, and a good side could be assembled by Tbilisi, for example, to challenge – imagine that now), and the league six times at a time of parity. It took Ferguson seven years to win a league with the richest club in England, and although he built a great team based on solid English youngsters, he has won just two European Cups in his 19 years in European competition up until now – one having been totally outplayed by Munich in the final, the other on penalties – and yet his achievements have surpassed those of Paisley’s?

Barclay clearly was countenancing no dissenting views, but I say, and still say, that Paisley was the most under-rated manager of any generation. He had a great side, and his and Shankly’s legacy was to keep it great in an era of parity. They were a fearsome team, who I hated, with great players, many picked from obscurity. Hansen from Partick Thistle, Keegan and Clemence from Scunthorpe, Ronnie Whelan from Home Farm all good examples. Ferguson’s key signings are usually from other English premiership clubs or international players, where he flaunts the wealth and the name of United to get what he wants. Some could say he’s the best spender of the most money in the business. Some may also recall he signed Massimo Taibi.

No, big head Barclay had his point, and while some might say there’s no debate, he isn’t going to let something like your opinion in. So in answer to the header, no, I doubt it could, is the answer. Up against the wall, Barclay. And take Samuel with you while you are at it….

Be Careful What You Wish For…. Burnley Fans….

I was driving home from a nice day out with the wife and pooch in Bexhill, and listening to the end of the Play-off Final on radio. Let it be a matter of record that just as people knew where they were when Kennedy was assassinated, I knew where I was when the final whistle went to see Burnley back in the top flight. I was on the outskirts of East Grinstead!

Further on in the drive back an elated Burnley fan came on the radio. I will obviously allow the chap to be a touch elated at the realisation that his team has earned the right to be humped by Manchester United, dismantled by Liverpool, embarrassed by Arsenal, and wonder how much money Chelsea spent just to beat you 1-0, as well as be patronised by the media if you fail, or slagged off by all and sundry if you play rough. What a prize. Oh, and you get to play Wigan, Fulham, Hull and Stoke again. Isn’t it grand!

The chap though came out with a point so staggering in its stupidity, so ignoring the real world, so utterly in ignorance of precedent, it needs repeating as a caution to others with ideas above their station – i.e. a newbie premier league club without a rich benefactor.

He said “this secures the future of my little club for 10 years.”

Listeners in Swindon, Southampton, Charlton, Bradford, Barnsley, Leeds, Leicester, Sheffield Wednesday, Watford, Derby, Nottingham Forest and Norwich for example must have just smiled at their naïveté. They aren’t secure at all. They’ll increase people’s wages, buy foreign mercenaries who couldn’t care a jot at large wages, get past their prime players with no interest in the club, and when they get relegated (this year or next), they’ll have a couple of parachute payments, fail to get up and go bust chasing the dream again. If they haven’t had a spell in League One in the next ten years, I’ll be stunned. If they’ve avoided receivership, they’d have done superbly. Far from securing the future, it could be the worst thing that has ever happened to them. No-one cares about them (look how many times Hull and Stoke got on Sky this year) outside of Burnley, and while they are a great story, fairy tales don’t shift moolah in football and the status quo is much more financially appealing.

Look at Bradford City. Ten years ago they secured their place in the Premier League with a win at Wolves. The following year they stayed up on the last day with a win over Liverpool. Then Paul Jewell, their charismatic manager, left, and they got relegated with barely a whimper, sunk through the leagues, and now reside in the bottom tier of English football. They went into administration in 2002, a year after relegation from the top flight. Sure, they lived the life up in the top flight, but they paid. Watford tried to live the restrained life, and they can’t afford Championship football two years after they dropped out. They bumped along the bottom of the Championship, and I fancy they may drop further next season. Staying there is no guarantee – just ask Charlton and Southampton who both had decent spells in the top flight, and now see themselves financially f***** and in the same division as Exeter City.

I may be a sourpuss, but I am a realist. Although it is wonderful for a founder member of the Football League, a historic club, a championship winner more recent than any North East “Giant”, it is a poisoned chalice they are accepting. Go for it, spunk money up the wall, and you’ll be dead and buried in no time. Be cautious and approach it carefully, and you’ll be dead and buried in no time. Find yourself an oligarch or be prepared to be disappointed. Be really careful what you wish for, Burnley boys.

So…Who Do I Want To Win?

Another season is nearly in the books, and as always, another bout of moaning about the state of our football is nearly in the books too. For the start of this particular piece I thought I’d look back to the league table 20 years ago – despite what Sky and the powers that be in the FA Premier League may tell you, football did exist then. Stick with me, there is a point I meander off of in a reminscing haze, to get back to a game on tonight.

So,in 1989, Champions, in the most exciting finish to a league season there will ever be, were Arsenal, who won 2-0 at Anfield on a tumultuous Friday night with a goal in injury time to win the league on goals scored from reigning champions Liverpool. These teams finished 12 points clear of Nottingham Forest in third, with Norwich City in fourth on 62 points. Derby finished 5th, Spurs 6th, Coventry 7th, Everton 8th, QPR 9th, WindyBricks 10th. Yes, my dear WindyBricks finished above Manchester United who were 11th. That’s the same Manchester United managed by the same Sir Alex Ferguson, who spunked tons of cash up the wall and still had to play Russell Beardsmore.

In the bottom half of the top flight we had Wimbledon (no longer really with us), Luton Town (now a non-league team), Southampton (already bottom of League One next season), Charlton Athletic (joining us in the League of One) and Sheffield Wednesday (mid-table Championship loiterers). Aston Villa were also there, newly returned to the top table under the Turnip.

In a delicious irony relegated in 1989 were Middlesbrough and Newcastle, along with West Ham (a pity history really could not repeat). At this time none of these were a shock, none of them were greeted with maudlin self pity in the national media, and none of these were as obsessed and fussed over as the impotent mob who laid over meekly at Villa Park on Sunday. Because we had sense then.

As for other current Premier League teams? Chelsea had just walked through Division Two, as champions with 99 points. Manchester City were coming up with them. Blackburn had finished 5th, and lost a play-off final to Crystal Palace (I recall the pathetic celebrations by Dave Madden as if it were yesterday). In those days the final was a two-legged affair and not used to repay the FA’s debt. West Bromwich Albion were 9th in the second tier, which is probably where they will be next season, Sunderland were 11th bothering no-one in particular, Stoke City were 13th and just mid-table fodder in the second tier of football, preparing to drop to the third tier and join Port Vale not long after. Portsmouth were 20th, and had no delusions of grandeur whatsoever at this point. Birmingham City, hilariously, were relegated to the 3rd division!

We need to go lower still to find more of the Premier League starlets. Wolves, back “where they belong” were beginning their long march to freedom by winning the 3rd division title (having won the 4th division the year before). They were so much more likeable then with Steve Bull, Andy Mutch and Robbie Dennison. Fulham had finished 4th, but were due to fall to the bottom rung before they went up with all that filthy money. Bolton resided midway in the third divisions, with some “deadly duo” of Reeves and Philliskirk doing eff all to get them up at this stage. Wigan Athletic were a poky club playing at a poky ground called Springfield Park, drawing a couple of thousand and finishing 17th in the third tier of English football. Burnley, new boys as they are, were 16th in the 4th division.

I think the key thing to point out is that in the preceding few years, when Manchester United dreamed of winning the league, despite Liverpool’s dominance, there were a number of different challengers. Arsenal were not really seen as proper challengers for donkey’s years, and then came to the fore under George Graham. Norwich City were about to enjoy a decent run of league success and kept near the top of the fold for a few years. Nottingham Forest continued to punch above their weight. And indeed, my old WindyBricks finished above Manchester United. And do you know what? At that time it really wasn’t a big deal!

Tonight Manchester United play Barcelona in the You Don’t Have To Be Champions League Final. As I drove into work this morning Radio 5 Live were mailing in their schedule with an earth shattering phone in – “Will you be supporting Manchester United tonight?” This tired old cobblers has been done to death over the years. The debate, such as it is, falls into these hackneyed old boxes

 -          Pro Manchester United – They have English players (more than Chelsea and Arsenal) so we should support them.

-          Pro Manchester United – They are an English team playing a foreign team, so we should support them.

-          Anti-Liverpool – Called the Everton Caller – I hate Liverpool, Manchester United hate Liverpool, if Manchester United win it upsets Liverpool fans, ergo, we should support Manchester United.

-          Anti-Manchester United – The Liverpool Caller – We won the European Cup on four occasions, the Champions League a few years ago, yet they think they are as good as us in Europe. Come on Barcelona.

-          Anti-Manchester United – The “Bad Winners” – Manchester United are terrible sports, have an obnoxious manager, and several obnoxious players who are a terrible example to kids. Come on Barcelona.

-          Anti-Manchester United – Everyone Else – They win too much. They have fans from all over the country. They are bloody hateful. They are arrogant to the extreme. They take success for granted. They don’t appreciate what others would give their right arms for. They are the poster child for uncompetitive leagues. They have people you would not piss on if they were on fire.

Yes, that about sums up this tedious phone in. It did not advance the field of human knowledge one iota, merely riling me on the way to work and bolstering premium rate phone companies’ accounts in the process to make the same boring old points.

Let me tell you why I want Manchester United to lose tonight. Yes, it probably is boring, hackneyed, clichéd, or whatever. I have hated Manchester United ever since they got to the summit, in much the same way as I hated Liverpool throughout my childhood. As a WindyBricks fan, doing the right thing and supporting his local team, it gets me truly mad to see the Londoners rush off to support the winning team – in the 70s and 80s it was Liverpool, in this era it is Manchester United (well, you have a fair few Arsenal and Chelsea fans now). My club isn’t going to lose support to Barcelona. It is going to lose support, and revenue, to Manchester United from spoiled kids who must back winners to feel like winners. Ergo, the “English” team winning takes money out of my club’s pocket. And as there are precious few English (or British) players in the team, I’m not going to get all misty eyed patriotic on you either.

So, taking this fundamental economic point, I want Manchester United to lose because I want their bandwagon hopping, arrogant arses to really hurt. The sort of hurt we felt walking out of Wembley last weekend. And to do that they really need to lose a big Final. This would be as big as they have lost, and I so hope they do.

I remember May 2004, when our humble WindyBricks rode the most favourable FA Cup draw in history (Walsall (h), Telford (a), Burnley (h), Tranmere (h), Sunderland (SF)) to reach the holy grail of an FA Cup Final against Manchester United. The win at Old Trafford was, alongside Hull 1988, the greatest moment of my WindyBricks life. I actually allowed myself the thoughts that we might nick an early freak goal and defend tooth and nail against a United side trophy-less that season having been overshadowed by the unbeaten Arsenal league side. Or that we’d hang on for grim death and sneak a freak late winner, or perhaps drag it to penalties and get lucky. We pretty much knew that if they scored first, they’d win, and if they got the goal early, we could be stuffed.

We should have listened more carefully to our then guru “Butch The Crab”, who clearly told us on the radio that we were going there not to get stuffed. We’d already had our goalscoring threat taken away when the idiot pushed over a Tree and got a three match ban – meanwhile Paul Scholes was being given the football equivalent of a pardon for a terrible tackle that would have merited a second booking, but instead got him a telling off and a substitution for his own protection meaning he could play in the Final. Steve Bennett has been, and always will be, a ladies winkle.

We went to the Final, and duly got a thorough lesson and lost 3-0. The press and public laid into us for “not giving it a go”, but for 40 minutes we held Manchester United out. The odious Portugese ponce scored, and then the officials gave a penalty that wasn’t and a goal that was offside to the horse face, and we left the stadium with pride that we hadn’t been smashed but little else. What surprised us, while the trophy was being lifted, was that many Manchester United fans did not stick around to watch it.

As we walked out of the stadium, in Cardiff, back to the buses to take us to the car parks, we saw Manchester United fans milling around with no pleasure, joy or elation. They were walking back to their car, their buses, their trains, and they nearly all looked as if they’d just got back from a bad film. I remember saying to one as they passed us at the bus stop “Cheer up mate, you’ve just won the FA Cup.” His reply will live with me forever, and will mean when I take my last breath, I will hate him and his club with every fibre of my being.

“Yeah. We’re supposed to win this.”

Arrogance. Utter arrogance. You aren’t supposed to win anything you absolute c***s. Who on earth gave you the divine right to march around as if the world owed you trophies, and when you win one that the football supporter’s world outside of the top four would give their right arm to win just once, you take it as an insult and as an “unsuccessful” season to “only” win that? Who said that you could march into Cardiff, beat an inferior side, and show the ultimate lack of respect by pissing off as if it were a doctor’s appointment? As if it was almost a chore to be there. As if WindyBricks should have not bothered to show up and show what real football support meant. I know all Manchester United fans aren’t like that bloke, but there are a lot more than you think.

For many that day, that win affirmed them as superior beings because they just happened to support the world’s largest club. Big fucking deal. You got to choose the team with the biggest stadium, most support, a sickening sob story milked for all its worth and, not insignificantly, the most money and that makes you superior to me and my kin down there who made the mistake of supporting their local team? Somewhere down the line these sorts of fans lost touch with reality and now expect their team to deliver trophies or else. Arsenal are now bitching at Wenger, who has done miracles with resources much less than Manchester United and Chelsea, because he’s not won anything. Come and join us, Arsenal fans, where you appreciate the good times because you know real bad times could be around the corner. When your definition of “bad times” is only winning the FA Cup, you have become detached from reality. You are insulated from proper failure. Like finishing 11th in the top flight behind a team you treated with contempt, as not being worthy of being the shit on your shoes, at a Cup Final.

Being stuffed 6-0 wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me. F*** Manchester United. F*** the Premier League. F*** Sky.  F*** ‘em All.

Newcastle, Hull, Sunderland and Sky Sports

I’m nearly 40, I know. I am a curmudgeon, I know. But this is getting too much for me.

At Hull today, Manchester United put out a second team, that could conceivably have been a part third team. They went to a team that had collapsed to the point of embarrassment this season and could have been relegated by a scratch team. The visitors won 1-0, and by accounts, did it in extreme comfort. The result took Hull’s fate out of their own hands -  as it always would have done. What now needed to happen to confirm relegation was Newcastle to get a draw against a barely sentient Villa team who had played like zombies for the past three months. Or Middlesbrough would need to turn over West Ham by four goals, which wasn’t going to happen.

That Hull stayed up was down to the utter twaddle Newcastle are. I believe, Spurs aside, no team needs to go down to get a fucking reality check about where they stand in the world, than those deluded fools from the North East. I caught the last 20 minutes of their game when I got home from the below, and watched a team who had nothing. I mean NOTHING. Playing for survival they had no idea. I hold no torch for Jamie Redknapp, but he nailed it after the game. They didn’t go down today, they went down 18 months ago when they got rid of Allardyce, and bought shockingly, and had revolving door managers. They’ve been going down for years.

But while Sky might have got that right, they shockingly missed the point elsewhere. Congratulating the other relegation contenders who stayed up by saying “congratulations on your result today” when both had home defeats showed a real ignorance of the truth. None of these teams stayed up on what they did today. They stayed up because the teams below them couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo; in fact, they are probably still hunting for a cow. The sick-inducing “you’ve done a wonderful job” spiel Quinn gave S’Bragia after their game was wrenching – as was the ex-manager saying the club needed a bigger name. Eh? Newcastle persistently employ “bigger names” and where has that got them?

Hull rejoiced in their survival. They had all the life signs of a brain-dead patient at the end of the day, and they live to go down next season. I hope they are chuffed, and sing their little hearts out. This was not a heroic survival fight, pulling themselves up by their bootstraps and winning a big game or two near the end of the season. No this was the marathon runner whose legs have turned to jelly and have crawled over the line before the dustcart. If they stay up next season I’d be stunned. They’ll fire their manager, turn on their team, and go down. Remember Bradford? But Sky, again, congratulated them on their performance, and portrayed it as a triumph. Sure, at the beginning of the season, Hull would have taken staying up, we know that. But in mid-season they gave hope to everyone, about what could be done. Can you really be excited how it all turned out?

And so to Newcastle. Off you go. You are not, and haven’t been for donkey’s years, worthy of big club status. You last won a trophy when I was in my mother’s womb. You have been in decline for ten years. You were never there in the bad times, the times I went up to that northern hell hole and watched us come away with 7 points out of 9 over the years. You came out for the last one with your messiah, but not before. You think you have a divine right, and you don’t. I’ll never forget when Souness was appointed and a fan said “he’s not worthy of one of the five biggest clubs in the world.” They are that fucking deluded. Man Utd, Real Madrid, Barcelona, Milan and Newcastle. God knows what Liverpool, Bayern Munich, Inter, Juventus must do to break into that top tier. Live in Jarrow probably. Now you can meet Scunthorpe yourselves boys. And if you stay down, and then do a Leeds, or a Leicester, or a Charlton, or a Southampton or a Norwich, then reality might really bite.

All over for another season. Thank heavens.

What Does It All Mean?

At 9:30 this morning, while eating breakfast, I managed to swallow some food “down the wrong hole”. A coughing fit followed, and then, just as I was supposed to leave for the station, the foreboding feeling of the “squeezing” of the throat, and the squeak of a wheeze came to the fore. On the day when WindyBricks were off to the national stadium, I was having an asthma attack. Of course I was never going to stay at home, but it set the tone for the day. Excitement and anticipation replaced by fear and suffering.

I’ve not blogged for a week, I know, but something wasn’t right with me regarding this game. The sense of anticipation wasn’t there. It is almost as if the FA Cup Final five years ago has scarred me. What’s the point of getting your hopes up when the ultimate cards are stacked against you? Yet was this really about the big time? Wasn’t the prize of the second tier of English football and the chance to play the brand spankin stately homes really worth getting excited about. We’d have hope at that level. But when you see massed crowds screaming and going berserk at failing to win against a Premier League’s 2nd and half XI and lauding it as some sort of triumph that 1 win in 22 can keep you up, you wonder. Have I missed the point? Is that what the sport is about? By winning today we could be part of the second table of English football – so called “Championship” football. In truth, even if we won, we would still be far closer to Luton Town then we would be to Manchester United.

The difference today, in my eyes, was composure. Firewall favourites had it, we didn’t. A nervy start by the WindyBricks was punished when the movement of the front two, already threatening, engineered an opening, a parried shot, and their number 7 shooting into the top of an empty net under pressure. WindyBricks struggled to get a foot in the game, and the excellent thoughtful movement of their front four caused the defence to be pulled apart. But slowly the more direct side got into it, but our great opportunity, created down the right, saw a couple of our forwards fluff their lines before Dartford Dave’s shot hit their defender and the ball rolled agonisingly onto the post. When composure and clear heads were needed, we thrashed at it. It was to be the difference.

But for about 45 minutes including the break we dared to dream. A once in a lifetime Wemberley goal from the Great Jackson City, who lashed a 35 yard screamer over a stunned keeper levelled the scores. A few minutes later, a Dartford Dave cross was headed by the same man, but the firewall’s keeper made a boo-boo and the ball dribbled over the line. 2-1 and the hopes of 44k were on. The place went mad when the goals went in. It felt like the old days. Those days when it really mattered to me. To me, though, it wasn’t the prize of promotion that mattered, it was the old fashioned feeling of winning a big game on the biggest stage. And maybe, that we had, at least, emblazoned the game with a goal like the first made the pain of losing easier.

For the first twenty minutes after the break the lads played well – although chances were at a premium, they were keeping the northerners at bay reasonably comfortably. But the movement that threatened throughout showed half way through the second half – a combination of neat interplay and naive defending (no nutritional value should have carved the attacker over and taken the booking) allowed the ball to drop to their number seven, who composed himself, took the keeper out of the game, and walloped the ball in. Again, great composure with the goal at his mercy.

WindyBricks had replaced the snatcher from the Scottish Isles with Can’t, who put in a wonderful cross from which the Great Jackson City headed wide from point blank range while not under pressure (other than that to bury a golden chance to put us in front on the big stage). Composure. It came home to roost when from the right wing, a cross came over (can’t remember if it was a corner) and after one effort was blocked, the impressive left midfielder who sounds like an EastEnder calmly took the ball, opened himself out, and hit the ball under Dagenham Dave to give them the winner. The explosive axeman missed a great chance to square the game up, but it was to be our last chance. More huff and puff than a Billy Goat Gruff could not disguise that the team who knew what they were doing outdid the ultimately heroic, but slightly overmatched, WindyBricks.

I have no recriminations with a team that barely avoided relegation last season.  While the snatcher was poor on the day, as was Andy Alive, it would be churlish to have a pop at the team. People feel the need to lash out at the woodwork fans, but I’d rather they were there than not. Of course they aren’t going to care as much as though who go everywhere. I had to leave at the end and not hang around. Practical thoughts of getting the hell out of dodge over-rided the need to wallow in the pain of terrible defeat. I’ve become like that. I acknowledge the hurt many of my fellow brickies feel – today is about individual responses to collective defeat. Lashing out is always going to happen.

So I write here at 23:16 and I say to myself, what will I think of this in five years time (god willing asthma attacks don’t return)? What did today mean? Was it rebirth of the Brickies, or the end of a fleeting opportunity and the prospect of mediocrity? And I come down to one real thought. The real need for me was to see the boys win one of these. To win their final game of a cup competition, for that is what it is, and to get the glory. Not for the prize of promotion to a league where we’d struggle, but to see the boys run around the stadium with a trophy, however plastic, in their hands. That will keep me going. Today they tried, and they failed. The better team, I really have to acknowledge, won. A team we would choose not to face. Give us a big bruising team and I’d fancy us, but this mob were sharp and had had a visit to Wemberley already this season, so knew a little what to expect. They showed composure at the right times, and I really don’t begrudge them their spoils.

What does it all mean? Another year of league one. A year to meet the Pikeys and the Plastics. Down to the Solent, up to Bernie Matthews. A chance to go to that horrid club in Bucks again. August can wait. It is time to enjoy the summer, but let me get over this first.

WindyBricks Off To A Non Descript Industrial Estate In North London

Courtesy of the Krankies meeting Black Lace

A-ba-doo doo doo, Tap The Ball In, Kill The Dog Chains.... Sort of scans..

WindyBricks At Half-Time

This isn’t fun. In no sense of the word is this fun.

Good job there is a strong ref. No complaints on the bookings, but worried about Eve’s Partner’s Rock.

The media only, just a tiny little bit want the Combined Forces Of Dog Chains to win. Oh my God. You’d have thought we were playing the Queen Mum.

I’m not handling this very well. So my post below was crap. You surprised?

Of WindyBricks, Loyal Supporters And Nerves

Off the faithful gallant crew hop, on the way to the nirvana of West Ferretshire for the WindyBricks date with destiny. Those going question the loyalty of those that don’t, ignoring the fact that for many with a life, life moves on, and for many of those without a life, life moves on. I’ve been there, seen it, done it, and need the money for other things. It is on the TV so I am not going to miss the game, so I feel OK with myself. I never needed the reassurance that came from “thousands” going.

Oh, I’m getting off the track again. WindyBricks have a goal advantage against the Combined Forces Of The Dog Chains, who even though never won the European Cup, claim to have been Champions of Europe. I could say that their mere presence in the third tier of English football would suggest that those days are far behind and they had better get real, but they probably look at Wigan and Hull and Stoke and Fulham and West Bromwich and Portsmouth and think…. That should be us. Put them in the same delusional bracket as Occidental Cured Pork and one level below the Updated Record Breaker Roy Combination for “misplaced sense of worth”.

Am I nervous? Well, I remember when we met the Largest City In Alabama (Black Country Version) in 2002, and that Thursday, with us sitting on a 1-1 draw dragged by in a haze of nervous tension. Today? Nope, nothing like it. It can’t be the prize, because, quite frankly, I don’t want WindyBricks anywhere near that poison chalice called the Premier League, with its near benefit status for the big three – sorry South London Gunnery, you are fast dropping out of the big four (you need to win trophies) – so losing a Championship play-off wasn’t the be all. With the prize here a chance to go to the second tier of English football, I should be more excited, but unlike 2001 we don’t have the stars to take the division by storm, so why should I get excited about mid-table mediocrity at best? Lets face it, we haven’t exactly torn up League One.

I would love to win, don’t get me wrong, just to see the Whippet Lovers back in this league next season, with their attendant big-headedness. I would quite like to see the Brickies at Wembley, although I’d suggest it would rival an Amy Crackhouse concert for illegal stimulant possession. But the desire, the wanting, the hurt if we lose isn’t there any more. And do you know why?

I think I know. It is when people you know, who you went with, don’t have anything to do with you anymore, that WindyBricks mean less. It’s when a message board to which you contributed a lot turned on you because you offered the mildest of criticism to a sacred cow that means WindyBricks mean less. When you don’t feel you fit in to the stereotype so many of the Brickies want you to – the hard man, “loyal” (don’t make me laugh – they turn on themselves quicker than anything, witness the message board, witness me!), stimulant loving, alcohol sodden, disrespectful to others, hurtful behind a keyboard but not giving a shit – that it means less. By even saying this I’m not a “Real Brickie” despite being brought up in the shadow of the old stadium, despite all the years I went to nigh on every game, despite giving up so much to do so, despite doing crap like AWS games away. No, because I’m not one of the “rabble rousers”; the “crazy gang”; “the nutters” I’m the oddity. I’m not a “Real Brickie”. I’m a middle class Euro 96er….

This team, with a manager this club does not deserve because he is actually half way competent and seems a decent bloke to boot (still some mid-season said he should go – scarcely believable even in this ADHD times of supporter-ship), and with players who quite obviously care in the main, deserve all the support, but I’m not up for it, certainly away, any more.

I’ve read the board – “I’ve never been more nervous before a game, blah blah blah.” Well, that’s because you don’t remember the FA Cup Semi-Final a few years ago, obviously, because the chance to get to the final of the “greatest cup competition in the world” must mean something more than a chance to lose a Play-Off Final. Unless I’m missing something here and it isn’t the football but the thought of being in a small group with a load of northern in-bred nutters surrounding you that floats your boat. Maybe it is the first time they’ve been suitably nervous since then?

Those people who have gone up there today are great supporters of our club. They deserve a place in WindyBrick heaven for their support. Just as I did all those years ago. But just as my love for a sport that believes it is in the greatest of shape when competition is at an all time low has waned, so has my love and despair at the WindyBricks. As I’ve said many time, all teams like us have is hope. When the ultimate hope is squished because it doesn’t suit TV to have smaller clubs winning things, then why do we exist? What’s the point?

That, above all other things, may explain that while I care what happens tonight, if we don’t win, tomorrow will just be another day.

Topical Fridge – Peter Andre’s Magnetism

Ah, yes. Another colleague has “stepped up to the plate” having returned from Peter Andre-land (no, not Australia – but Jordan, you muppets, you know – the why is she famous vacuum who he has “seperated”  from) with a double bill of fridge magnet heaven…

Exhibit A – Sheer Laziness In Construction, Sheer Genius In Purchasing….

In American parlance, in terms of tat production, this is “mailing it in”. The manufacturers couldn’t give a flying one about the brilliance, relevance or otherwise and have stuck a camel, a couple of palm trees, a lump of sand and the sun and not a hint of the bloody Dead Sea. Perhaps the sea is not dead, merely comatose like the designer and manufacturer of this tat. They’ve mailed it in so comprehensively that they have not even put the sticker on the backing straight. I’d be stunned if the damn thing sticks to my fridge, it is so contemptuously lazy (indeed, so lazy, it isn’t going on my fridge, but one of my freezers). My colleague, who for these purposes will be known by the name Victoria Not York has come up trumps with this piece of spectacular contempt.

My hearty congrats for this piece. Old freezer for your wares… in many ways as prestigious as the Front Door of the Fridge.

Exhibit B – I Cease To Be Amazed Any More…

Before I put the picture up of this, I would like to thank Victoria Not York for this, possibly the most bizarre fridge magnet outside of the legendary snowstorm one I’ll bring to your attention later. Which designer or manufacturer could possibly think a dead camel would make a fridge magnet to commemorate your visit to the country that brought you Petra and the Chicago Bulls finest player… that brought you King Hussein and the lead singer of New Kids on the Block..

No, this, I don’t care what you say, is a dead camel.. It is deceased. It is a non-camel.

Ripe For A Monty Python "Dead Camel" Sketch

I’m speechless. With gratitude for VNY and her kind thoughts when in Jordan to purchase two magnets for your humble author, and for the stunning ability to think outside the box in thinking a replica of a  stinking corpse of a “ship of the desert” would be appropriate for a fridge.

My cohorts have done well. May the games continue. You shall be rewarded in confectionary.

However, worryingly for me, my colleagues (see the filth from Amsterdam below) are showing worrying signs of having a “dark side”. Sex and death….. where will this depravity end?

Adult Entertainment, Fridge Magnet Style…

Put those easily offended or of tender age to bed. This fridge magnet is strictly for the broad minded only. Adult art to be put on your chiller. XXX to go with the milk and eggs and that mouldy onion stuck in the back of the salad drawer…. (yes, Dmitri does eat green food now the beloved is about).

Salacious fridge magnets aren’t usually for me, but a work colleague, who for the purposes of her own protection shall be known as No Relation Of Patrick has been away and on my request, had fridge magnet lodged in her brain. That No ROP came up with this is deeply worrying. Behind that cool, calm, collected analytical exterior, dark forces are working inside that mind if this magnet is anything to go by. Think Hong Kong Phooey. Think Mild Mannered Analysts…

Come on Dmitri, you are wittering. From where has this piece of filth come? What is it? How bad can it be?

Number 1 – It comes from…

Red Hot Dutch.

It is bad, very bad…Without further ado…

Sorry, not quite THAT BAD!

Dutch Filth

Where do I start. Apart from the ladies of the night easily recognisable in the downstairs’ windows, one of whom looks like a potential case for CSI Amsterdam as she has a particularly nastygunshot wound to the abdomen – who knows what lay behind that particular story? The other one has decided to tarmac herself in sympathy but done just about as good a job as my local authority. Upstairs, if you look closely, there are two more ladies of the night, both wearing light blue lingerie. I think. They look like the muppet pigs who sing in that Manamana video.

No, there are other great touches. The stairwell at the front sticks out. Unfortunately, if I put this on the “fridge door”, that stairwell may get clobbered so it is, sadly, relegated to the side, although this deserves front billing. But my favourite bit is the “Pentagram” above the door. Was this supposed to be a Star of David and this the House of Anne Frank – which as NoROP said “is wrong on so many levels”, or something entirely more sinister? Are they Moroccan? Are they followers of the Occult?

So many questions with this dark offering. My thanks to NoROP for her excellent contribution. A wonderful piece of tat. The best thing to come out of the Netherlands since..

UPDATE – This post has had to be edited because some sick bastards who after illegal material to do with children somehow get linked to this post. This is because I have the phrase “Put the Kids to Bed” and an acronym I used for the purchaser. It is a sick world we live in.

Some Vital Information Everyone Needs To Know..

Today’s question is brought to you by Jake The Border Collie (and I can tell you, having read his blog, it is a damn fine piece of work) who asks..

“Dmitri, I know from the DVD the beloved bought you which is still unwrapped, that you are a fan of the Wacky Races. Could you please let me know who the most successful team / driver is in this competition, as laid out by, say, the FIA points scoring rules?”

Well, Jake, I can tell you now that I once had this discussion in a box at Lord’s at which some luminary like the Surgeon General was present. Now it is obvious that Dick Dastardly wasn’t going to be in the running, but my money would have been on the Arkansas Chuggabug to confound the critics and walk away with the crown.

It turns out the FIA Champions, with 87 points, would have been the….

I attach the description given to them on wikipedia

The Slag Brothers in the Bouldermobile 1

Rock and Gravel Slag are Cavemen driving a wheeled boulder. The Slag Brothers sometimes reconstructed their car from scratch just by using their clubs on any large boulder that was available. Like the Gruesome Twosome, the Slag Brothers can summon up appropriate creatures – such as Pteranadons – to help them. The Slags also speak by combining stereotypical caveman language with normal English, e.g. “Raga-radda, wheel gone. Get new one!” (Rock Slag). In one episode, the Boulder-Mobile had a “flat” tire, when a wheel turned cubular. In another episode, a wheel fell off, and Gravel Slag accidentally made a square wheel from a rock (To which Rock Slag responds, “Rah Dummyhead! You make square wheel!”). They can speed up by hitting the car (or at times, each other) with their clubs. The Slag Brothers design was re-used for Captain Caveman.

Thank you for your interest, oh Border Collie….

No Wonder The Economy Is F*****

When mathemiticians such as Lord Foulkes can come on TV and claim that £92000 is “nearly double” an MPs basic salary.

An MP’s basic salary is £63,291. That would make double that figure £126, 582. If a former minister can say that this is close to £92000 then I think it speaks volumes.

And I’ll bet Carrie Gracie doesn’t get all those lovely tax free mod cons on top of that basic salary for her “work” no matter how much you have disdain for the role of the BBC journos and newsreaders….

The irony of a “lord” moaning about other’s entitlements and salary package isn’t lost on me either. Name something good this chap has done without looking it up on Google.