You will have to get used to the more sporadic blogging as the trip to the other side of the pond approaches. This weekend the beloved and I spent our first anniversary weekend sampling the delights of walking a recalcitrant border collie around Brighton, wondering who selected the playlist for family firework night at Blackheath, and how difficult it is to get away from the damn thing, and then on Sunday, having a delicious pizza at the superb establishment that is Zerodegrees in Blackheath. And I have a money counting machine, and it rocks!
Some quick points – Statto. Received. I have the means now to do it justice, so look for a piece soon. Majestic.
Big Club Bias – so everyone and his dog seems to have a comment on Chelsea v Manchester United, and the cries of cheat are deafening all around the place. Ferguson can spout off to all but the BBC about it. He gets his poodle to do it for the BBC (how much input do you think Mike Phelan has in all this), and Wayne Rooney will not be sent to the naughty step for saying “twelve men” to the camera. By the way last night David Ngog blatantly dived to cheat Birmingham out of the win and McLeish, you can see, is pretty much told to take it like a man. Benitez’s response just about sums the fucking Premier League up…
Liverpool manager Rafael Benitez conceded he had his own doubts as to whether the incident merited a penalty but he insisted that a draw was the very least his side had deserved.
“I haven’t seen the replay but maybe it wasn’t a penalty. I still think that we deserved to win anyway,” he stated.
“Possibly it wasn’t a penalty but we have had a lot of situations during the year and one for us I think is not the worst.”
That’s it. One – amazing how these c**** take a look at the replay every time there is a dispute over a throw-in, but fail to look at it when one of their players cheats. Fucking amazing. Two – there’s some sort of moral justification for this cheating because his team deserved to win anyway. Work that one out. Three – oh, and they’ve been denied a few so this makes up for it. Cheating blatantly “is not the worst” decision he has seen. For the love of Christ.
To show how much, for example, the BBC care about this blatant cheat, and let us face it, it is the Liverpool mafia on there, the news that Torres is delaying his operation is now above that one labelling the cheating striker a fucking disgrace. I applauded Eduardo’s ban, and I want to see them ban this tosser. I know some Scouse wags would say that would do them a favour, but that’s not the point.
Now on to the jaw dropping decision of the season. Peterborough United have parted company with Darren Ferguson. Now, let me ignore the fact that he’s the offspring of the Crimson Snide, and say I have a bit of time for Ferguson. When the Windybricks turned them over on Easter Monday courtesy of a thrice taken penalty where a ref and a linesman really wanted to get noticed, the dignity and poise he showed under questioning could have taught his old man a thing or two. Yes he was upset with the penalty nonsense, no it wasn’t the reason they lost the game and he wasn’t going to use that as a fig leaf; the reason they lost were that the WindyBricks played better than them. At the time I metaphorically tipped my hat.
So Peterborough United, owned by some Irishman who like, it seems, many of his rich countryman, has got there by acting like a complete c*** to all humanity, who hired Son of Snide when languishing in the fourth tier of English football, are now at liberty to be sniffy at being bottom of the second tier of English football a couple of years later, and get shot of their manager after they lose to Newcastle. Away. Count me as one of those who, if we find out that he’s been sacked for results (and this isn’t some “you want to stay up, give me some money” “no” “well I’m off” exchange) then I pray the Posh leave the Championship at the earliest opportunity.
Last night I avoided attending the WindyBricks clash with History Stealers as (a) I didn’t want to fork out money I’d inserted in the money counting machine; (b) the FA Cup means Fuck All to me now; (c) I had gone home after physio and couldn’t be bothered to go out again and pay £15 for the pleasure when I can fatten the US economy with that little extra revenue; and (d) it was cold. As it was, the game was on the internet and I caught most of it anyway. Nice one. We won 4-1 with the correctly valued one netting a brace, the bombing axeman opening the scoring and Daniel not Pip netting a little beauty after the upstarts had pulled one back. We now go on to Ali G’s semen in the next round.
Had physio with Hatchet Harriet yesterday. Jesus, I swear she gets stronger each time. I know I call her Hatchet Harriet, but she is rather nice, although built like a five foot ball of muscle. Like the wimp I am I moaned that my shoulder had twinges in it, so she told me to lay on my back and then pulled the shoulder around the back of my head. As I started to wince, and whimper, she came out with that great line, probably beloved of physios. “Does it hurt?”. Anyway, I now have a blue band rather than a green one, she pronounced herself pleased with my progress, and told me to do the exercise that hurts the old rotator cuff the most more often. “See you in four weeks. Enjoy your holiday”. At least she didn’t have to repair my I-pod this time.
One thing I am getting back into is the NBA. Like most complete bandwagon Brits, I am a fan of the Chicago Bulls who decided he probably liked Michael Jordan more than the sport itself, and so I lapsed – especially during the dark days of Tim Floyd and his blown up Bulls. However, the series against Boston last May was so good it reignited my interest. Derrick Rose is a tremendous talent, Brit Luol Deng is back in the team, son of Yannick, Joakim Noah is clogging up the lane, and in the currently injured Tyrus Thomas and more than handy John Salmons they can add additional scoring to the mix. It is a huge shame they couldn’t keep Ben Gordon. I have ordered some of their games on Pontel to get a flavour of the sort of team they are, and judging by the scores, they are a tough defensive team, but not a potent offensive outfit. Due to Royal Mail eccentricities, I have yet to see a game, although I am currently going through some of the vintage games I ordered from Pontel to get me in the mood.
Ah yes. “Windybricks” own David Straw won the World Heavyweight Championship outpointing a Russian Crane in a fight I listened to on the radio once we’d navigated the firework display crowds. Good on him…. I can’t comment, I’ve not seen it.
Oh yes. Family Firework night contained the following tracks in the pre-amble to the main event.
Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds – The Beatles
Pass The Duchy – Musical Youth
White Lines – Grandmaster Flash
Light My Fire – (Including, of course, the line… Girl, we couldn’t get much higher) – The Doors.
Someone, somewhere, is sniggering to himself. Oh yes, they threw in “We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off” as some sort of piss-take. All we needed was Golden Brown I suppose…. Family Firework night, Phoenix Nights style. Where was Sammy The Snake?
More when the mood takes me…..
