Cart or basket

That's the choice. Hellbound we undoubtedly are. By the way, is this the only time we append the word 'hand' to 'cart' and 'basket'? I can't think of any other example, and is 'hand basket' an American term? No doubt I could Google and find out the answer, but sometimes it's better to leave things hanging. Just like the next Parliament. Never before can we have faced such a cluster fuck of a future, never before have we been presented so clearly with a demonstration of how unutterably false, self-serving, bland and vile our elected politicians are. And that's without even thinking about the unelected ones (the most notable of whom walked past me today, as it happens. Surely, Mandy's ascendancy has to be equivalent to Kissinger's Nobel Peace Prize, and at least should be enough to persuade anyone to do a Tom Lehrer?)
I don't blame the televised debates for futher lowering the tone (hardly credible that this should even be possible, I know) but they are without doubt the audio-visual-tastic high definition manifestation of what a fucking waste of time it all is. Clegg, Clegg, Clegg Clegg Clegg; looking directly into the camera; using the first name of the questioner, and the first name of each other when answering; the instant poll results; Charlie Whelan on Twitter. It's all too much for me to take, it really is.



So, not wishing to demean ladies under horses or the struggle for the vote in any form throughout history, I'm afraid you can count on me not to put an X in the box next week. Even if City do manage to pull something off against the Spuds.

Soulless Dancer

Thanks to ukfootballtoday for the image

Bring back Sparky. What a non-event. What a load of bollocks. It was a bore fest par excellence. With reasonable expectations, though perhaps tellingly without the apprehension which normally plagues me on the occasion of big matches, I watched the first half in the local, but unusually for this reliably solidly Gooner-ite establishment, there was hardly a ripple of excitement. Nobody seemed to give a shit, engaged as they were in conversations about horses or so-and-so around the corner. There was the occasional yelp of ‘Go on Nasri! Put it through!’ followed by a sotto voce groan of dismay, but that was it. Maybe it’s something to do with Arsenal capitulating in the last 10 minutes at Wigan last week, giving them the feeling that there is less to play for, and that we are programming ourselves (and I do not exclude myself from this bout of forgetfulness. Let’s hope it doesn’t prove to be too egregious) to wait for the big showdown on the 5th of May. Who knows? But, given the way those bastards at Villa can play I think we are sorely mistaken if that is the case. Whatever, I made my way home again and watched the rest of the match (it came in fits and starts, but it didn’t really make any odds) via Iraq Goals.

A team as hesitant as the Gunners were on Saturday should have been there for the taking, with old man Sol at the back susceptible to a burst of speed from the likes of Bellamy or Johnson and a dodgy Pole in goal. But it was not to be. The former – as is nearly always the case – at least tried, though with precious little end result; while the latter had a dreadful game, as some were saying no doubt rendered nervy by the presence of Capello and the possibility of being offered a plane ticket to South Africa in June. Even so, he looked about as convincing as Walcott. Kompany clipped a couple of balls over the top which on another day might have done the trick, but it was not to be. Tevez had nary a touch, and it was depressing indeed to see Barry picking the ball up near the halfway line and then passing it back or across, while his Arsenal counterpart was doing pretty much the same thing for the entire game.

At least we were rarely troubled by the intricate build-up play and ponderous through balls from the North London outfit, despite the efforts of Vieira to drop us in the shit, and it’s a strange day indeed when we say we can be confident in our back line. At no point was there a sign of my apprehension returning, and I was never subjected to the jitters when Arsenal “advanced”. Even in the seventh minute of injury time, I did not think we were in danger of conceding. Yet we were a few galaxies away from threatening Fabianski ourselves. All very disappointing, and not the City I have grown up with.

It says it all that the reports in the papers are all about Given’s dislocated shoulder (strange that there should be two such injuries in a single weekend. Who says that the supernatural doesn’t play a part in the beautiful game?) and the young Faroese goalie (he did play one game for Wrexham I hear, and so the barren windswept, whale blubber strewn landscape he saw at the Racecourse Ground must have seemed a bit like home) and hardly mention the match at all. I suppose – as a side note – it is interesting that a team with City’s well publicised and seemingly limitless resources find themselves in such dire straits with a key player (much as I like Shay BTW, I have to say that the constant descriptions of him as ‘probably the best keeper in the Premier League’ are something of an overstatement. He never makes the top 10 in the Opta stats table) at this crucial point in the season. Does this reflect lack of planning or a small pool of available talent on which to draw? All the while, little Joe keeps bouncing around in the Brummegam net, making his own strong case for a trip to the World Cup in June. Ah well.



I think we can definitely do something against Villa before the Spuds cruncher, but not if we play with the same mentality we showed on Saturday. In any case, I would sooner watch us lose in style than put myself through another 90 minutes of shite like the Arsenal game.

Hooers

"Football and prostitutes," said Sunny, "You can't trust them." I can't speak for her experience of the latter, but I do know that her knowledge of the former is... sketchy, to say the least. My own life exposure (I swear) in regard to toms has not gone beyond gawping at shop windows in Amsterdam and (once) donating a half finished kebab (and that is not a euphemism) to a lady of the night as I sat swaying in a shop doorway after a particularly excessive Friday night.

Still - informed or not - it's certainly an interesting maxim, I'm sure you will agree. I think it attempts to sum up the doomed and futile quest for love by a desperate sad and lonely man when he visits a prossie, even though he knows and she knows that for her it's nothing more than a means of getting the next rock and can of White Ace, and that for him when he goes home (wife or not) he will feel only wretched self-loathing and be even more isolated than he was before. So much for that then.

If Man City is my whore, then something's wrong, because I'm the one getting fucked.

SUPER Sunday

While it's still fresh. Got to love the moment. Fourteen goals in 3 games. Onuoha doing his chances of appearing for Nigeria in June a power of good by getting a brace, and 4th spot looking good, especially with Spuds providing the final fantasy for the Pompey losers (I don't have a heart of stone, and I can appreciate the amazing-ness of their being in a Cup Final after blah blah blah, but I never liked those bastards, chimes and drummers and shitty little place down there. Sorry.) softening them up for the visit of the Gooners in midweek and inflicting the expected psychological damage which will probably lead to the usual end of term choke-up. On top of that, Scousers unable to put the Gentleman's Club to bed, and the most excellent Mr Allardyce keeping the Rags at bay. All in all, what one might describe as a good day at the office.

With the exception of the goal, Brum were surprisingly meek today. Not on a par with Burnley, by any means, but hardly the street fighters we've come to expect under the tutelage of the Hun Big Eck. They got a lot of bodies in the way in the opening 20 minutes, but never looked as if they would pose a threat, and most definitely melted away when we started to attack them. I have to say that Adebayor had a good game, and I felt sorry for him on two occasions when Carlos could have fed him an easy tap-in, but chose instead to try himself. Never mind. He got his own brace, and it was a definitely pleasing team performance. Thankfully, Kolo Toure was not called on once that I can remember to make a saving tackle.

Now, to my previous statement on the end of season placings. Based on current form, I still expect Chelsea to finish top. Two key games yet to come will decide the position beneath them. Should Arsenal do the Spuds on Wednesday night (which is now a stronger possibility than it was. It's a tough one to call, but I feel that Arsene's boys might just have it in them) then the pressure on SAF will be just that little bit more intensified. Again, however, it's a tough one to call, and City are just as likely to implode as they are to win. I'll stick to my guns and say that the result doesn't really matter as long as it's a decent game, like the one at the Sty all those aeons ago.

For the moment then, I reckon it's going to be as follows:

1. Chelsea
2. Arsenal
3. Rags
4. City
5. Spuds

A lovely day.

Hope & Despair

Last week saw - for me anyway - the definition of the best and worst of the USA on the same day. Thanks to Professor Cox on Twitter (how someone can go up in one's estimation after being a member of D:Ream, eh?) I logged onto the NASA website and tuned in to live images and audio of the launch of Discovery. Like Prince, I may occasionally question the idea of spending billions of dollars on a space programme whilst there are such basic issues around feeding kids and fighting preventable diseases, but I do marvel at the wonder of a launch every time I see one, and am too amazed that we have become so blase about it. To soothe the conscience, I always say that there are plenty of other things we could scrap (such as private jets or weapons or vast bonuses for those oh-so clever businessmen) while holding on to the space programme.

Brian Cox, as I was saying, fuelled my enthusiasm and it was a great feeling, like receiving a tweet from an astronaut, to feel part of this latest (and perhaps one of the last for a while) adventure into the infinite. God speed you, black and white, male and female emperors!

And yet. On the same day, again via Twitter, I heard of the leaked video showing the murder of Iraqi civilians and Reuters journalists by a couple of Uncle Sam's finest chopper jockeys in 2007.



This of course, is the flip-side of the coin. The very worst expression of gung ho American Imperialism that you are ever likely to see. I know that there are some who will say that the soldiers are fighting a war, god damn it, and no soft civilian like me has the faintest idea of what that can mean. Force must be met with force, and all that. Well, that may be right, but if you take the 17 or so minutes needed to watch that video, I don't think you will be sticking to that argument for long. There is no threat from the group of people who are gunned down, and no excuse for heat of the moment reaction. All is done in a deliberate and calculated manner. What it does show is the total de-humanisation of the solider. The inability to see a fellow person in the gun sights.

Beaster

There was a changeover of staff on the checkout, which is always more seamless than a changeover of bus drivers, and the new girl took her place, sweeping up the first item (Copella apple juice) in a fluid motion, almost without stopping. She had a faraway look in her eyes, but was keeping up a good rhythm as she stroked each piece of packaging across the laser scanner, and I was able to synchronise with her as I stuffed them into the bags. There was none of the occasional fumbling to peel apart the openings, no rushed pushing to get things in there nice and neatly, and no unseemly stacking up of shopping at the end of the belt.

Suddenly - there had not even been eye contact previously - she spoke.

"Are you enjoying the Bank Holiday so far?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, feeling that to say anything further would have been superfluous, but nonetheless leavening any perceived harshness with a smile. She returned to her scanning, looking strangely troubled, before again speaking up:
"This weather's disappointing though, isn't it?" I nodded, and knew that this time I would have to respond in some way.
"Mm," I said, "Though tomorrow is supposed to be better... So they say." She smiled again, and I went on:
"You're closed tomorrow, aren't you?" I paused, and then pointed towards the ground. "Here, I mean..."
She frowned and hesitated a moment before replying that, yes, she thought they were closed. I was intending to subtly hint at the fact that she would be able to enjoy some free time, which is a rare and precious commodity for those in her type of job. She didn't seem particularly buoyed by what I said, though, and went on with scanning the groceries until they were all done without a further word. But, just before I made to slot my cash card into the PIN device, a supervisor appeared at the side of the checkout and began stage mouthing at the girl. I was able to easily make out what she was saying, as she was making no effort to disguise the words:

"Have you decided?"

In reply, the girl made no effort at a stage whisper, but replied in a normal voice:
"I'm not so sure now. The more I think about it, the less sure I am. But if I don't... Well, it's now or never, really." She almost giggled as she finished speaking, and the supervisor moved away with a mysterious smile on her lips.

Whatever it was, I hope she made the right decision.

Whacked

This (rather bizarre) image taken from Sport-Ro.

Some time since my last post, which can partly be put down to being busy, partly to being lazy, and partly to lacking inspiration. To make up for it, I plan to do something I've never done before and post two entries today, laid out as it is like some magnificent blank canvas ahead of me.

What else could I write about today? I ask you. I was musing before the game on Burnley being the spiritual home of the BNP, and though this probably isn't entirely fair, given that Nick Griffin is sequestered in Shropshire, and that I know full well that this particular breed of English-ness (let's face it, they call themselves the British National Party, but with the exception of Rangers fans, I bet they're not too enamoured of Jocks and Taffs) has a following the length and breadth of the land - sad to say. However, there is something appropriately grim about the place (sorry, uncle Terry, I know you're a claret & blue man, but I just can't help it) which suits the Nazi bully boys.



It was with some trepidation that I approached the kick-off time in Doyle's tavern, given how well other results had gone earlier in the day, as I am of course fully prepared for City to lay on a fiasco for their fans just when they need a fillip the most. But it was not - as we are all now aware - to be. I have been subjected to mild doses of corporal punishment in my life (I received two whacks with a slipper on one occasion and a lacing from Harry's Mighty Swiper on another. The injustice of the latter will live me with me evermore, but the former was really nowhere near as bad as the anticipation of it. And please don't infer from that that I somehow derive erotic pleasure from physical censure, although I have nothing against those who do. I just can't understand it. Pain, humiliation and - for that matter - bodily excreta do not press any sexual buttons for me) but have never taken the proverbial six of the best. I really did feel for Brian Laws yesterday, until it began to seem a real possibility that the game would be called off due to a waterlogged pitch, after which the usual 'don't fucking blow this' thoughts were uppermost in my mind. It struck me as well that the pathetic fallacy seems to have been contributing to the game again, just as it did when Steve McClaren shot his load at Wembley all those millennia ago.

Image taken from the Observer.

Yet we got through (virtually) unscathed by one of the worst teams surely to kick a ball in the Premier League and have made a healthy contribution to the goal difference account as well. Onwards and upwards!