Star

Sorry, but I'm not going to say thanks to Goonersworld for this image.

When I first saw him, I thought he was a lookalike. I assumed that someone who looked very much like Bacary Sagna was having a drink in my local. It was a few minutes later, when I overheard someone talking excitedly on the phone, that I realised it really was Sagna. What on earth he was doing drinking in a none too salubrious (I don't mean to be insulting - it's OK, just not China White, if you know what I mean) pub on the Cally?

Within a very short time, I began to realise what it must be like to be a celebrity. Monsieur Sagna had not a moment's peace to finish his bottle of Coke, to continue his conversation (in French) with his mate, to watch Chelsea bang yet another one in, or to ignore the woman who sat next to him. He was almost continuously plagued by people asking for autographs or pictures with the (terrified) kids in Emirates shirts, and took it all in a fairly good-natured - if occasionally surly - way. I could see that he was a little annoyed at being interrupted while watching the first Anelka goal, and offered a very cursory handshake while looking at the TV screen, but every other incursion into his privacy was dealt with politely and patiently. He was offered some words of advice on football tactics by an elderly man with no teeth, wearing a baseball cap, and only solemnly blinked his rather unusual eyes in response.

Sagna is - though this is Gooner heartland, so perhaps not wholly representative - a relatively minor superstar, and yet he was not able to enjoy more than a minute or two's peace.

Shitter

As I struggle with my challenge, for which I have set the deadline of the end of the month, and with which I am struggling to apply the necessary effort (it feels a bit like being back at school or college, but with none of the pressure of a teacher or lecturer breathing down my neck) I will tease out some of the themes I am exploring for the challenge in relation to entirely different subject matter.

At the risk of being a hated iconoclast, I would say that it all started with Stephen Fry, then quickly moved on to John Cleese. But the infection reached maximum levels when Jonathan Ross entered the fray and was complete with the addition of the News of the Screws' showbiz writer. I refer of course to the slow death of Twitter. It's an odd thing, as I'm sure I've said before, that some people have just never got it (Graham Linehan - who tweets under the name of Mrs Doyle - rather satisfyingly uses the word 'grok' in this context, and the bloke off Myth Busters talks of being unable to persuade members of his family to join in, even though he is an extremely enthusiastic participant. For myself, I know of no other personal contacts who tweet, though some do seem to follow me) while others can't seem to stop. I have loved it for the two years or so that I have been indulging, and I guess partly for the reason that it always sat outside the mainstream media, while at the same time forming a meta-discourse on it. Reading about the gradual shutdown of the Mars Phoenix lander was one of the high points for me. I actually found the final moments very moving, and I have to give kudos to the guys at Mission Control for imbuing a piece of metal on a far distant cold rock with a personality. The sad fact of the matter is that Twitter is increasingly a story in itself, and I am firmly of the opinion that inclusion in the London Paper is enough reason to hate anything.

Stephen cannot be blamed too much I suppose. He is one of the stately homos of England after all, and it was fun and illuminating to read his tweets of rage at Windows Vista, joy at the wonders of the natural world, and see his pix of Madagascar. A little light went out when I read recently, however, about the Beeb taking exception to him tweeting material from his latest trip to Australia/New Zealand for copyright reasons. Seeing Cleese appear was something of a shock, but it turns out that he is carving out a little 2.0 niche for himself, and again it's hard to maintain any sense of anger towards the man. The same cannot be said of Mr Ross, who has an uncanny ability to be excellently funny (on the radio at least) and infuriatingly lovey, especially on his Friday night chat show. The Sun now regularly trawls Wossy's Twitter feed for nuggets of information. And that, my friends, is that.

Winehouse big house

Saw a load of men on the Cally Road.

Man City on Sky, so I was so bold.



And now I'll give up on this rather lame attempt to mirror the lyrics of Up The Bracket and continue with my story. You don't often see paparazzi on the Cally, but there they were on Sunday - only three or four of them admittedly, but they had proper long lens cameras and everything - standing outside Pentonville. I was on my way to the local to watch the Pompey/City game, a bit of a spring in my step.

Adopting my best jaded Londoner pose, I strolled up to one of the snappers and said:

"Doherty?"
"Nah, Wine'ouse." he replied.

I definitely detected a wry smile playing around his lips.

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Ilford nights

I am a big fan of Marina Hyde in the Guardian. A little florid on occasion perhaps, she still usually makes me laugh, especially when writing about the absurdities of football.

Here's a story of which I am sure she would whole-heartedly approve.

That stalwart of the West Ham side and victim of smarter brother syndrome, Anton Ferdinand, has been up before the beak after a fracas outside a nightspot in London's trendy Ilford. A gentleman by the name of Emile Walker, who was allegedly on the receiving end of some of Mr Ferndinand's less nuanced football 'moves' ended up with a fractured jaw. Needless to say, young Anton says he was acting in self-defence after Mr Walker threatened to kill his girlfriend, and - a far more heinous act this - looked at his watch.

His watch? You cry in understandable disbelief. Ah, but no ordinary watch this, being worth a staggering, nay eye-watering £64,000. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the case (and justice is so very difficult a concept these days, isn't it?) I think we should all pause for a moment here and consider a few things. Anton Ferdinand is 22 years old. He is a reasonably solid defender who, a couple of seasons ago, looked like he might be about to become a little better, but who has faded somewhat of late. He plays for a side who are far from the elite of football, despite the Icelandic biscuit baron's millions. And yet he can afford to buy a watch which costs £64,000. There is something seriously screwed up with this world, and no mistake. The very fact that watches worth that kind of money are sold at all is obscene. Don't you think?