Out Out Out

A fitting way to watch the FA Cup final which - somewhat sadly - I really wasn't looking forward to all that much anyway. I was struck down early on Wednesday morning by some kind of gastric bug. I will spare you the gruesome details, but suffice it to say that I am still at the tail-end of the hideous fallout from it. On top of the rear end action, I was also feeling a little flu-ey: aching joints and head; slightly spaced out physicality, etc. No doubt compounded by the lack of sleep as I sat and stared at the tiled toilet floor in the middle of the night. So it was in this frame of mind that I crawled onto the sofa at 5 fucking 15 on Saturday, a can of beer unopened in front of me for nearly 45 minutes, listlessly watching the match unfold.

What can I say? I never expected - as so many fuckwits seemed to - that we would turn Wigan over. Just recently, we were extremely lucky to get away with a 1-0 win over them, and, unluckily mired as they are in the bottom three, they are still more than capable of playing some good football. I'm not calling him a fuckwit, but my cousin Steve predicted 4-1 City. I always (honestly - I'm not trying to big myself up) believed that it would be a low scoring affair. From the off, the Latics looked seemingly impenetrable in defence, though perhaps lacking in the final ball finesse to score, while we were lethargic and utterly bereft of ideas. A packed line of central defenders repeatedly stifled the darting runs of Kun and Tevez. Silva, on the rare occasions he did pick up the ball, was not playing at all well, and Yaya looked as if he was still suffering the muscle fatigue reported against Swansea earlier in the week. There was some hope rather than anticipation that we might click in the second half, but it was very short-lived and - truth be told - they (and particularly McManaman) came on much more strongly as the game progressed - cocking a snook at 'bloody' Roy Keane and his pearls of wisdom. I was too weak to shout, but that didn't matter as there was hardly anything worth shouting about. More and more often, Clichy was made to look an idiot down our left side, until their scoring seemed an inevitability, and then Zab got his marching orders, putting paid to any chance we might have had of (unjustly) nicking one to win it.

I'm no fan of Dave Whelan - in fact I think he's a Tory cunt - but I suppose I've got nothing in particular against their fans, even if they do like egg chasing more than the beautiful game. In any case, it's important to be magnanimous in defeat, so fair play to them, congratulations and all that.

We hear that Bobby is being treated in the now familiar shabby fashion that is modern football management, although swinging the axe on the very day that was the anniversary of our tremendous title win was classless in the extreme. The loss though, and the end to a potless and disappointing campaign, fits the mood of the moment - even as Sralex stands and cries in the middle of the Sty, sticking the knife in as the tears roll down his face. Wigan then, as much as City, deserved what they got, so it's time to look to the future and our exciting trips to South Africa and the USA. Time to consider life under a Chilean rather than an Italian.

Oh Papa Papa

The time draws near. This blog's failing health is plain for all to see, and the burthen of carrying the hopes, dreams and prayers of millions of readers is taking its toll. It is time to leave the stage, to retire to a life of quiet, solemn contemplation. The allegations of financial mismanagement (some of the godless ones might go so far as to call it fraud) totally unfounded as they are, have no bearing on the decision to be taken over the coming days. In my place will come one chosen by the divine finger itself; a man of extreme modesty and humility who will cause the scales to fall from the eyes of those who watch; those who pour scorn on the sanctity of this seemingly endless, ludicrous and discredited pantomime. My fellow secret club members will not in any way influence the destination of the finger, and this I can wholeheartedly vouch for, having received the holy digit on my fundament myself, in those distant days when I was in full health and not having to explain yet another embarrassing incident of child sexual abuse. Amen.

Worried that I am starting to take on some of the characteristics of Jack Torrance in The Shining (it only took King four months to write the first draft of this magnificent book. FOUR MONTHS!) I am still seething over Saturday lunchtime and yet another ignominious defeat at the hands of the cursed Toffees. Despite the 3-0 drubbing in their previous match, I never expected an easy trip up the M62, and Goodison Park is a bastard of a place to go. My Rag mate nailed it I suppose when he said: 'No Yaya, no real rhythm really' - this just after he had returned my taunt to him ('Love a bit of Toffee mate') almost exactly a year ago. No Yaya, no Kun, no fucking hope - all combined with a jammy swerver in the first half and a breakaway goal in the second because we were chasing the game. It was very niggly early on. We were 'a bit slow' as Ratface (much as I hate to say it) rightly said on Sky Sports; rather too predictable and lacking in bite. Only Carlos really looked up for it, and we can really and truly forget the title now.

Fortunately, Spurs seem to be hitting a slow patch themselves, but Chelsea worry me with their players. We can only hope that fixture congestion causes a drain on their considerable resources, although I hope they beat the Rags in the FA Cup replay.

International break time approaches, and the demise of this sorry excuse for a blog draws ever closer. Come here and take your medicine you little fuck!

Tainted or Sainted

It was coming. Nobody can deny that. Despite the entertainment value agin the Scousers, there was a lack of conviction - especially in front of goal - but also a worrying tendency for a return to the defensive errors which have so often historically proved our downfall. Saturday tea time, with the intensely annoying tones of Stan Collymore inflicting GBH on my ears, the chickens came home to roost. The Saints have looked a decent side on occasion, and I remember they gave us a few scares when we played them at the beginning of the season. They also ran the Rags close recently, so this was never going to be an easy trip down to the south coast. Yet, in truth, the loss was as much down to us shooting ourselves in the foot as to the blah-blah-blah philosophy of the new Argie Southampton manager (he must be good, because he can't speak English).

Naturally, to top things off, the Toffees caved in and made life easy for Sir Alex's boys in the run-up to their game against the Galacticos this week, and it really does look as if it's all over red rover now. Even if (which is looking increasingly unlikely) United do slip up, I can't see how we will have enough in us to win the games (i.e., all of them) that we need to in order to stay in it.

As for analysis of Saturday's fiasco, well where to start? There seem to be so many different issues conspiring to tip us into the shit heap at the moment. Barry obviously deserves criticism for having one of those games, and Nasri yet again simply failed to turn up, which is just so fucking infuriating and lazy of him. Hart as well (and again!) hardly covered himself in glory, and there was the now customary fiddling about with the defensive set-up as a result of Kompany's injury. This says so much about the latest recruits and the - let's say - limited impact they have made so far. Yaya hasn't been the force he was last season, and Saturday was just a reinforcement of that disappointing and depressing trend. Whatever the 'personal problem' Tevez had, it doesn't bode well for us, with only Dzeko and Kun to rely on up front. Once more, who could fathom replacing Silva with Maicon, when chasing the game like a Findus horse at 3-1 down?

Though of course it's impossible to know the detail behind much of what goes on at a big club, I feel heartily sick of Mancini sometimes when he starts flinging blame around. It comes across as lame and desperate: blaming the players, blaming Brian Marwood... Who to blame next? Now I hear that dodgy dealings with Barclays Bank are lapping around the Sheikh's ankles, threatening to leave a nasty tide mark on his Savile Row suit trousers, and things could start to go even more horribly wrong. Outside, snow is turning to sleet and a freezing wind blows.

Flipped

Up and down Green Lanes. For family reasons, I was unable to watch the first half, so I missed both of the first two Rag goals, but I did catch City's replies and the ludicrous free kick which so cruelly ended it. In the lead-up, I kept seeing bookies ads saying that they would refund all bets if Van Persie scored, so it was almost inevitable, even if it did happen in the crucial closing minutes. Always likely to be 'one of those matches' it certainly didn't let anyone down in terms of drama and excitement. For a while, I dared to dream that we would get a  penalty in the 93rd minute and stuff Sir Alex's mind games down his throat. But no.

Much could be said about whether there should have been a free kick at all, though there wasn't a massive protest about it, and it was given, so little point in bemonaing that. Once it had been awarded, if there had to be any one player to blame, it would be Nasri of course. I didn't get to see Mario's contribution either, because I arrived at the screen just as Carlos was brought on in his stead, but opinion seems to be (largely) that Bobby made a mistake in starting him in place of the plucky Argentine. Some City fans on Twitter were saying that Balotelli had been hard done-by, and he put in a good shift, but I can't comment on that. Tevez looked pretty up for it I thought, and his presence did seem to galvanise us into piling a bit of pressure on the Rag twats. As for Nasri, I've said it before and I'll say it again: not good enough! Undeniably an extremely talented player, he fails to put in a shift all too often, seeks the Hollywood pass, or the YouTube showreel highlight, and then waggles his leg while sheltering behind Dzeko in the defensive wall. Maybe (another lowlight I failed to see) if Vincent hadn't gone off injured, we might not have conceded the second, and maybe there are too many maybes. These titanic matches sometimes seem to have their own unstoppable momentum, played out like King Lear to a terrible conclusion - almost elemental in character.

After they scored at the end, there was a surreal quality to events; a confusion of images as Ferdinand started pulling his shirt up and then stopped, seemingly overcome with the emotion of it all, while everyone in the pub (Rag and Blue together) laughed; and then there's blood trickling down his cheek, the Rag players are all legging it towards Hart's goal and the final whistle blows. Heart rates start to slow down and the hateful world gradually swims back into focus. The hero lies dead at centre stage and the curtain slowly billows down in silence.

Cash in the bush

First of all, a small apology for slagging off City. A couple of good goals and a nice win rounded off the Austrian visit nicely. Now it's off to China and Arsenal, and I really do appreciate the updates from @MCFC, especially when I have no other means of keeping in contact with the boys. Now let's get the Van Persie thing over with, shall we? So, on to today's rant.

Reluctant as I am to fuel this specious 'debate' about the 'morality' of cash-in-hand payments, I do think the whole thing illustrates the way in which politism - or journalics if you prefer - operates today.

A junior minister is asked a question about cash payments (knowing that his bullshit will be picked up and propagated by what passes for the Press in this country) and responds in a way which will deflect attention from the meat and potatoes of the argument. Everyone then starts banging on and on about it as if it really mattered, while conveniently ignoring the truly egregious tax dodging of, for example, Vodafone. It all then ends up at the top, and Cleggeron are asked if they ever did it, while Boris of course can't keep his snooty snout out of anything with headlines in. The intriguing thing is how (I believe) these fuckers and their PR handlers will respond to such a question. They will not consider whether or not to answer truthfully, but will instead assess the risks of lying, and of being found out.

Morality - in the fiduciary sense - is the order of the day. Tax avoiders, benefit cheats, unworthy bank bonus collectors - everyone must somehow justify their earnings, and if they have been found wanting in this moral balance, then they must return their ill-gotten gains from whence they came. So, Cameron, Clegg, Boris and all must agree with the Rt. Hon. Mr Gauke in his assessment of paying plumbers (or whoever) in cash, and yet must admit to having done so themselves. Everyone, right and left, seems to share the view that the guy is talking pure, unadulterated bollocks.

Surely the real question of morality should be posed on the dusty plains of Afghanistan, where Mr Obama's secret agents bung dollar bills at local warlords, not in David Cameron's bathroom?

Creep

With startling chutzpah (given that he is still under the Leveson microscope) Cameron releases a Sunday statement about the 'something for nothing' culture in our society, and issues dark threats about the removal of housing benefit for those under the age of 25. It is obvious to all that this is a continuation of the cut cut cut agenda currently in place, and - as so many in the Graun have been saying - we've only really seen the beginning of it. We are not yet, despite the best efforts of the ruling elite, and I'm sure many young people would take exception, quite in the same handcart as Greece or Spain, but it won't be long now before th dogma of austerity destroys the last vestiges of hope.

There is no recognition of the fact that there are no jobs, no attempt to address some of the root causes of the problems faced by so much of Europe, such as:

the appalling lack of affordable housing while properties lie empty; the ridiculously inflated value of property in the first place; the fact that the real beneficaries of the HB payments are private landlords; the truth that most people claiming HB are in work, and are clearly not being paid a wage to enable them to live a decent life. None of that. Just another dig at the feckless poor, another petty grab for the resources of those who already have the least to give, straight out of the mouth of a privileged, born into riches millionaire who spends his days allocating jobs for the boys.

I feel mightily sick to my stomach.

Crashing Bore

His intentions were good enough, I think. There was little or no malice in him. It was merely that everything he said somehow came out both tedious and insulting. It is a frustrating trait, common unfortunately to many, that people don't listen to you when you say something. They are either waiting for you to affirm their own feelings on a particular subject, or are too keen to get their little joke in. So, we had stayed in an extremely rustic wooden 'barn' the night before. Creature comforts (i.e., a toilet) were in short supply, and the freakishly warm weather had long departed, leaving a freezing night, which was not ameliorated by the gaping holes in the walls. We had hunkered down and nested for the night on the floor in front of the wood burning stove, so were not feeling particularly jaunty as a result when we arrived at the house the next morning. People were asking how we had slept in the barn, and we replied that it had been bloody cold.

"I bet you warmed up, pretty quick, eh?" he nudge-nudged, touching my shoulder. I smiled. What can you do? The next morning, we arrived again, this time no less tired, but having suffered not quite so much from the cold, due to a rise of two or three degrees in the ambient temperature.

"How did you sleep last night?"
"OK. Not great, but at least it wasn't so cold."
"Well, you get used to the cold after a while, don't you?"
"Maybe, but it wasn't anywhere near as cold as the night before."
"I bet you still found a way to keep out the cold though, eh?"

Sigh.

After the exertions and the sadness, London - with its toilets and heating - beckoned once again, and then a trip to Littlehampton which meant that there were only Twitter updates for the Arsenal match. Balotelli had already been in the news for crashing his car into some kid, and allegedly crashing his cock into a couple of prostitutes, so it was inevitable that he should again be the focal point of yet another crushing 90 minutes of football, resulting in a Gooners win, and annoying references from their fans to the Poznan. As I didn't see the match, have not (and will not) watched MOTD2, and cannot bring myself to read a newspaper report of the game, I don't know if Mario was entirely at fault for us losing. It can't help of course to get sent off, but from what I saw on the MCFC Twitter feed (I hold this ridiculous 'together' hashtag largely responsible for the decline in our fortunes as a matter of fact) we were lucky not to have conceded 2 or 3 before their goal went in.

Ten points the gap to Arsenal now, and not inconceivable that it will be chipped away by season's end. Never mind the fucking Rags clinching the title at the Etihad, we could even drop to third spot. Good old City.

Crouching Tiger

I'm afraid I will not be telling you who has been to dinner with me. That is a private matter. In no way, however, did any of the people who came to sample my soya chunk surprise influence any of the important decisions I have taken. If they did, that would be unacceptable. So now that's out of the way, let's move on to the wonderful Britannia Stadium. If we must.

Stoke have (as anyone who know me or this blog will testify) a special place in my heart. I will not employ any of the clichés so evident in any of my 5 previous posts tagged with Stoke (one of them doesn't appear to have anything to do with the Potters, so for the life of me, I can't figure out why I tagged it. Never mind) and will simply offer a deep sigh. No matter what anyone says, and at the risk of coming across a bit like Mancini at handshake time, the Crouch goal was a fluke. He was, I think, trying to get the ball somewhere towards goal, and somehow managed to put his foot through it in just the right way. So, it was sort of intended, but not to the degree where he thought: 'Right, this is going to glide across and over the keeper and then curl into the goal, just by the post.' To demonstrate that I am nothing if not scupulously fair, I will admit that Yaya's thunderbolt also had more than a touch of jam on it as it nearly tore the net off its stanchions from that deflection. Otherwise, it seems as if this was a fairly even match, not too troubled by any lengthy periods of quality. Stoke could perhaps have won it, so we should be grateful for a point. City are looking jaded, as I've said before, and in particular the dips in form shown by Silva and Agűero (I know Kun wasn't playing Saturday. Hopefully, his foot will repair soon, because we offer significantly less of a threat without him) are a major concern.

As is Bobby's attitude at the moment. Newspapers have said, and I have to concur, that he must have been the only person who wasn't aware of the physical nature of Stoke's game before bringing the team up to face them. In any case, by the rugged standards set by the warriors of Staffordshire (sorry, but clichés are so hard to avoid) it doesn't seem as if this was a particularly bruising display. And then for him to refuse to shake old Pulis's paw before sending Platty out to the cameras seems to betoken a psychological defeat on his part. I said in a previous post, coming out with crap like 'we didn't prepare properly' or 'we under-estimated them' is really not good enough, and the attitude of the man risks sending us over the edge in terms of the will to win. After praising him for his performance against Chelsea, I do wish Nasri would shut up as well.

Now we need Fulham to put on something of a show against the Rags, but I am most definitely not holding my breath for that to happen.

Tired

I'm afraid this is a theme I have often returned to, and I will hopefully balance the gloom with a nice piece about us getting through to the knockout stages of the Champions League on Wednesday. But you have to agree that - outside of the Etihad Stadium - things are pretty bloody dismal at the moment!

Christmas is a time for meeting old friends, for taking stock of the year just gone. A time for sentiment and happiness, celebration and indulgence. Is this the gloomiest Christmas there has ever been? Is it darker than the early 40s, when my ancestors huddled around radios, eking out the butter ration and piling coats on the bed as the bombs fell all around? Darker than December 1914, when the Tommies and Fritzes played football in no man's land?

Day after day, ever more dire financial news is poured down on our heads, unrelenting in its intensity. Politicians in Italy are crying as they announce their austerity budgets; the streets are still burning in Greece; the youth of Spain stare at empty, crumbling development sites; and the disabled in this country are (sometimes literally) having their wheelchairs pulled from beneath them as the homes in which we place our old folk are facing financial ruin.

Businesses - many of them well established, sometimes bastions of the world of retail - are going under at alarming rates. Millions strike to defend what little future security they have; and thousands of others, with no labour to withdraw in the first place, turn with blank eyes to the windows of sports and electronics shops - smashing and grabbing for a slice of the pie. There is no money left, and that is what we are told. If Rolls Royce et al can't sell their cars, then every other lamprey - in a sort of sad homage to natural selection - which sucks on the scaly sides of the Silver Ghosts will also go hungry. And very quickly extinct, preserved only in the fossil record of Companies House.

Let us be under no illusion that Miliband, or anyone, will provide a way out of this. As we have seen in Greece and Italy, the markets will have their way, regardless of the 'will of the people', and we can expect no white knight to be allowed to rein in the money men. Hopes pinned on a Chinese Marshall Plan seem futile indeed, and the only glimmer of stimulus comes from sabre rattling at the old Iranian foe. May the Ayatollahs quake at the avenging angel - William Hague - and his cavalry of Euro Fighters!

Dreck

It was funny for a while. They were all over us, no doubt about that. We looked lethargic and uninterested, overrun at the back and unable to cope with their 'passing and movement' in any part of the pitch. Ashley Young and Danny fucking Welbeck appear to have had the Man U branding steamed into their sleek sides. Evra is as much of a twat as he ever was. I will not mention you-know-who. He can fuck right off to join his mates in Croxteth for a night of petrol bombing.

Then there was De Gea. A stripling with wispy beard thrust into the limelight at Wembley and - it has to be said - at fault for both goals (though obviously the second more so than the first) which essentially came out of nothing. I couldn't hear it in the pub due to the sound of windows being smashed at the local Curry's across the street and the sickening crunch of bone as black bloc-ers vented their spleen at the local plod, but this morning on 5 Live I heard some commentary on Dzeko's goal. It was described as a 'great strike'. I have to disagree. It was an average strike, and should without question have been saved. At that point, it was funny. And you thought we could only improve with the wind at our backs and the usual wealth of talent at our disposal on the bench. Not to be though, was it? Typical City and all that bullshit as we continued our ponderous probings and allowed them back into it.

What the hell happened? Why on god's earth did Mancini bring on Gareth Barry? Can someone answer me that? Was he trying to hold on for the draw? Was he treating the match as some kind of training exercise, or as an opportunity to look at different ways of setting the team up? Maybe there is some contractual mcguffin in Agüero's contract which would have meant an additional €100 million falling due or something if he were to make an appearance. Who the fuck knows. All I can say is that it was pretty much a foregone conclusion from there on that we wouldn't win the thing. Yaya seemed out of sorts, Silva fitful, Balotelli poor and Dzeko average. In summary, our midfield and attack utterly lame in truth. But the real problems were at the back - Kolarov terrorised, Lescott exposed (again) and even Kompany frequently lunging. Richards was busy and stood out not only in defence, but in the team as a whole. De Jong didn't make much of an impression on me, and the whole lot were all too easily side-stepped by the marauding Rags.

I was glad in a way that the match didn't go to extra time and penalties, being as I was surrounded by Rags of European descent, and trudged home through the clouds of tear gas and screams of agony in the apocalyptic city.

Up in the air junior birdman

The title of this post is from a Tom Lehrer pre-amble to his song: 'It Makes A Fellow Proud To Be A Soldier', just so as you know. The post itself has nothing to do with Tom Lehrer or the military; it was merely suggested by my synapses when I considered the words 'up in the air', which is where things are. Yet again. However, it really is an amusing song (on the album 'An Evening Wasted With Tom Lehrer', which I have blogged about before, so if you haven't done so, go listen.

But I was up in the air I believe. Yes, that wonderful work calliope has spun around again, and everyone's doing their damnedest to lick Gideon's boots by slashing and burning first and hardest. My little corner of public funding will not escape, and there will be somewhere in the order of a 20% reduction in posts come the new year. Naturally I'm a little nervous, being a new boy, that I will be one of the unfortunate ones and will once more be out amid the cold world's strife, searching for the gainful. But hey-ho. What can you do?  Whoever said that working in the public sector is an easy life clearly didn't try it, because ever since I've been involved, there's been nothing but change and challenge.

Speaking of evenings - or afternoons - wasted, I happened on the Everton game in Doyle's on Saturday, at least for the second half, when Eileen turned up and managed to get the German sports channel on, but realised pretty quickly that I shouldn't have bothered. As the game degenerated into a manic pinball session, I could see that the Toffees were going to do us again. And so it was to be. There's nothing funny about Balotelli when he gives the ball away so easily, and there was nothing funny about losing that match either.

On to the Tottenham boys tomorrow evening, and it could all go horribly wrong.

Shoot me

Yesterday I turned down the opportunity of a ticket to Saturday's match at Wembley. City faithful and others among my readership will perhaps be surprised at this, but I can assure you that there are several good reasons, not all of which I'll go into here. Two reasons I will give however, are as follows:
1. Money
2. Hopelessness

Things are a little tight for me following changes to my personal circumstances, and I cannot really justify whatever astronomical cost I would have had to pay to get to and into HA9 on a warm Saturday tea time. Having been to Wemberlee before (on a jolly as well as a paid-for excursion) I am fully aware of the true horror involved in buying a pint of beer there.

Following the disastrous display against the Scousers the other night, and watching the ongoing clusterfuck juggernaut that is the Rags' season, I can't really believe we will stand much of a chance either. All the talk now is that Tevez may never play for us again, and - if true - what a whimper of a way to end your time at a club, pulling up after an inocuous tackle at Anfield and hobbling off the pitch.

Doubtless, Lord Berba will extend his goal tally at the home of football and snatch the Golden Boot from under Carlos' nose, leaving only Shrewsbury boy Hart with a sniff of the Golden Glove award.  Really, what are our options without the bolshy little Argy? Dzeko seems to be suffering Torres-itis, and Balotelli is... well, a fairly typical City player, unfortunately. More noted for his bizarre behaviour than his footballing talent; 'the kind of player to get managers the sack' as was pointed out in the Graun on Tuesday, we really cannot expect great things from the man. One ray of hope lies in David Silva, but as I've said before, he's not a goal scorer; another glimmer is in AJ, and I hope he blows more hot than cold.

Not only have I declined the offer of a ticket, but I don't plan to be with any other football fans when the match is on, despite being offered the opportunity to do so. I will be watching on the boob tube, screening my eyes with my fingers, cowering behind the sofa, silently heaving dry sobs into the crook of my elbow.

Nerves

Apologies for the recent online silence, but I have been in mourning for the (to all intents and purposes) end of Manchester City's season. I thought we were doing OK against Chelsea in the first half, but they fucked us in the end. At least we weren't the ones on which Torres bust his still intact cherry, and for that small mercy we can only be grateful. The Kiev match was a wash-out once Balo had received his marching orders, even if it was something of a relief that we were out of that stupid Europa League competition. I am now reduced to hoping that the Rags get caught by the Gooners in the finishing straight. Fourth spot is by no means a foregone for us, and that will sure as eggs is eggs seal Mancini's fate if it so transpires.

But enough of this maudlin talk. We have failed two big tests and have to move on. Now for another test - this time for me.

I mentioned my NEBOSH training in a recent post.

And now the moment of truth approaches. Yes, it's the exam. A two hour pen and paper assessment with a pass mark of 45%, due to commence at 10am on Thursday 24th March. The pass seems fairly easily achievable, and as a result I feel that I've become a little complacent. My original aim was to try and get a distinction (which I believe to be 70%+) or at least a merit (which I think is 60%+) but I am now fully prepared to settle for the pass. I don't have a particular fear of written exams, though, I have to say. I feel that I have always (at least since I left school. Whilst I was at school, through a mixture of laziness and some very poor teachers, I did rather abysmally) more or less performed well in such pressure situations. I'm just hopeful that I will get some of the more woolly questions about health & safety culture, where I can freeform bullshit, rather than the hard fact regurgitation of some of the other areas - although the PEME, ERICPD and POPIMAR pnemonics have sunk in, so I suppose I shouldn't have that much to worry about.

I never thought, I must confess, when I started here in what felt like a sleepy backwater after the madness of Defra/Interserve, that things would get as hectic as they have, but I'm not complaining. At least I've got a job, and if I do manage to achieve that pass, my CV will appear a damn sight healthier than it did before I arrived.

Bar the Shouting

Well it ain't rocket science, and I'm not trying to make out that I'm some kind of expert, 'cos I'm not. However, I did tell you so. Blunt up front; pretty but not incisive; lacking a cutting edge. Says it all. I watched the first half in a fug of Billy Orr at Doyle's Tavern on the Cally, flouncing out after the Nani goal was loudly cheered by the bin men (not - perhaps surprisingly - the source of the B.O. as it happens. Or am I being prejudicial towards these key workers?) in the corner and heading to John Lewis for kids' shoes.

Part of me was thinking that splitting my attention in this way might actually affect the result, and Twitter updates gave me some false hope that the tactic was working when Silva's diminutive Spanish ass cheeks deflected in the equaliser. Of course, this is superstitious guff and I would normally sneer at others for displaying such unscientific behaviour, yet football remains the one area in which I do genuinely think that my own actions can somehow influence unconnected events. Not to be, and - truth be told - more than a little depressing n the cold light of day this morning.

And yet, as I've always said, the quality of the game is more important than the result, and we played all right I suppose. Dzeko was unconvincing, Tevez subdued, Silva was excellent but should have scored (properly I mean, not with an accidental arse flick) on 4 minutes. Sodding Rooney's wonder strike aside (btw, News of the World [and other] hacks, quoting Rio Ferdinand's tweets does NOT count as journalism) we probably deserved a point out of the match, but really should have driven the three of them home in the first half. Now it looks as if a tilt at the title will be out of the question, and even a top four finish is by no means certain, with Spurs still coming up with the goods.

Crocker Shit

You may have noticed the presence of a ghost on here recently. Aptly enough, this ghost is a Toffee, so congratulations to his ectoplasmic form also on a barely deserved victory at Eastlands the other evening, which I had the misfortune of watching with him. Even if I had tried to punch him, my fist would have passed right through, but I didn't even get angry. Just goes to show that we do indeed bottle it at crucial moments. Or something like that. With 27 or so shots on goal (alas, only 4 on target, which - though decent - probably explains a lot) and 11 corners to their none, you would have expected a little more than the one solitary goal and no points to show for our pains. But, them's the breaks. We need better finishers (I'm looking at you, second only to Messi, Mario Balotelli...) I suppose you could say, though Kolarov came mighty close a couple of times; Tevez had one good shot well saved; Howard enjoyed one of his better games and Phil Neville got away with playing the bloody octopus all night long. My only criticism was that there was too much hopeful belting of the ball from the edge of the area when a bit more thought and craft might have delivered a more telling blow. Oh, and Tim Cahill really is an annoying little Aussie twat.

Moving on, we're well on to the meat of the Dirty Dozen now, and with the meat, time to bring Maggot into play. Who loves ya baby? Hero of many a boy from my generation as Kojak, Telly Savalas was a top star of the silver screen. During the mid 70s, every playground in England must have echoed with the word 'Crocker'; a million lollipops were surely brandished in the faces of fat kids with curly hair, and we even had our own 'Stav' who didn't seem to mind the sobriquet too much. He was a tough guy in Kojak - though of course with a heart of gold - and his character in the Dirty Dozen surprises somewhat if, like me, you saw the two things in the wrong chronological order. A nasty, racist rapist is Maggot, well suited to the horrors of war. Which I think sets the tone nicely for the climax of the festive season.

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas!

Yakkety Sax

Partly because I need to keep my quota of posts up this month to reach my annual target (it's a silly numerological superstition, in which only I am interested - though that makes it all the more important. I will say no more...) and partly because I think these things need to be said, here's another footy piece, hot on the heels of the, er, last one. It will be short. And bitter.

What the hell was that all about? A reassuring return to the slapstick days of yore, with (one could say) all three of the Poles' goals ridiculously flukey, but most especially the second one, in off the face of the unsuspecting Poznan player. There's something peculiarly touching about Shay Given's face when he picks the ball out of the net.

I hasten to add that I am not defending City's performance, which was once again simply abject in too many areas of the pitch. I have grown weary of slagging off Wayne Bridge, so will do so no more, yet he simply is not good enough. And never was. Vieira on the other hand was (as we all must agree) once a very good player, but most definitely is not anymore.

I am also tired of the 'you can't buy success' mantra and the feeling that somehow City are more culpable because of the vast sums of money spent building up the team. Such a strategy, as we are seeing, carries its own risks, and I maintain my original assessment of Signor Mancini, in that he doesn't seem to know what the hell he is doing, and that his tactics are way too negative. One sturdy win against Chelsea (seems so long ago now) maketh not a title-winning side. Of course, against this backdrop (reprising one of my earlier, funnier posts) looms the Rag game, and any previous positive feelings I may have had are rapidly evaporating.

We can only watch and wait for the next act of the farce to unfold.

Crotchety

There's a guy across the road. Thankfully, he's not about every night, but when he is, you don't half notice it. He stands in some unseen walkway of the sprawling block of flats near my house smoking and expectorating. Loudly. At intervals of between 5 and 10 seconds, he sucks in what sound like large quantities of mucus and flobs them on to the small patch of grass beneath his hidden perch, like a repulsive metronomic bird thing.



Unsuspecting people (some of them occasionally reasonably attractive-looking) are often surprised by the noise, flicking a quick glance upwards as they walk by, and then directing their gaze towards the ground where the large green object has just slapped itself.

My own feelings are of a creeping nausea, slowly turning to revulsion and anger. I like to sleep with the window open - even on chillier nights - and this utterly disgusting soundtrack turns my stomach. What can I do?

I am amazed that somebody could have reached this point in their life, and almost harbour a sneaking sense of admiration for the invisible phlegm producer. It must, after all, have taken some effort to reach this point in the man's life - to find it somehow acceptable to stand on a concrete walkway repeatedly spitting on the floor throughout the night. This is a special kind of dedication.

Invisible

Apologies to Gerard Manley Hopkins.

I caught this morning Metropolitan’s minion
sad, twisted little turd of a non-official
jumped-up social inadequate with a cheap uniform
and an even cheaper mobile phone in his pocket
which he checked in order to record the time
of his pettifogging admonishment of my transgression.

PCSO Little was his name, and little indeed was his mentality as his barely literate scrawling carbon copied the shocking and heinous details of my crime.

‘CYCLING ON A WALKWAY’

I’m not – don’t get me wrong – one of these people who believe that speed cameras are the devil’s work, and neither do I condone the crazy behaviour of some of my fellow two wheelers who jump red lights with abandon. In 20 years of cycling in London, this is the first time that I have ever been sanctioned (and [touching wood] for the record, I have never had an accident in that time either. Surely that counts for something?) and I do feel that some context is necessary.

My bike, as is the case every day I ride, was locked to a cycle stand in Wilcox Place whilst I had my regular Caffe Nero fix before heading into the office. Wilcox Place is a pedestrianised strip of road opposite Westminster City Hall on Victoria Street, and there are a number of cycle racks ranged along it, which are all normally full by 9am. It is my habit to unlock the bike and slowly cycle the ten or so yards to the dropped kerb before launching into the traffic and heading to St. James’s Park station and the underground car park where I leave the bike for the day.

PCSO Little interpreted this action as breaking the law (somewhat amusingly pointing out to me that TfL have recently been ‘coming down hard’ on this type of thing) and was keen to point out the proximity to the council offices, as this somehow made the crime more serious. I protested that I had just unlocked the bike (indeed I can have travelled no more than 5 yards when he stopped me. I in fact thought at first that he was going to ask me a question, before the realisation dawned that I was being booked) and was taking it towards the road. Furthermore, I said that everyone did what I had done – pointing out another cyclist who wheeled past as we went through the ludicrous pantomime of noting down my details. I thought it unwise to present my TfL security pass as proof of identity, fished out my bank card, and toyed with giving him spurious address details, substituting a 4 for a 7 in my postcode for example. Something prevented me from doing so (knowing as I do that this kind of thing can spiral out of control with a quick call on the radio and an address check) and I watched him rip off he sheet and hand it to me before pedalling on. By the time I reached the office, the shower was already occupied.

I will appeal, I think, pointless as this will be, out of a sense of outrage at this pathetic man and his ludicrous jobsworth attitude. Especially in light of the recent furore around Jon Snow, and the less recent exposes of Messrs Johnson and Cameron.

But. Almost as promised, there will follow the answers to the capital cities question in my next post. I promise.

Libertarian

Today I came across a man named Charles Murray. Maybe I should have heard of him before, but I had not. If you are not familiar with his work, I will do my best to illuminate you, but be warned - it's strong stuff.

He is (please feel free to skip this part if you do know about him) an American social 'scientist', famous for a book he co-wrote on the role of IQ in determining the social standing of individuals, who now gives evidence at Senate hearings in the US, writes op-ed pieces for various publications and generally gets his old face around the place a lot. As far as Mr Murray goes, my cherry was bust reading this unbelievable piece of shit (thanks to user 'Klang' btw) published in the (London) Times. I found out about the piece via the Guardian CiF comments, and it has genuinely scared me. I would urge you (Murdoch and all) to read it, if only to believe it.

The discussion was all around the new Coalition austerity measures in relation to Housing Benefit; how the new - unavoidable of course - steps announced by the Coalition will only mean (oh, really...?) increased poverty for the already poor. I am always shocked (though I really shouldn't be) by the vitriolic outbursts of some of the commenters on the Graun boards, as if I ought to expect something a little more refined in this particular arena, and that the real nasty shit should be reserved for the Daily Mail, but that's free speech (as well as ideological Coalition implanting) for you I suppose. But, amidst all the fucking bullshit around 'I don't get any help, so why should you?' and 'immigrants are living in Mayfair mansions' was a link to the Charles Murray piece in the Times.

Effectively - and I will get there - Charlie is saying that an underclass exists, and this is a fact of nature. An underclass will always exist, but we (as a civilised society) have to learn to deal with it in the most effective way. For him, this means three things:

1) Make life as hard as hell for the 'deviants';

2) Move 'em out!

2) Lock 'em up! (if they don't conform to the rules or move out)

The (some would say significant) social and (nobody can argue with this) financial cost of imprisonment is worth the net effect of removing from the sight of decent achievers the unedifying images of single mothers, low level crime and graffiti.

Now for the scary part. This would seem to be the driving force behind most of the Coalition policies.

Amiright? I may be, but who gives a fuck about me?

Nights I should have sat in

Tenuous title. I apologise, but - as with the content of this post - I have struggled to hit the right tone.



I thought it was a good idea to go and watch last night's game in the pub. I think we are all aware that the football part of this particular brainwave was seriously lacking, but the social element wasn't exactly a roaring success either.

Having previous experience (though admittedly it wasn't all that recently that England were represented at an international tournament and, let's face it, it looks likely to be a while before it happens again) I was aware of the pitfalls and was prepared to take the risk, so that I could trade off the hassles against the exuberance of the crowd and what I felt (almost) sure would be a comfortable victory for the Three Lions. In any case, watching 'important' matches at home is always a profoundly irritating experience for me, surrounded as I am by unsympathetic females, and I felt this to be an important game.

On arrival though, I was mildly surprised to see just how many people had made the pilgrimage to this particular corner of Albion in order to pay their respects (as well as £3.25 a pint) to the boys in white, but was still holding a 'fair enough' attitude as 7.30 approached. By the time Adrian Chiles had finished his inane burbling and the whistle's screech sped closer, every inch of floor space was taken up by bodies sipping on their plastic Foster bags and I edged my way to a vantage point while I waited for the short-straw man to bring the beers.

At first it was just a ripple. An Amazonian butterfly contemplated taking wing and the synaptic activity began to give momentum to the wave as a pissed-up Aussie stood before me and said:

"Mate. Don't think you're gonna stand there when the game starts."

As an Englishman, I could only ignore him, gazing across the room to see if the beers had yet been secured, and he edged past me, tripping over my heels as he did so. Then, a moment later, another Aussie tapped me on the shoulder.

"Mate," he said "You're blocking the view."

I gestured around me with an affected wtf? shrug, and said:

"Sorry, you'll have to stand up like everyone else." My voice was barely audible above the vuvuzela din from the telly and the almost drunken chanting of the fans in the pub, and I turned back towards the screen, seeking on the way a modicum of approval from the blokes who were standing near me. Not one met my eye.

After that, I wasn't sure if remarks were being directed at me, or just about me, but there was a very obvious dark current emerging. My mate at the bar was still battling to get the beers so I was unable to seek solace in my lager, but I kept hearing various comments, all in outback tones.

"It's a joke, mate!"

"We've been in here since 4.30..."

I glanced around, only to see hordes of extremely tall men (and I stand 6' 3" in my socks) cradling pints of lager in their crossed arms as they gazed at the screen.

I wasn't to know that everyone within a 6 feet radius of me was Antipodean when, on the final arrival of my own beer, I began to slag off Godzone loudly and vociferously to the bearer. Their provenance soon became obvious to me when I overheard some of their conversation (FYI: banal. In the extreme. Here's an example: "Oh yeah. I got Algeria in the sweepstakes, mate. Thought: fuck that! But I reckon they're in with a fucking shout.") and this began to prey on my mind as the first apprehensive touches of the ball were essayed by Fabio's boys. Then I saw the manager of the establishment approaching...