One-upmanship

I was at Southend on Sunday; my version of the summer holiday in this trying year - a day spent watching the kids whiz and fly around various pieces of garish machinery and a few seconds of cool Thames estuary water lapping over my toes. Bad chips which tasted nice anyway. It was a pleasant enough day, weather-wise, and a decent way to spend a Sunday, even though City were on ESPN (bah!) and the Rags/Arse game up at 4 o'clock.



Hearing today the crazy rumours that we are now signing Owen Hargreaves on a pay-as-you-play basis, I have realised that just when you think that the world of football has jumped the shark, something else happens to tip the scales (or sharkskin) even further into insanity. Leaving aside the (allegedly) grubby business of the Nasri signing (FWIW, I didn't feel that we needed him) and the farcical goings-on which continue with Tevez, we are of course now a real prospect for the title. And so we should be, eh? David Platt was on the radio the other day, saying (in a fairly jocund sort of way) that he couldn't actually decide on the best starting XI for City now, being able only to whittle the vast army of talent down to 12. So I've given some thought to my starting XI (which, funnily enough, doesn't include Hargreaves). Here it is:

1. Hart
2 (r/b). Richards
3 (l/b). Zabaleta
4. (c/h) De Jong
5. (c/h) Kompany
6. Yaya
7. Milner
8. Silva (right - nominally)
9. Agüero
10. Dzeko
11. AJ (left - nominally)

You will see Milner is in italics, and I did think about swapping him with Nasri, but figured there would be too much attack in the side if we played with that line up. I'm not a huge fan of Milner, but prefer him to Barry - despite the latter's lucky strike against the Trotters the other day - and, well, when in Stoke...

From the footage on MOTD 2, I felt that Agüero's goal was the pick of the bunch on Sunday, though Dzeko's second (headed) effort was quite nice. I knew little of any of this while on the Essex shoreline and was very pleasantly surprised to hear of the final score from my Spurs mate via text as I stood - laden with bags - next to the platforms for the Rage ride at Adventure Island.

Then it was the 16.14 service to Fenchurch Street, and a need to find out how things were going at the Sty. So much for that shite.

Currant Bun

With grim determination, I pushed on to Southend yesterday despite the none-too-promising weather in the morning. Based on the chill wind I just struggled through, I'm convinced that I made the right decision. There were patches of warm sun amid the West Ham beer guzzlers at Adventure Island, a regrettable fish and chips restaurant visit, and a small fortune spent on cheap tat and video games.

It is, however, reassuring that the video arcade at the Treasure Chest has a 2p change machine, so the ultimate marketing hasn't quite saturated the place yet. It was £22 per child for a blue bracelet, allowing access to all rides in the park as many times as you like. The hanky of beach leading down to the endless mud flats of the estuary, combined with the impact of the credit crunch on the town centre shopping 'experience' means that there really are very few other things to do in Southend without resorting to the lager. But in general, it's enough.



As I stood waiting for the kids to emerge from yet another ride, destinies were being made in the football world. I already knew of course about our win over the hateful Allardyce and his crew, that Fulham had depressingly (or was it?) capitulated to the Rags, and that Spurs had triumphed over an unlucky set of Boing Boings.

Hatton had been shat on, and the Scousers and Newcastle were going through the motions as I was talking to the Squeaky Voiced Teen, and runes were cast in the Championship. As I was trundling through the surprisingly beautiful Essex countryside, Sunderland were continuing to self-destruct, offering Mr Shearer an unlikely (Lads) lifeline, and the bloody Toffees (no disrespect to the diligent David Moyes, or the important Evertonians in my life, but I simply can't get involved with them - sorry!) were keeping up their tedious charge. I forgot to take my camera, and even my mobile phone battery was dead by the time I reached the beach, so I only have the unreliable images in my head to tide me over now.

Tarred

I know people will just assume that I'm a fair weather cyclist.

Back on the bike today after a fairly rigorous workout over the weekend and of course the weather is drop-dead gorgeous. There really is nothing to beat riding through London on a sunny morning - even if Boris is in charge. Anyway, why should I worry? I've earned my cap badge after cycling throughout the entire year when I was working in Hammersmith. So - na na na na na na!

Spent a day in Southend yesterday - the first time I've visited the place - and it was a very pleasant day indeed, though I don't think I've ever seen so many Hammers tattoos (and you can be sure that a lot of those geezers are going to be sore today, after a long afternoon supping Fosters along the esplanade - the sun bouncing off their shiny pates) in my life. Though the presence of large numbers of Man United tops may help to explain the dire performance of the Irons over the weekend. Capitulation is the only word for it.

It's an interesting journey from Fenchurch Street on the Shoeburyness service, similar to the West Midlands conurbation in that human habitation hardly seems to relent, apart from a stretch (I think) just after Basildon with huge fields of rape and the odd herd of cows or horses. Then you come to the estuarine verges of the Thames. The tide was out as we approached, so the boats were all sticking out of the mud like so many kids' toys, and the odd bark could be glimpsed on the shimmering water far away. For me it evoked the South China Sea.