G4 Shite

Logical, really. Why pay extra for a service when you’ve already got fully equipped and (theoretically at least) qualified personnel sitting around doing sod-all and getting paid for it? Really, why stop at the Olympics? Surely, if you’ve got an (admittedly shrinking) army lying around you should put it to use whenever you can? I see those blokes in their useless camouflage walking around central London quite a bit, and have recently noticed the awful Wolff Olins logo stitched to their sleeves, just below where the stripes normally go. I assumed they were on ‘furlough’ or whatever, getting a bit of Blighty before heading back to the deadly wastelands of Helmand Province, but maybe they’re here all the time, doing jankers or some such in barracks like the horrible little men (and women) they are. Wouldn’t it be sensible to get the sappers digging up the roads, have the army drivers out in cabs, put the uxb men in amongst the Old Bill, mobilise the catering corps into swanky West End restaurants – that kind of thing?

Anyway, far be it from me in my position on the inside as it were to criticise, and fearful as I am of inviting the cyber goons on to my head, I have heard some things about this latest Games-related fiasco. A friend of mine, being some time out of work when he did so, applied for one of the security jobs over at Stratford. He went as far as attending three of the many required day long induction and training sessions before taking the brave step of deciding to drop it like a hot brick. He told me quite a bit about the process, which seemed fairly arduous, I must admit.

Besides his misgivings about whether he was right for the job – he said that he would be expected to confiscate food items from people who were coming to the Games, so that the appointed sponsors would have a monopoly on feeding the 5 million their burgers and chips, and felt distinctly uncomfortable about this – he highlighted a more major concern. In the latter stages of his final training session, the people in his class were asked to sign a sheet of paper so that they could move on to the next stage, and take one more step towards actually getting a job. With pay, no less! The terms and conditions on this sheet were such that the employees would be tied to G4S for a period of one year after the Games ended. If they left within this period, they would be held liable for the cost of training. This could be as much as £5,000, which is not insignificant, I'm sure you will agree. In addition to this, they would possibly be asked to work as far away as Scotland at a day’s notice - either before, during or after the Games.

Wisely, in my opinion, he decided not to sign this bit of paper and walked out into an uncertain future. I’m glad to say he has since found work, and on considerably better terms than this daylight robbery, I'm sure. In addition, he will be able to take his sandwiches with him when he goes to work, and will not be expected to confiscate flasks of tea and McVitie’s Digestives wrapped in foil from respectable spectacle and kagoule wearing Olympic Games fans who have travelled all the way from Doncaster to watch a bit of the coxless fours.

Is it any wonder, listening to that, that G4S have failed to recruit enough staff for this crazy venture? It is a wonder indeed that they have managed to recruit anyone at all. Well, it will all begin, as the French say, in a quinze jours, and then we’ll see what it will be like. I’m not allowed to put anything online about my experiences, so will be relying on the fact that nobody reads this to keep me out of trouble.

I'm a bit confused

A further piece from Mr Cake for your delectation:

I went to a party last Sunday. Generally had a great time, but towards the end of the night I entered into conversation with a silver-haired gentleman, a professional business negotiator. He made the following claim-


Gent: Tiger Woods last week passed Jack Nicklaus' record of major championships and this has all been part of Nike's marketing strategy.
Me : Are you talking about the U.S. Open? It isn't over yet.
Gent: No, no I'm talking about last week. Tiger Woods surpassed Jack Nicklaus' record of Major Championships.
Me: I'm sorry, but Jack Nicklaus still holds the record.
Gent: No,no Tiger woods has now more majors than Niklaus.
Me: Can I ask how you are defining 'major' because I believe in golf that there are only four majors and Nichlaus holds the record for winning the most?
Gent: I don't understand what you're talking about.
Me: Well, the term 'major' in golf refers to one of four championships. Can I ask you what you mean by 'major'?
Gent: Anyway it's all business, I know, been involved with it for years. Nike have planned Tiger Woods' come-back to get the most interest on TV. Those guys are in control. People have no idea.
Me: Sorry, can I just check. Tiger Woods has been playing badly deliberately? On Nike's orders? How do they decide at what point he should start winning again? How do they decide that he should play well now, and badly at the Masters?
Gent: I don't understand what you're talking about. Look I'm just telling you the truth of business here. You don't have to believe me.
Me: Well, actually I'm accepting your scenario and I'm trying to understand how it would work. Can you tell me how Nike decides when he should start winning again. Plus, again, are you claiming Tiger Woods has been deliberately playing badly for the last couple of years? I'm interested in what you're saying.
Gent: Look, are you on Facebook?
Me: Yes. Why?
Gent: Get off it.
Me: Why?
Gent: 3 years from now you're going to go to the airport and they're going to ask you questions and if you give the wrong answer, they'll drag you into the back room. They are digitising your conscience.
Me: What do you mean by that?
Gent: All your information is being collected by things like Facebook. And I'll tell you what, Zuckerberg is going to be out in a year.
Me: Would you bet on that?
Gent: I'll bet you ten thousand dollars.
Me: I don't have that. Anyway, is there anything we can do to fight against this terrible system?
Gent: Get off Facebook!
Me: Is there anything else we can do?
Gent: Well, you tell me.
Me: Well how about we improve communication between people by developing a basic theory of communication?
Gent: What concrete steps are you taking?
Me: I think developing a useful theory of communication is a concrete step.
Gent: No it's not.
Me: Well, do you understand what I'm talking about?
Gent: No. Explain it.

I begin to explain. Another person asks a question. I turn to answer that question. When I turn back, silver-haired gent has gone.
This is in no way an unusual conversation. I have more interest in Mr Gent's information than he does, because I'm trying to understand the ideas connected to them. And, clearly, he has no interest in my ideas. He can`t even be arsed to sit and listen to my goofy-ass concepts. It can only be concluded that, with business negotiators like this, no wonder the financial system is in such a state.
A little later, I overhear silver-haired gent in another room telling a German guy that the Vatican has a tree that looks like the pineal gland.

Whither?

World Cup approaching. The first one about which I will have blogged, as if anyone gave a toss.

Thus far, the world and all its cynicism being what it is, fairly boring. From a football (and humanity) point of view, the injury to Rio is a good thing. Regardless of the persistent injuries and poor form, the man is an out and out cunt. This opinion is in no way partisan either, because his twattishness is entirely independent of his Ragness. Although that obviously doesn't help.

I was disappointed, and a little surprised, about Adam Johnson's exclusion from the squad, and mystified (as ever) by the inclusion of Heskey. There are of course the usual worries about under-performing (or over-emoting) 'superstars' and a premature ejaculation from the tournament.

As far as the tournament goes, well it's not easy to say yet. One could leap on a high horse and lament the drought and starvation on the African Continent amidst the multi million dollar Coke advertising deals, but what would be the point of that? Conversely, one could launch into some maudlin testimony to the basic joy of a few kids kicking a bundle of rags around, as a focal point for the greater benefits the game delivers. But, blah blah blah.

James Corden can fuck off and die. Adebayor on the BBC (wtf???) and Adrian Chiles on ITV. Let's go!

Hat trick

We’ve all got those special moments – Gazza’s free kick, Botham against the Aussies, Lewis v Tyson, you name it – but I wanted to focus on great sporting moments where I myself was participating. They are few and far between, because – as any of my friends will testify – great sporting ability is not a gift with which I have been blessed. However, these events will stay long in my memory, and be re-lived again and again. I cannot include (wonderful as it was to see) Steeves’ dance around the sport bag, or my own mid-flight catch of a dart, because I say so. In no particular order, here are the moments which I will include:

1. The year: 1983. The venue: Oswestry Leisure Centre. The event: me and Tad playing squash. I had been playing squash with Tad for some time, and, thanks to his kindness and patience, my game had improved from absolutely dreadful to slightly better than crap. To be fair, I did play quite a lot, and almost always against opponents of superior skill, so I must have learned something. It had got to the stage where I was able to at least give Tad a decent game, though I had never actually managed to beat him, so, gaining in confidence, I wagered that I would be able to take at least one game in this particular session. Nip and tuck it was, with us level on points at 8-8 (we didn’t play the 15 point version of the game then) and a hard scrap over each point to decide the game. We attracted a (small) audience on the gallery, who became even more interested when they heard about what was riding on the match. Alas, though I put up a good fight, I think Tad beat my something like 15-13, but I remain convinced that I pushed him to the limit, and we received a round of applause when the game had finished. I am now sure that a game of squash would more than likely finish me off, but that’s the march of time for you.

2. The year: 1994. The venue: Hampstead Heath. The event: a kick about on a flat piece of heath where we were having a birthday picnic. I’m not attempting to be modest by only writing about events in which I have come off worse, believe me, it just happens to be that way. There were about 5 or 6 of us playing footy with jumpers for goalposts, and had progressed to a kind of competitive headers and volleys type game. I was in goal, and on the opposing team were C_____ (not a bad little sportsman in his day) and G______, who was a gay Moony stand-up comedian from M_________. He was camper than coffee, though usually highly amusing, and certainly not the kind of person you would expect to be playing footy in the park. However, I will always always remember the moment when C______ whipped in a cross from the right wing and Graham, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, met the ball square on with his forehead, sending it sailing past my outstretched arm into the back of the net. C_______ cheered and G______ laughed, clearly extremely pleased with his effort, wheeling away to take the acclaim of his team-mates. G_______’s goal was a talking point for the rest of the day.

3. The year: 1996. The venue: Finsbury Park. The event: a bit of cricket on a Sunday. Where I used to work, they were clearing out stuff, and this included a never used full cricket bag, complete with two bats, a box of balls, two sets of stumps, three sets of pads, wicketkeepers gloves, batsman’s gloves, boxes... The whole shooting match. And we’re not talking Woolworth’s back garden here – no sir, this was the proper shit. High quality. So, rather than see it go to waste, I volunteered to take it home. As you do. Obviously, with all that gear lying around, you’ve got to go and have a knock up, haven’t you? So we picked up some beers and crisps (about half a dozen of us) and made our way to the bit of Finsbury Park that runs along Green Lanes from Manor House. Not sure if they’re still there, but there used to be some nets up, as well as a softball area laid out, and a fairly large area of grass, so that you could safely smack a lump of leather around without risking killing (or more likely being killed by... It is Finsbury Park, remember) someone when it hits them on the head. It would be fair to say that there were varying levels of talent on display that day, which would explain why I may have appeared to be almost a competent bowler.

That aside, the true value of a public school education displayed itself in the form of S_____, who was clearly more than a notch or two better than anyone else present. At least until a couple of local lads turned up, and one of them turned out to be a Michael Holding in the making. But that’s another story. I remember S_____ was fielding around the midwicket area, and whoever it might have been (I think St____) clipped the ball ahead of him at a fair pace. S_____, on the run, picked up the ball and instantly shied at the stumps (side on, remember) from a good 30 yards, hitting them smack on and taking off the bails. It was a moment of pure quality.

Damned good? Or Saint Thaddeus

Only two Apostles left, and only two posts before the end of 2009. My final post will be so good that it will need to be named twice, and will include the obligatory round-up of the year. Best wishes to Mancini. I love his music.

Podcast Episode 4 is now up. I thank yew.



St. Thaddeus is not the most tedious of all the Apostles, although very little seems to be known about him, and even his name is shrouded in the usual confusion. In common with many Jews (it seems) around the turn of the BC/AD thing, he may have been called Jude. Most interestingly, he is the patron saint of lost causes, and as such has no doubt been called on by many a football fan in moments of extremis. He is also the patron saint of Flamengo in Brazil.

One footballing icon who definitely would not have invoked this (or any other, given that the only thing he believed in was himself) saint, as I am currently finding out, is Brian Howard Clough. I was fortunate enough to receive both the book and the DVD of The Damned Utd over the festive season, and am rattling through the book at a fair lick right now. The blurb makes claims that the book is among the best ever written about sport.

I haven't finished it yet, but would struggle to contest this claim, marvellously enjoyable as I am finding it to read. It is a riveting subject, and pretty well written, though repetition is perhaps, er, over-used as a literary device. Additionally, repetition is perhaps, er, over-used as a literary device. However, there are few others I can think of which would compete, especially in the realm of fiction. I have enjoyed various biographies and autobiographies (Maradonna's stands out particularly) and many good books ON football, but this is right up there with fictional/historical sports writing. I can only hope that the movie matches it and is an improvement on Goal! although that would not be difficult. Middlesbrough??!! I ask you. That there is a Goal! 2 is something of a surprise.

Best wishes to all for the New Year, though I will return before the end of 09.

Cross Country

A recent trip to Oswestry reminded me of school days, sad to say. Especially walking past the aptly named Muddy Lane. The memories were almost as painful as those of my week at work, but not quite.

In those glory days of Brian Clough and Giant Haystacks (I know full well that Ken Loach and Barry Hines have done a far better job than I could ever do, so I won't labour the point. Although I don't recall any references to cuckoo spit in any of these rightly lauded works) 'improving' sports were considered to involve standing in sub zero temperatures with - let's say - inadequate clothing for a couple of hours; so I must be much improved from where I was when I was 11, although I remain unconvinced.

But, Muddy Lane set me to thinking. These days of health & safety (gone mad!) culture would surely not allow what we went through? In a similar vein to those hilarious viral pics of people in India carrying six hundred bales of cotton on a moped, or dozy Mexicans plonking a ladder on top of a plank balanced on a barrel (you get the picture, I hope) I'm convinced that we would look back on our ignorant ancestors and snigger mercilessly.

You may well say that I am no Gebreselassie. You might even say that I finally struggled over the finish line some 2o minutes after everyone else (a wrong turn at Penylan Lane proved fatal, if you must know, but it did mean that I arrived in the showers just in time for the Griffith Moment...) and tried to pretend that I suffered from asthma. But that would be entirely missing the point. I was wearing a pair of plimsolls which, until fairly recently, could be obtained from Wollys for about £2.50. This seems to be grounds enough for a lawsuit if ever I saw one.

Up and down

Let's say nothing about Sunday's game. Other than GET HUGHES THE FUCK OUT! NOW!!!1 Whatever the hell was going on when he was appointed, I'll never know, and I can't stomach Mark Bright's smugness about City much longer.

But I won't go on about it. Just another weekend fucked, just another Sunday when I don't want to watch MOTD2 and just another Monday when I don't want to buy the Gruaniad for a lengthy perusal of the game stats and the tables. Just another shit week of pissing rain and freezing winds and hellish days at work unleavened by the small comfort of reliving a win. Thanks a lot Sparky for saying "The form is good." The form is good? What planet are you on, boyo? Fuckwit.

Anyway, no point in ranting about the Welsh rag git and his band of overpaid underperforming so-called stars putting in another piss-poor performance, only this time at home, with two players sent off (why the hell is Gelson Fernandes in the team (or any team for that matter) BTW?) No fucking point in the slightest.

So, I will move on. My observation for today is on the ovine nature of the human race. Yesterday, I went for my usual Sunday swim at Cally Pool. The pool is divided into slow, medium and fast lanes (For the record, I always stick to the middle lane, being neither too fast nor too slow) with the latter usually taken over for swimming lessons on Sunday mornings. Yesterday, for some reason, the fast lane was open for the dolphins among us until quite late, when one of the attendants came over and set out the 'Lane Closed - Lessons In Progress' sign. At the same time, he moved the directional notice in front of the other two lanes, so that the flow of swimming was now to be clockwise instead of anti-clockwise. I was halfway down the lane when this happened and could see those ahead of me suddenly bunching together at the wall. As I approached, I could hear some murmurings and was amazed when I finally approached the end that everyone had decided we must reverse our direction and follow the exhortation on the holy sign. There was no good reason to do this, but everyone did. Christ knows why.

Floored

Well, it never looked likely that Ricky Hatton would beat Pretty Boy, but the hype has been so massive and the support so impressive that many people believed that it just might have been. But it wasn't.

I am a fan of boxing, despite the fact that I think it's very dangerous, and really I know it to be morally wrong. When I watch a good boxing match though, I forget all about that and really get into the visceral, man against man - against nature itself - stuff. I didn't stay up or get up early to catch the fight. I wouldn't have considered paying £15 for it, even if it had been on at a reasonable hour of the day or night. From what I've read this morning, it was a treat for boxing fans, a 'masterclass' by Floyd Mayweather; ten rounds of holding and breaking. There are some great shots of Hatton starfished in the red corner in the papers today.

When all's said and done, it just wasn't to be. Which kind of sums up Ricky's football team, doesn't it? Despite an almost total lack of attacking options (Vassell preferred up front to Samaras says it all really) and Elano continuing to sit out the worst of the English winter, it still took some serious luck and cheating for Spurs to beat us yesterday, from what I can gather of last night's MOTD2 coverage and the Grauniad write-up. How anyone, let alone a supposedly professional ref, could have let the Chimbonda goal stand, is beyond me. As is Sven's zen-like attitude at the moment. Cool is not the word for it, and there is something distasteful about cracking Theo Walcott jokes like some prodigal David Blunkett.

If I hadn't have been otherwise engaged, I would have been at the Lane yesterday, sitting in the Spurs end. Thank god for that other engagement. We had 2 shots on target the whole game, and I fear...



It's gonna be lonely this Christmas
Lonely and cold
It's gonna be lonely this Christmas
Without you to hold
It'll be cold, so cold...

Without you.