The President Speaks

"Osama Bin Laden can run, but he can't hide. Ah truly believe that we're closing in on him. If he thinks he can outwit America then he's wrong".

"Now, please give a big Washington welcome to Mr Cat Stevens".

Sorry, but I cannot resist this.....

Benedict - "And is Mr Prescott a religious man?" Cherie - "Oh, dear me, yes - he's in the Temple every chance he gets".

The Malaysian Equivalent of the West Highland Way

Aw, the poor wee Wayne

Terrible news that Mickey Rooney might not be fit for the World Cup. You'd have to have a heart of stone not to laugh yourself sick.

The Absolute Game Revisited - Part 26

IT'S ONLY A NAME One of Michael Palin's "Ripping Yarns" concerns itself with the fortunes of a pre-war Yorkshire League team, Barnstoneworth United. It features a running gag revolving round the unlikely surnames of stalwart players in the nether regions of English football. Regrettably I cannot remember verbatim what Palin's teams names were, but they were along the lines: OLLERSHAW, KIPTON and HOPSCOUGH, CHESLEYDALE, WHADDOCK and TRUMPER, HACKETT, SPANSLEY, FLANSLOCK, WHUMLEY and FENSDYKE (this is the first of a number of team lists in this article. It will make it more realistic if you can adopt a phony David Francey-type accent when reading them). St John the Baptie Being blessed with a surname which was invented by a Sunday Post cartoonist in 1948, I reckon I'm fairly well qualified to take the piss out of other unusual monickers. Palin's programme sent me scurrying for "The Wee Red Book" to find as many chuckle-worthy names as possible among the ranks of the heroic lads who've worn the dark blue of Scotland. One squad which can be assembled from among the internationalists to stir the hearts of all die-hard Caledonians is (remember your David Francey voice) - BOGAN, CRAPNELL and CRUM, NIBLOE, RAISBECK and ORROCK, FAIRFOULL, NUTLEY, HADDOCK, McSPADYEN and NELLIES. I Fought D Law and D Law Won The variety of names of Scottish internationalists positively lends itself to some fantastic combinations. You could have a back four of COOK, HERD, BELL, RING, supported by a midfield trio of FORREST, WOOD, BURNS. Their front three would be MENNIE, ROBB and STEEL (all poachers presumably). In a 4-2-4 system REID and WRIGHT would form an unusually literate partnership in the middle. A peculiarity which emerges from the internationalists names is that few played for the teams which their surnames might indicate. Preston played for Airdrie, Kilmarnock played for Motherwell and Morton turned out for Rangers. A squad of Hamiltons represented Scotland but none of them ever kicked a ball on behalf of the Accies. Neither Govan nor Mason played for the 'Gers. Despite their names, WALES, WELSH, BRAZIL, FRENCH and JORDAN all donned the blue and white of Scotland, though this is counter-balanced by 6 SCOTTS who represented the country which they were named after. Still, we should worry. Ricardo Villa didn't have the decency to play for the Birmingham team that named itself after him. Only two QUINS have appeared for Scotland where you might reasonably expect that five would have done so. Despite the number of dodgy penalties which come their way only two DIVERS have played for Celtic and Scotland. However a Celtic Scarff has appeared for the national team. Regrettably Tait and Lyall didn't play in the same Scottish side (how sweet that would have been - groan!) However, the Spurs pair of White and MacKay were the most truly representative duo ever to play together for Scotland. The world of literature is well represented in Scotland line-ups by Yeats, Burns, and Thackery to say nothing of the generic Penman. Ross Jack in the Box Several years before Gordon Arthur appeared in the Raith Rovers goal, Alfie Conn and Johnny Doyle were colleagues in the Celtic team. Hoops fans looked forward to the day, which unfortunately never dawned, when their line-up included ARTHUR, CONN and DOYLE. The squad would have been neatly rounded off by drafting in Jim Holmes and John Watson. Name That Tube Leaving aside Scots players, as usual these funny foreigners provide loadsa laughs, particularly to the brainless balloons of the football media. When RUUD GULLIT first came to prominence, his name, his dreadlocks and his unconventional appearance caused some dubiety as to his country of origin. This was clarified by the dynamic Radio Clyde duo of "Chick" Young and Derek Johnstone during the following exchange: CHICK -"I think he's a Moluccan" (Glasgow Rhyming Slang) DEREK -"A Moluccan what?" When Johann Cruyff was the world's top player, Joe Mercer still couldn't get to grips with his name and continually referred to him as CRUFT, summoning up images of a dog show (but a pedigree dog show). When GUNTHER NETZER achieved God-like status following his single-handed humiliation of England at Wembley, his subsequent appearance in a UEFA tie against Aberdeen sent Archie McPherson into such ecstasy that he persistently referred to him as "NESTER" (this man's so brilliant he can fly!) Van Basten, Van Morrison and Van Hire During the '74 World Cup Poland had among its array of talent a player by the name of CASPERCZAK. We all know that these Polish names are so dammed difficult but the nearest approximation by the Telly-men to a correct pronunciation was the slightly unflattering "Gasper Jack". When it came to CASPERCZAK's colleague CMIKIEWICZ, the commentator usually contented himself by referring to "the big Pole". Of goalkeepers BATS and PFAFF we'll say nothing other than that Jimmy Greaves doubtless regrets that neither play for Scotland. In 1978 Scotland played a friendly against Argentina who boasted a player in their side by the name of KILLER. In that game Arthur Montford demonstrated the truism that Scottish men are unable to objectively commentate on a Scottish game when he was moved to remark, after an innocuous challenge, "Killer by name, Killer by nature". Instant Kozma's Gonna Get You I cannot resist filling up a bit of space with a famous true (?) story which possibly one or two of you haven't heard before. It seems that David Francey (for radio) and Archie McPherson (for TV) were both covering a Scotland international away in Hungary. Francey had the wit to realise that he wouldn't be able to tell one Hungarian from another and before the game he asked Archie to let him know the name of the goal scorer in the event of the Hungarians getting a goal. In due course Hungary scored. In the ensuing mayhem and recriminations Francey frantically enquired of Archie what the name of the offending Hungarian was. "Fucked if I know" came the irritated reply. "Yes, it's that man FUCTIVANO" ranted Francey to the startled listeners. Coisty, Woodsy, Burnsy, Granty,Durranty, Hoddley and Waddley Footballers nicknames are a whole different ball-game (to coin a cliche). I don't know enough about this fascinating area to say much about it, but perhaps some other reader can give us the complete low-down. My own favourite nick-name relates to Albert Craig, now treading the boards at Dens Park. When Albert was strutting his stuff for Dumbarton some of the Sons fans occasionally doubted his commitment to the cause. One Saturday as Albert appeared to shirk a tackle a foghorn voice boomed out from the terracing, "ALBERT CRAIG - (PAUSE) - WENDY CRAIG MAIR LIKE". Henceforth, Albert was known as "Wendy" to those like myself who were fortunate enough to be present at the birth of the nick-name. Another Sons player whose given name I can't now remember was slightly overweight and was known to the terracing Tams as "BAT'. It required some lateral thinking to appreciate that this was "BAT" as in "BAT FASTARD". The modem trend of adding a Y onto the players surname to provide an imaginative nick-name is all very well but I for one wouldn't fancy being in the same team as Jim Bett. Happiness is a Bryan Gunn It's back to the Wee Red Book for one final (pathetically forced) aggregation of names. Those born before 1960 may nearly recognise a fab foursome of LENNOX, McCARTNEY, HARRIS and STARK. You know my name (look up the number).

Football Results

Cherie - "Papa, have you heard that Hearts beat Celtic 3-0?" Benedict - "Yes, fantastic news, isn't it? 'Mon the Hoops"

Dope Meets Pope

Cherie - "Do you think Tony lied about Iraq?" Benedict - "Is the Pope a Catholic?"

The Global Village Idiot

Defence Secretary seeks Defence Solicitor

"You know, man, I think Electric Ladyland is eh, hah-hah-hah, eh you know eh definitely Hendrix's best album, man, heh-heh-heh....you know, the guitar on eh, hoh-hoh-hoh .....what was I talking about again?"

Forgive Me Father For I Have Rinsed and Blow-Dried

Benedict - "£7700 ? You have been seriously ripped off my child"

Newsflash from the BBC - another Minister in soapy bubble

Cannabis found at John Reid home A "minuscule" (sic) quantity of cannabis resin has been found at the Scottish home of Defence Secretary John Reid. Mr Reid said the cannabis - worth less than £1 - was found in a guest room and police had told him it could have been there for years. "I have no idea where it came from, or when," the defence secretary said.

Spookily, these are the very words uttered by 98% of persons who are found in possession of controlled drugs (or stolen property, or incriminating evidence) - the only difference in this case is that, hah-hah, the police seem to believe it.

Out Of His Tree

Today's alarming news :- Legendary Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards has been airlifted to hospital in New Zealand with a serious head-injury. The 62-year-old star injured himself after he slipped and fell as he and bandmate Ron Wood attempted to climb a palm tree in Fiji, where he was enjoying a break from the Stones’ current world tour. Richards was flown from the Wakaya Club to the Suva Private Hospital on Thursday, where he was treated for his injuries. According to local press reports, Richards was then transferred to Auckland's Ascot Hospital, where his wife Patti Hansen remains by his bedside. In some ways it is hard not to laugh - let us hope it is not serious - it's quite hard to visualise Keef attempting to climb a tree, and not at all difficult to imagine him falling on his arse. This is the kind of story which, when not involving rock stars, usually ends "he was arrested on suspicion of possession of controlled drugs".

I ACCEPT FULL RESPONSIBILITY .......

.......but none of it is my fault

Today I Have Been Mostly Listening To

Money Jungle - Duke Ellington, Charles Mingus, Max Roach

£7700 well spent

Neil Young's New Album - Living With War

Click on the above link to go to Neil's own blog and listen to his new album in its entirety - it's back to good old-fashioned protest songs and electric guitar rock - featuring one song called 'Let's Impeach the President' and another which has Dubya's voice cut into the song talking his usual crap. I take it that the title of the album refers to the fact that we're all living with the war - and Neil doesn't like it. On first listen, it sounds pretty nifty to me - but then you know that I would say that anyway.

The Things They Say

Prezza at Labour Conference 1996 "They are up to their necks in sleaze. The best slogan he could think up for their conference next week is Life's better under the Tories. Sounds to me like one of Steven Norris's chat up lines. Can you believe that this lot is in charge? Not for long, eh? Then after 17 years of this Tory government, they have the audacity to talk about morality. Did you hear John Major on the Today programme? - calling for ethics to come back into the political debate? I'm told some Tory MPs think ethics is a county near Middlesex. It's a bit hard to take: John Major - ethics man. The Tories have redefined unemployment they have redefined poverty. Now they want to redefine morality. For too many Tories, morality means not getting caught.Morality is measured in more than just money. It's about right and wrong. We are a party of principle. We will earn the trust of the British people. We've had enough lies. Enough sleaze."

Don't Need No Ticket, Just Get On Board

My Favourite Books

Number 2 - War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy This IS the greatest book I've ever read. It is one of those books which is often voted to the top or near the top of 'best book' lists by people who've never read it. These lists have no validity for that reason. For example, almost everyone agrees that Shakespeare is the greatest English writer, though relatively speaking, hardly anyone has read any of the plays. In the case of 'War and Peace' anyone who has 'actually' as opposed to 'theoretically' read it will know what a magnificent work it is. It is proverbially a 'big' book and many people say it is far too long to be enjoyable. On the other hand, I agree with George Orwell who wrote, "....my sole quarrel with this book was that it did not go on long enough. It seemed to me that Nicholas and Natasha Rostov, Pierre Bezukhov, Denisov and all the rest of them, were people about whom one would gladly go on reading for ever." The edition featured here is the Pan books one published in 1972 to tie in with the BBC's quite magnificent serialisation, which incidentally drew from a young Anthony Hopkins his greatest ever performance as Pierre Bezukhov - totally eclipsing all the lightweight bilge (Silence of the Lambs etc) for which he later received so much acclaim. The BBC serial also featured a quite stunning performance from the late Scottish actress, Morag Hood, as a bewitching Natasha. I bought the book for 75p in 1972 when I was a first year university student. I have read it about ten times since - it has never failed to entertain and delight. It is, however, as Orwell said, far far too short.

Hail to the Who?

The Absolute Game Revisited - Part 25

CONFESSIONS OF A MINCE PIE EATER (II) THE NIGHTMARE CONTINUES As the nation girds its loins for the inevitable fiasco awaiting us in sunny Italy this is possibly an opportune moment to remind ourselves that football is merely an entertainment and is not a metaphor for anything else, least of all our overall worth as a nation (gulp!). Yes, you've guessed it - this is merely an unconvincing introduction to another round of unconnected, "you had to be there to see the funny side" anecdotes about what is really important, namely, the entertainment to be derived from the game. Let's begin with the World Cup itself. One consequence for us of failing to put football into its proper perspective is that the events in Argentina '78 traumatised us to a completely unreasonable degree. I recollect watching a bizarre TV phone-in featuring Jock Stein in which a bewildered fan rang in to speak to Jock in the mind-numbing aftermath of Willie Johnston's premature repatriation. Why, he wanted to know, was "Bud" being sent home. Big Jock patiently attempted to explain that, inconvenient as it might be, performance-enhancing drugs were frowned on by the world football authorities. The bemused caller could not apparently get to grips with this concept and repeatedly asserted "But he's a good wee winger", as though if only that could be explained to FIFA, they would relent, "Bud" would be back in the team, and the Jules Rimet trophy would soon be winging its way to Glasgow. Although you can't imagine a Canadian phoning in to say of Ben Johnson "But he's a good wee sprinter" or a Welshman ringing in with "But he's a good wee weight-lifter", its easy to appreciate the emotional turmoil which prompted the comment about Willie Johnston. What the caller was really wishing to express was "We were cheating and we still got fucked by Peru. What the fuck's happening?". No amount of long after the event jokes about "Bud" being sponsored by Boots the Chemist can disguise the humiliation. So much for drugs. Lets turn to drink (yes let's!). Several years ago, BBC Scotland decided it would be a novel idea to have their Christmas Sports Review of the Year conducted in the form of an informal live conversation between Archie "Potato-heid" McPherson and Hugh McIlvanney. The seasonal informality extended to them sharing what was apparently a genuine bottle of the national drink, and during the programme the conversation naturally became less-focussed and more, er, slurred. At one point Archie switched on his serious voice and asked Hugh what his hopes for the New Year were. McIlvanney commenced a long semi-coherent ramble which concluded with the wish that Scots football fans, would, when abroad, discontinue their then current practices of "rampaging about, pillaging, robbing and raping old women". Fuelled by too much of the hard stuff and clearly entranced by the last of these possibilities, "Potato-heid" quipped "Don't knock it till you've tried it'. This inevitably led to the jamming of the BBC switchboard and also to the end of alcohol-based cosy wee chit-chats about football, though not, unfortunately to the end of Archie McPherson who still afflicts us with informative comments like "That's a great ball, nobody there" or "Its a lovely pass, no". Archie also seems to be obsessed with the number of players who take their eye off the ball at the crucial moment. If they're not looking at the ball, I wonder what they are looking at. Some old women in the crowd, maybe. That's drugs and drink covered. How about some rock'n'roll? A previous article in TAG drew attention to the musical delights on offer at East Stirling's ground. There seems to be a true vinyl junkie at the helm in the Firs Park music box. I've only been there a handful of times, but I've already heard most of Television's "Marquee Moon", a selection of Lee Perry's weird reggae and some unidentifiable but tasty blues. Regrettably even this doesn't seem enough to draw the crowds. The attendance at East Stirling's home games is almost always quoted in the press as being 150. On some of the occasions I've been there I can only presume that a significant proportion of that number were inside the music-hut grooving to the hip sounds, as they certainly were not to be seen watching the game with the other 60 of us. I was there on the opening day of this season for the game against East Fife. There may well have been 150 spectators there that day. At half-time I overheard a spectator remarking to his friend "Here comes Securicor with the takings". I looked along the deserted terracing to see a young lad, Walkman clamped to his ears, meandering along carrying a Smiths crisps box. Closer enquiry revealed that this was indeed the "gate receipts". These appeared to consist of a few pound notes, a quantity of Bulgarian coinage and half a dozen Guinness labels. Well, okay, that last sentence is a lie, but one wonders just how clubs like East Stirling survive. I hope that they continue to do so, if only for the music. East Stirling can be contrasted with Clydebank. I haven't had the pleasure of attending at Kilbowie Park for some time but certainly when I was a regular attender a few seasons ago I discovered that wise men delayed entering the ground until kick -off time arrived to avoid the horrors of the P A system. The loudspeaker was quite diabolical with its switch apparently broken at the top volume marker. At 2.30 pm of a Saturday afternoon the few hundred punters who were already through the gates would have their peace and quiet rudely interrupted as this monster roared into action spewing out the latest chart-topper at incredible volume. All that the hapless Bankie fans could do was cover their bleeding ears and shout in unison "Shut that fucking racket off”. Their protests never did any good, of course, as nobody could hear a bloody thing above the din of disco-beat. The club seemed to have a sponsorship deal with a local record shop contractually binding them to play a certain number of records per Saturday whether or not this conflicted with the main entertainment. It was not unusual for the play to be raging on accompanied by the rhythmic pulsing of Michael Jackson's latest smash. Were it not so tragic, it would have been amusing to see the older Bankie fans wincing in agony as crashing power-chords bisected their ears. What made it worse was that the music was uniformly crap. (unlike the football of course -Ed) Drugs, drink, rock'n'roll. What's left? Ah yes, sex. I can't think of any printable links between football and sex, so you'll have to make do with Chris Waddle. Prior to his multi-million pound transfer to wherever it is he's gone, some extravagant claims were made on behalf of the footballing skills of Chris (Chrissy?). Among the more absurd was for some fawning media types to compare him to the legendary Tom Finney. It was left to Tommy Docherty to put this babbling into its proper perspective with his customary panache. The Doc agreed that Waddle and Finney were on a par with each other, adding by way of explanation, 'Mind you, Tom's over 70 now'. We've covered the major vices. Let's now get into some real minority weirdness. Supporting Dumbarton will do for a start. A peculiarity at rain-soaked Boghead is that the layout of the place is such that it's possible to drive your car into the ground and watch the game from the comfort of your driving-seat. Drive-in movies got nothing on this, as our American cousins might say. For some reason, many of the local juveniles, who have not yet aspired to motor-cars, come into the game on their bicycles. When the action on the field is less than entrancing they while away the time by holding impromptu cycle-racing a la Death-Race 2000, round the terracing. You might think its pretty hellish having someone piss in your pocket at a big game, but unless you been to Boghead I bet you've never been knocked down by a bike while straining to see an inswinging comer. One of these wacky racers recently managed to get himself and his bike on to the running track at the side of the pitch just as the second half started. As he cycled round the perimeter to join his pals on the other side of the field the ball was knocked out of play just in front of him. He obligingly dismounted and retrieved the ball. One of the old-timers near me looked up momentarily from his match programme and said disbelievingly, "Christ, hiv the ball-boys got bikes noo?". That reminds me of an occasion when I was unfortunate enough to attempt to return a ball intoplay at a Linlithgow Rose junior match. It was just after the burgeoning Ibrox empire had taken over a basketball team. The ball flew into the tiny covered enclosure and came to rest at my feet. I picked it up and took careful aim hoping to avoid hitting the heads of the OAPs near the front. Regrettably, the roof of the enclosure was sufficiently low to ensure that the ball struck an overhanging stanchion and flew straight back at me. Slightly flustered, I tried again with precisely the same result. I could hear various hurtful remarks such as “Sign that c**t up for the Rangers basketball team" and "Never mind the ba’ let’s get on wi' the game". When I finally managed at the third attempt to return the ball to play via the bald head of a pensioner, I resolved in future to feign illness if the ball ever came near me again. One amusing side-line for most Scottish football fans is the enjoyment of not supporting Rangers. From time to time during the season a peculiar ritual takes place at about 3.50 pm of a Saturday afternoon. The players of both sides have left the field. The spectators are quaffing their watery Bovril. The substitutes of both teams are busy kicking balls several yards over the crossbars. Suddenly, sporadic whooping breaks out from small groups each with a trannie-man at the centre. The joyful cry spreads out from these centres till the whole crowd is buzzing. The public address system crackles into life. The announcer, who always sounds as if he's in the act of simultaneously eating a copy of the match programme while he delivers his intimation, confirms the glad tidings. The entire mass of supporters spontaneously erupts in throaty exultation. From Aberdeen to Berwick and all points in between the scene is the same. On sparsely populated lower division terracings there's even room for celebratory dancing and bicycle wheelies. The cause of this glee? Rangers are getting beat. This is the cue for community singing from Links Park to Palmerston. Regrettably, opportunities for this sort of activity have become less common in the last three or four seasons. Pre-Souness, it was a weekly event, as much part of the game as Peter Grant getting booked or the referee being a complete bastard. If your team is not doing too well and the impressive/oppressive/repressive success of Rangers is getting you down, take a longer look at some of the mini-dramas being enacted around about you. There's a lot more to football than 22 men kicking a bag of wind round a field. Who am I trying to kid? If Dumbarton don't get promoted and Scotland fail to beat Costa Rica I'll be the first to get the gas oven cranked up. First published in TAG 17 - March 1990

Cookery Corner

Democracy Player

I have just downloaded an internet TV player which claims to combine a video player with BitTorrent and RSS feeds to make, in effect, an internet TV player where you choose what you watch from a wide range of providers. I don't know how well this works but it looks intriguing. Check it out at http://www.getdemocracy.com/downloads/

My Favourite Books

Number 1 – Three Men In A Boat – Jerome K. Jerome In Wilkie Collins’ book ‘The Moonstone’ one of the characters is forever reading ‘Robinson Crusoe’ as a source of entertainment, enlightenment, amusement, consolation and revelation. Jerome’s book has played that role for me ever since I first opened it at the age of about 13. I was instantly captivated, and found myself howling with laughter on the very first page as I read of the author’s day in the British Museum discovering from a medical text-book that he was at death’s door – “I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into – some fearful devastating scourge, I know – and, before I had glanced half down the list of ‘premonitory symptoms’, it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it. I sat for a while frozen with horror; and then in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever- read the symptoms- discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it – wondered what else I had got; turned up St Vitus’s Dance – found, as I expected, that I had that too – began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically – read up ague, and learned that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright’s disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera, I had with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid’s knee”. The book, published in 1889, does what it says on the tin, and features the adventures of three buffers (and their small dog) having a boating holiday on the Thames. The writing is drily sarcastic and ironic (my favourite style) and there are numerous set piece anecdotes which, as a teenager, I found howlingly funny. Those who have read and enjoyed this book will already be smiling at the recollection of Uncle Podger hanging a picture (“There, now the nail’s gone!”), travelling on a train with strong cheese (“Very close in here”), the 19th century behaviour of railways staff (“(the driver said) if he wasn’t the 11.5 for Kingston, he was pretty confident he was the 9.32 for Virginia Water, or the 10am express for the Isle of Wight, or somewhere in that direction….”) and other such episodes. Of course, the most famous scene features Harris in the Hampton Court Maze (“…it was so simple that it seemed foolish- hardly worth the twopence charged for admission…..it’s absurd to call it a maze. You keep on taking the first turning to the right…..”). Of course, Harris and his large following crowd get irredeemably lost. I was very amused, nearly twenty years after I first read the book, and nearly one hundred years after it was first published, when I boated along the Thames to Hampton Court, to hear several lost people in the maze saying things like “you just keep turning right” – I was slightly less amused when I realised that one of them was me. Perhaps I’m of the last generation who find the essentially gentle humour of this book profoundly amusing. It has sustained me on many occasions over the years. I think that at one time or another I have owned about 15 copies of the book. You will see from the cover that the edition featured here is the ‘Everyman’ edition. Every ‘Everyman’ contains the inscription- Everyman, I will go with thee, And be thy guide, In thy most need to go by thy side This book has fulfilled that promise for me.

UEFA CUP (Naw, you f**k up)

Fantastic stuff from Middlesborough tonight. I'll be right behind them in the final.

Do You Want Black Pudding Instead?

Uncle Meat speaks from beyond the grave

Here's a strange one - In 1985, the Grand Mother himself, Frank Zappa, wrote to President Reagan protesting about the continuing efforts of a group called PMRC (Parental Music Resource Centre) to censor rock records - it's a lengthy letter, the merest hint of which is contained below - to read the whole fascinating epistle - click on the heading above

Homage to Catalonia

One of the travelling members of this blog was in Barcelona recently and waggishly sent me this postcard to "remind you of the good times". I post it here merely to mark Barca's progress to the Final, where I'd be delighted to see Henrik knock in a couple of goals

Right First Time

Bummer

However bad New Labour are - and they are baaaaaad, please let no-one make the mistake of voting for the Tories - I was astonished just the other day to see John Selwyn Gummer resurrected as a Tory spokesman for something or other, popping up on some TV programme, and talking his own unique brand of utter sh*te. Here's a reminder of Bummer in 1990 - force-feeding a McDonald's burger to his grand-daughter to demonstrate that despite mad cow disease, British beef was perfectly safe - of course, within 2 years sufficient information had emerged that people (including Bummer) would have fed plutonium to their children rather than a British beef-burger

Adult Educashun News

Prezza Gets His Diary Organised

It's been a very cracking day for Ministerial sleaze-buckets getting a kicking : The Home Secretary, Charles Clarke, admits to having forgotten to deport approx 1000 serious foreign criminals at the end of their prison sentences - he 'accepts responsibility' but Tony says he doesn't have to resign because it's not his fault.This is a trick which New Labour have perfected - the sentence which reads "I accept full responsibility but none of this mess was my fault so I'm not to blame". Meanwhile, Patricia Hewitt is booed to the echo by the Nursing unions because of the mess of the NHS, but fortunately, although Patricia is the Secretary Of State for Health and accepts full responsibility, none of it is her fault. But, topping them all, is the almost unbelievable story of 67 year old J. Prescott having an affair with a 43 year old secretary - the story appears below - Prezza was entirely responsible but I'm sure we'll find that none of it was his fault :- Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott has confessed to having an affair with one of his secretaries, according to reports. Mr Prescott, 67, and Tracey Temple, 43, started meeting in secret at his Whitehall flat after a two-year fling began at an office party, the Daily Mirror claims. Mr Prescott told the newspaper: "I did have a relationship with her which I regret. It ended some time ago. I have discussed this fully with my wife Pauline, who is devastated by the news. I would be grateful if Pauline and I can now get on with our lives together." The pair began working together when Ms Temple was appointed as Mr Prescott's Assistant Private Secretary, with special responsibility to organise his diary. I simply love the phrase 'organise his diary'. It has all the appearance of an unsubtle euphemism, as in "I organised his diary, and then ten minutes later I organised it again. One weekend last summer I organised it, oooh at least a dozen times or more........." Perhaps the most amusing aspect of the whole thing is the quote attributed to the secretary's live-in partner, viz Mr Williams told the Mirror: "I feel sick. I can't believe the woman I wanted to marry has slept with John Prescott......" You can sort of understand what he means.

From the Associated Press

Naked Man Rescued From Chimney, Charged HAYWARD, Calif. -- Police said they arrested a man who spent five hours naked and stuck in the chimney of his stepmother's California home. Police said Michael Urbano locked himself out of the house early Saturday morning and decided to get in on a cable TV wire through the chimney. He told police he thought taking off his clothes would help ease his way down the chimney. But the cable wire broke and Urbano fell, getting stuck about three-quarters of the way down. He was freed when a firefighter pushed him up to safety. Urbano was arrested on suspicion of being under the influence of drugs.

Royal News

No Carping

How (and When) Old Labour Worshipped God

Up The Arse

Well, Arsenal are in the European Cup Final, and congratulations to them. I don't want to be churlish (voice offstage 'yes you do'), but 1) they richly didn't deserve it - any objective observer would reckon Rangers performance in the same stadium 7 weeks ago was far superior 2) after Arsene's tantrum in the Spurs game on Saturday ("they didn't put the ball out of play when two of my players collided with each other - it's no' fair") tonight we had the perfectly ludicrous sight of the ball being knocked out of play IN ORDER THAT AN UNINJURED PLAYER COULD PUT HIS BOOT BACK ON !!!!! 3) Clive Tiddly's commentary at the end, "Arsenal are through to the final where in all probability they will meet Barcelona - two sides dedicated to playing attacking football in their own distinctive way" - this after having just watched a game in which Arsenal barely crossed the half way line and were entirely dedicated to defence from beginning to end. OK, the end justifies the means but don't give us this 'beautiful game' pish. Much more in a similar vein from this knob during the summer I'm afraid. 4) I hope Barcelona (or Milan) completely gut them in Paris

The Absolute Game Revisited - Part 24

Confessions Of A Mince Pie Eater It sure is a funny old game Sainty. Let's face it, if it wasn't for the humorous antics of the motley cast of characters who act out the drama of our national game, the football itself wouldn't be nearly so attractive. You're never certain of seeing a wonderfully exciting game with thrills and spills galore, but you're usually pretty sure of getting a good laugh when you're watching football. The sources of the mirth-making entertainment are many and varied and you're never quite sure where the laughs are going to come from. To that extent, Tommy Docherty was surely right when he said that you need crystal balls to predict what's going to happen on Saturday (at some grounds you need cast-iron ones):- as perhaps the following random selection of incidents illustrates. First of all let's go back to the Doc. He himself has provided more entertainment in his off-the-field role as court jester than any of the preening million pound prima donnas who've fallen under his control from time to time (Dalglish and Best excepted, OK). Older readers may fondly recall an occasion about 15 years or so ago when Tommy found himself as a panel guest in the Scotsport studio while Celtic were engaged in the away leg of a European cup ­tie in Hungary. The match was allegedly to be broadcast live and the programme was presented by Alex 'Candid' Cameron. Shortly before kick-off an embarrassed and flustered Cameron had to admit to the viewing millions that "there are some problems with the Euro­link" (ie somebody at Cowcaddens had wired a plug up the wrong way). Consequently the usual mindless chit-chat amongst the panel was extended beyond the statutory ten minutes, with Docherty becoming even more fidgety than usual. The final straw came after about half an hour with no sign of live foot­ball. 'Candid', clutching at straws, asked Docherty, "Tommy, you've got a vast wealth of experience in these situations; if you were Jock Stein, what would you be saying to the players in the dressing room just now?" Summoning up all the experience and all the tact for which he was renowned the Doc replied "Well, Alex, I'd be telling them to get out on the park, the game's been started for 20 minutes". Time for a commercial break methinks. Talking of Jock Stein, one anecdote concerning the big man has unaccount­ably been missed in the various biographies and tributes written since his death. This was an occasion featuring a pal of mine which illustrates the brilliant repartee and natural earthiness of the great man. Big Jock was a solitary spectator at the side of a pitch in a public park watching an otherwise nondescript amateur game in progress, when my pal spotted him and approached for a bit of a chat. "How's it goin, Jock" says my pal. The big man retorted wittily "Fuck off, sonny". Ah, the camaraderie of football. In the early days of jovial Jim McLean's reign as Dundee Utd supremo, United had even more difficulties in attracting Dundonians into Tannadice than they do now. The enterprising United board came up with a number of schemes to try to get the bums onto seats. This usually took the form of some novel pre-match entertainment, ranging from women's football internationals, to sky-divers over Dundee attempting to hit the centre circle from 10,000 feet. This latter proved less successful than anticipated when one of the intrepid para­chutists came to earth on the centre spot of a deserted Dens Park, while another apparently became entangled with a television aerial somewhere east of Broughty Ferry. The most hilarious entertainment I remember at Tannadice in these far off days was one occasion when a game against Hibs was hyped up in advance by the announcement that local amateur boxing hero, Dick McTaggart, would give an exhibition at half-time. Some of the more cynical amongst us wondered how this was going to be achieved with­out a boxing ring. But wait, as the players trooped off at the interval, on rushed a squad of workmen armed with planks and bits of rope. As the crowd whistled and jeered approvingly, they set to work with a will to construct a make-shift platform where the pugilists were to perform. It seems that some of the planks didn't fit together as intended. A saw was called for. A few cuts here and there but still no joy. Some vigorous blows with hammers produced no progress. Eventually, by dint of brute force and bloody­mindedness some semblance of a boxing ring was proudly erected in the centre circle just as 22 fairly bemused players re-emerged for the second half of the main entertainment. The referee emerged to insist forcefully that the erection be dismantled forthwith. Up to that point not a glove had been thrown in anger, though for a few moments it looked like a few unofficial non-Queensberry blows might be landed, as there was earnest discussion about whether the ring was to come down. Most of the crowd would have been content for both events to continue simultaneously. The prospect of seeing Tommy Traynor dribble round, or even better, through, the boxing ring was one to savour. Unfortu­nately the referee got his way, and those few extra fans who'd turned up primarily to watch the boxing went home for an early bath. Of course, you don't have to go anywhere near a football ground to get your amusement from the game. One source of fun for West of Scotland residents was/is the Radio Clyde phone-in. For those of us who like a laugh after the game the untimely passing of the late James Sanderson was a much-lamented event. One of wee Jimmy's tech­niques was to skim through the dictionary each week to find a word with which to bamboozle the listeners on a Saturday. He'd then use the word at every possible opportunity, whether appropriately or not, confident in the knowledge that no-one would dare challenge him. Thus we'd be treated to "Celtic have scored at a very piquant moment" and "Rangers victory has added a hint of piquancy to the title race". My own personal favourite was when Jimmy confronted a caller who had some complaint to make about Graeme Souness. The conversation went something like this :­ Caller : See, eh, ma point is that, eh, Souness was never in the game against St Mirren. Wee Jimmy: Well you can't expect the Rangers player manager to be refulgent all the time, can you ? Caller : Naw, I suppose no’ Subtlety wasn't Jimmy's strong suit. When he got hold of an idea he just wouldn't let it go. On one memorable programme, reference was made to Lawrence Marlborough, then the owner of Rangers. Wee Jimmy graphically referred to Marlborough as "Mr Lawrence Marlborough, currently sunning him­self in Reno, Nevada". So pleased was he with this off-the-cuff characterisation that from that moment on he was incapable of mentioning anything to do with Rangers without referring to the sun in Reno, Nevada. Thus we'd get a caller phoning in asking whether Rangers would be signing Maradona/ Platini/Pele/John Paul II, being met with "well why don't you ask Mr Lawrence Malborough, currently sunning himself etc." Another illustration of wee Jimmy's obsessional hammering of a single theme was when the vexed question of players agents arose following one of Maurice Johnston's transfers. Jimmy was particularly condemnatory of agents. Well­ known agent about town, Bill McMurdo, phoned in to cross swords with the wee man. Having verbally gutted McMurdo, Jimmy then took every opportunity during the rest of the programme to regale us with, "I remember the great days of Billy Steel, there's a man who didn't need an agent..." and "Dennis Law was the prince of goal-scorers,all achieved without an agent" etc. By comparison, the current crop of radio men are a pretty dull lot, though John Greig and Derek John­stone still continue to make appearances in "Colemanballs", mixed metaphors being Greig's speciality (eg "fresh pair of legs up his sleeve") while big Derek begins every answer "well that's right...", whatever the question. Johnstone has now, of course, been the subject of a million penny transfer from radio to TV so that we can now watch as well as hear his strangulation of the English language. One of the media-men who occasionally talks some sense is Bob Crampsie. Crampsie has a seemingly inexhaust­ible knowledge of the minutiae and trivia of the game, and he used to (for all I know, still does) provide the answers to the question posed in the Saturday Evening Times by such as "Bluenose, Coatbridge" and "Happy Hibee, Muirhouse". Some of the queries from readers were so arcane that the suspicion was that Crampsie made them up himself to fill the page. A standard type of question would be "Please settle pub argument - who played left half for Bonnyrigg Rose when they beat Arthurlie in the 1929 Miners Fellowship Trophy quarter final replay." The answer would be "It was David Forbes, and not as many people think, his brother Peter. Hope that settles the argument." The mind boggles as to how many people have been going around for the last 60 years under the mistaken apprehension that it was Peter Forbes who wore the number 6 jersey on that famous day, only to have their illusions cruelly shattered by some smart-arse writing to Bob Crampsie after a particularly fierce set-to in the bar on a Saturday night. Back to Tannadice, though. This one's for those who are sufficiently malevolent to be amused by the suffering of others. When Andy Gray was a mere teenager (God, I'm getting old) United evolved the interesting, but unsophisticated tactic of punting high balls into the penalty area for young Andy to perform his kamikaze trick of leaping like a salmon right onto the end of the opposing goal­keeper's fist. This tactic reached a spectacular high-point one Satur­day against Hearts. United kicked off. As soon as he'd touched the ball to the inside forward, Gray took off as hard as he could for the opposition penalty area. In the meantime his colleague lofted what rugby folk would describe as a "Gary Owen" in the same direction. The ball and Andy arrived inside the 18 yard line simultaneously, where an obliging Hearts defender tripped the onrushing Gray. Only 5 seconds on the clock and the ref is pointing inexorably to the spot. Excitement indeed, but one young ruffian in front of me was reduced to a state of near apoplexy, as he was the holder of the ticket entitling him to a prize of £100 if a goal was scored in the first 30 seconds. He and his mates performed an impromptu watutsi at the thought of the beer flowing like water later that night. As Doug Smith's penalty attempt des­cribed an arc which would have done credit to a frisbee, eventually coming to rest quite close to the corner-flag, the disappointment of the crowd at the missed penalty was mitigated sub­stantially by watching the extravagant gnashing of teeth and tearing-up of the erstwhile drink-voucher. Traditionally Firhill's a place where the entertainment has very little to do with the football on display. In the 87/88 season the Jags pulled their biggest crowd of the year for the cup-tie with Celtic. One aging Thistle fan had obviously not been keeping in touch with the comings and goings at Parkhead over the previous few years. Each time Frank McAvennie approached within spitting distance of the ball this old boy would let loose with a volley of abuse, the main import of which was "McGarvey you're a bastard". Eventually, 2 uniformed officers of the law pushed their way into the crowd and had a word with him. We presumed that this was a warning to watch his language, but as Strathclyde' s finest looked on smiling benignly the old boy shouted "McAvennie you're a bastard, an' McGarvey wiz wan tae". Satisfied that things were now in order, the polis moved off to another part of the ground. A couple of years ago I was in a pub enjoying a post-match refreshment. The walls of the bar were liberally sprinkled with signs saying "NO FOOTBALL COLOURS". A large youth colourfully bedecked in Rangers scarf, Red Hand of Ulster badges etc approached the bar where a steely-eyed mine host greeted him with "are you dyslexic?" Large youth replied "naw, I've no' had a drink a' day, honest". I started with Docherty, so I'll finish with him. While he was still the supremo at Old Trafford, there was much talk in the media of proposals to subject football hooligans to corporal punishment. When the Doc was asked for his views, he succeeded at one fell swoop in inappropriately mixing up his military ranks and performing an arithmetical improbability by pronouncing "I'm in favour of capital punishment for football hooligans. This would half the problem by more than 50 per cent." Now there's an idea. To hell with women's internationals or massed pipe bands, let's have a few public executions. Make it a family game again. Why has baby-faced Moynihan not thought of this already ? You've got to laugh, Greavsie. First published in TAG 14 - August 1989

Today I Have Been Mostly Listening To

Laura Nyro - Eli and the Thirteenth Confession

New Name for Shire Horse Pub

Woof !

".....and then there was Johan Cruyff, who at 35 has added a whole new meaning to Anno Domini" - Archie McPherson

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Particularly Delicious With Ketchup

HANSARD Reports

Pet's Corner

I was going to head this up 'Dead Pet's Society' but then I thought that was in bad taste