Mixing it up

Just like Canned Heat, we're back on the road again today and down in Sunny Bath, sampling both the ancient delights and the local pasties, which are often one and the same thing down in these parts.

We begin with F1 and with pre-season now in full swing, mad bad news from the world of Bernie with the revelation that this year's drivers' championship will be decided by the number of wins, rather than the number of points scored. Nice in theory, shit in practice and you can't help thinking it's designed specifically for the edification of Ferrari once more, because they didn't win last year. Aw diddums. Surely F1 driving is about consistency over a season and points are the best way to decide this? We could've accepted 12 points for a win, but this way it could be all over by the British GP....

Football now and Phlegm and the world of phlegm men, did that nice young Spanish lad Cesc really flop a lugey at Hull's assistant manager Brian Horton. Predictably Le Professor saw nothing, but who does Fabregas think he is: El-Hadj Diouf?

And finally... could everyone just leave West Ham alone please? Up to 20 Sheffield United players, plus ex-manager Neil Warnock are suing the Hammers over the Carlos Tevez affair.

We say: back off and get in line - we were there first. Our writs courtesy of Messrs. Sue, Nabbit and Fukov are already in. Not sure what we'll do them for yet, but by the time it gets to court we'll have thought of a damn good reason don't you worry.

Is it Wayne you’re looking for?

Yeah we know, we know, we know, updates recently have been as irregular as Jade Goody’s heartbeat, it’s this new work shit, keeps us far too busy - we can’t recommend it you know.

Still, we couldn’t pass up a chance to update this particular lunchtime after a particularly compelling insight into life chez Rooney, with the spud faced nipper apparently currently spending most of his spare time serenading wife Coleen with a barrage of Lionel Richie songs.

We are occasionally forced to endure (through the comforting medium of an especially large G&T) Coleen’s Real Women by Mrs Spurt and we’ve always wondered about that title. Who are the ‘fake women’ that this show is meant to be the antidote to? Don’t they have the requisite real parts or something?

Ahem anyway here’s some suggestions for more Richie Karaoke classic’s for the Spudster as he guides Coleen's hands around a large King Edward lovingly peeled to resemble his noggin.

Hello (is it goals you’re looking for?)

All Night Long (OAPs only)

Dancing on Defender’s ankles bones

Say you, Say Me, (say ‘I hate Liverpool FC’)


Oh 200th post btw, get us!

Turning the other cheek

He’s just the manager who keeps on giving, offering more value per pound that Sainsbury’s Basics range (cheques in the post please).

Still, no magic tunnels for Jose Felix Mourinho last night (other than the one he dug for himself) following a footballing lesson from Manchester United which sent the Serie A leaders tumbling headlong – like Satan from heaven to go all Miltonian for a second – out of the Champions League.

So how did Jose react to one of his rare defeats against Sir Alex? Was it a rueful acknowledgement over a vintage bottle of red? Did he stare moodily for hours into the middle distance until he saw something he liked (ie. himself).

Nope instead he (allegedly) lamped a United fan who had the effrontery to shout ‘Going home, going home, going home!’ (which curiously is precisely what he was doing).

What wit, what repartee, truly the reaction of a renaissance man.

Cricket Reborn

A succession of slow, tedious pitches has been slowly throttling all the life and interest out of the current West Indies versus England Test series and as we were forced to remark over cigars, “Oh another century, how tedious, Do pass the bucket of rum punch.”

Nevertheless we’ve been vaguely following the massive run feast where batting averages have been as engorged as a Porn star’s work apparatus, but also reflecting in tranquillity on the wider implications of last week’s attack.

And it’s a still resolute but infinitely sadder cricketing world we now find ourselves in.

The atmosphere and relationship between players and supporters has probably changed forever. Just a decade ago we were able to mingle freely on the outfield and swap a post-game beer with the Windies in the 99 World Cup. Difficult to see that happening again.

While the security was a pint of shite, it’s Pakistani cricket lovers who are going to really suffer from the loony actions of a bunch of fanatical cowards who attacked an unarmed coach with rocket launchers – and couldn’t even hit it.

Way to go dickheads, that really proved a point.

Clearly cricket must go on and while it’s not often we get worked up or angry about the multitudinous iniquities of this sad world, this really pissed us off.

Reflect on this arseholes: If god exists, he’s most certainly a cricketer and we really hope he fucks you up for spoiling one of the few pure, simple, unadulterated pleasures left in life for the rest of us.

An eternity in purgatory facing a legion of departed through eternally angry fast bowlers armed only with stick of celery to defend yourselves should just about suffice.

Cricket attacked...

No gags today, just a solemn, grateful thanks that no cricketer was killed in this morning’s attack on the Sri Lankan team bus in Lahore. Scant consolation we suspect for the families of the five policemen who were protecting them.

Naively perhaps, we’d always believed that cricket was somehow sacrosanct and that no terrorist organisation, however desperate or loony, would deliberately target the greatest game and its players.

It’s especially shocking that this has happened in Asia, where cricket is almost revered as a religion itself.

Seems there is no line that human depravity will not cross.

The Quintuple

So the quintuple’s on and by that we don’t mean our usual Monday morning vodka, JD, Drambuie, crème de menthe and advocat chaser, but of course Man United’s potential five trophy clean sweep following yesterday’s League Cup win.

‘Nuff props to Ben Foster for the penalty saves, but Hornets fans have long known all about the excellent young gloveman for ages and we reckon Senor Fabio could do a lot worse than chuck him into the starting line-up right now.

Yet amid the Red Devils triumph emerges a story that is just plainly wrong on so many levels, namely They Call Him Rio and fiancée Rebecca Ellison’s plan to have a barn owl swoop down the aisle and deliver their rings when they get married next August.

Now having read that back we had to pinch ourselves, a) to make sure we’re not still drunk and b) just because seriously WTF?!

It raises so may questions: Where do you get such highly trained Strigiformes outside of a JK Rowling novel in the first place and surely, if such creatures do exist, wouldn’t they be better employed battling Al Quaida rather than adorning the ‘natural successor to Bobby Moore’s’ impending nuptials.

The mind truly, truly, truly boggles.

Tomorrow: John Terry, my best man the velociraptor.