goals of enlightenment

Friday 22nd May 2009 12:57 AM

It's been a year since I won the highly-coveted York Corinthians Sunday morning-team Golden Boot award for being the season's top scorer. When people pass me in the street they're usually unaware of the honour, unless I happen to be holding it aloft and kissing it in an act of delayed euphoria, which I've done less and less as the seasons gone on, certainly in public.

The trophy itself is a fabulous, gleaming gold and platinum-studded replica football-boot in mid-strike, tastefully mounted on a polished obsidian base, and is fifth only to a picture of Shiva, a turquoise 'dog of Fo', a Staffordshire figure of two lovers and an angel, and a Damien Shirt tin of Crude Genitals and Coriander soup, in pride of place on the high shelf above the caravan's main picture-window.

Denied a Christmas double hat-trick by the Russ Turner X1 deciding to turn up sober, I only managed to score twelve this season, well short of the nineteen scored by our very own Bulldozer-in-Lycra, the Teddy Bear Assassin, the Bull of Dringhouses, Brian, and so this Sunday at the presentations after the match, I expected to have to pass it back for redistribution to it's new deserving owner.

On Saturday night, after Match of the Day, with an involuntary shudder, I took it down from the shelf and put it in my daringly feminine, beige/brown checked sports bag in readiness for the relinquishment, and filled the fifth pride of place spot with a pot enamelled Buddha.

There is some continuity of theme here as, according to the Pali scriptures, the Lord Buddah himself was quite partial to a kick-about (fu ti). Obviously, it was baobab trees for goalposts, but the Canon states that he was an accomplished goalkeeper, or Guardian of the Threshold, and in my mind's eye I have him as a sort of rotund David James character, but with more compassion and mindfulness.

It's said that the left hand of the Buddah is laid flat and open, and symbolises charity and fulfilment of wishes, while the right hand is raised, not only as a gesture of protection and blessing, but also to parry fierce shots at the near post.

The next morning, after the match, it transpired that our club secretary, Medium Nige had, in a unilateral act of extravagant benevolence, decided to buy a new top-scorer's trophy, and as a consequence it seems that I get to keep the old one. 'Forever', said Derek, and because he's a headmaster, I believed him.

In a deliberate act of humility, I've put the trophy back on the shelf in sixth pride of place. It's one down from the Buddah, but it's one up from a Damien Shirt tin of Adorable Kitten's Pineal Glands.

Posted 12:57 AM | 166 Comments | Permalink

I've got flu babe

Saturday 2nd May 2009 12:29 AM

Recently, while travelling on crowded public transport, I've found that wearing a sombrero and sneezing a lot generally guarantees me a seat all to myself. I don't expect this situation to last long because either a) everyone will be dead or b) the whole thing will fizzle out to make way for the next media terror-fest.

In 2004 the same media was predicting 150,000,000 world-wide deaths from bird flu, and in preparation the British and US governments ordered 80,000,000 doses of a vaccine with the strange name of 'Tamiflu'. It sounds like something Barbie might catch if she was having too many late nights out with Ken. I think if I'd invented a vaccine, I'd call it something a bit snappier, like Maxine. Yes, Maxine the vaccine. It don't matter what you got, she cures the lot, she hits the spot, she's real hot, give her a shot!

Roche, the pharmaceutical company headed by Ken Barlow from Coronation Street, possibly, sells Tamiflu at $100 a shot, 10% of which goes to the company who designed it, Gilead, whose major shareholder and previous chairman is none other than the ex-US Minister of Offence, Donald Rumsfeld. I'm not suggesting anything here, of course, but in the words of Donald himself,

'Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns - the ones we don't know we don't know'

I know that I know that a known known for me is that I don't trust Donald Rumsfeld or pharmaceutical companies. I'm aware that 'conspiracy theorist' is a pejorative term within the Murdoch/BBC axis of truth, but after a certain amount of googling and reflection, both sober and completely smashed, I'd have to admit to being one. It's the same pleasure as doing crossword puzzles, except it's a bit scarier and you're unlikely to win this year's edition of the Chambers etymological dictionary.

As Hitler once noted, it's the biggest lies that are easiest to get away with, so I tend not to bother with the smaller conspiracies. There's a popular one doing the rounds at the moment that claims that Nigella Lawson and Russell Brand are actually the same person. It's fair to say I've never seen them on the same telly programme together, and as my mum says, 'they both think they're an ice cream and everyone wants a lick', but even if it turns out to be true, it's a mild diversion at best.

Of course a minor conspiracy always looms larger when it's on your own doorstep, or in my case, in my own garden, and I'm glad to say that the case of the disappearing fat balls has finally been solved. It wasn't a squirrel, and it wasn't Al Qaeda as Mrs Abercrombie said it was, but instead turned out to be a crow. I saw it do it. Mrs Abercrombie thinks the crow might be working for Al Qaeda, but I suspect it's more likely to be working for the squirrel.

Posted 12:29 AM | 181 Comments | Permalink

tits and balls

Friday 24th April 2009 7:10 PM

Feed the birds, £1.50 a bag, £1.50, £1.50, £1.50 a bag. Dangling fat balls (less sniggering at the back, please) cost 28p each on Broadway, and because the lights are bright, you can see why birds think they're magic in the air. They look a lot like an energy ball, but in place of the organic dark tahini they use condemned rancid pig fat instead, and to be fair there's probably more linseed in them than you'd normally get in your average hippy snack. They come attractively packaged in an easy-dangle, small, green, nylon mesh bag and I hang them off my new-fangled, home-made fat-ball dangler next to the bird table.

The reason I imperil my already shaky vegetarian principles, and pay 28p for the privilege, is because I want to see a wider variety of birds visiting the garden, and indeed, since my investment, my tit-bored table is often brightened by the cheery breast of a fiery robin or the dark under-stated beauty of a bead-eyed blackbird.

I've always thought that the deal was that I put out food for them and they hang around long enough for me to appreciate their outrageous, iridescent beauty, but today I put out a fat-ball and ten minutes later the whole thing had completely disappeared, along with the small, green, easy-dangle nylon mesh bag, and what's more, I didn't see a thing.

I don't mind spending 28p on seeing a fabulous bird of prey swoop off with a little plastic shopping bag, but for it to do it when I'm not there is, in my lightly-held opinion, the height of rudeness. Most birds, in my experience, are capable of being perfectly civilised and only choose to be wild when it suits them.

There are a couple of suspects but obviously I have no proof. There's been a psychedelic pheasant foraging for bird-table over-spill but it looks too ungainly for a controlled fat-ball snatch. A much more likely candidate is a sinister large black bird that I saw earlier trying to take off from the field with a stray golf-ball in its beak. I'm not sure what sort of bird it is, but according to my book it's either a crow, a jackdaw or Death, but whatever it is, it's already shown a callous disregard for other peoples property. I've taken a photo of it and sent it to the R.S.P.B. with an explanatory note and I'm hoping they might refund me the price of a fat-ball or at least offer some sort of apology. After all, good manners cost nothing, whereas fat-balls cost 28p.

Posted 7:10 PM | 169 Comments | Permalink

i have a dream

Friday 10th April 2009 1:38 AM

Last night I travelled to the wild, wind-pummelled western flanks of Ben More Assynt in Northern Scotland to have a word with my internet providers, Kate and Sidney Pi, about the non-functioning of the comment box. Kate was away, rioting in London, and Sidney admitted that he was finding it difficult to run things on his own, so he's arranged to call in his senior blog-buster from Lochinver. Thank you for all your kindly alerts.

This evening I played for the Corinthians afternoon team, and by dint of the inclusion of four other morning team players we became a sort of Corinthians late-elevenses eleven. The game was away against Old Manstonians in Leeds, and after the long journey back from the highlands I was still a bit dazed, my mind a swirling maelstrom of tartan, shortbread and ptarmigan.

After five minutes I have this beautiful dream where I cut inside the full-back on the edge of the box and rifle /spear /smash /crash /arrow the ball into the top corner of the net, and amazingly, when I wake up, it's all true.

There I am, on this great big green grass bed, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, wearing my Corinthian away-strip pyjamas and snuggling under the rough, hairy blanket of male approval, and the referee, who I'm beginning to look upon as a father, is pointing to the centre circle and awarding a goal. Later, Manstonians equalise, but some of their younger boys are so naughty that Dad has to show one of them a yellow card.

In the crepuscule, the light and the game fades. The light fades into a sodium and mushroom soup, a special delicacy often served in this part of Leeds, while the game fades into a scrappy one-all draw. Although at no point during the game do we have a mountain to climb, nevertheless, at some point in the second-half I come across a small hillock, and when I get to the top of it I have another dream. When I wake up I can't remember the dream but I think it has something to do with not judging a person by the colour of their away strip.

Posted 1:38 AM | 173 Comments | Permalink

all swell alls well

Saturday 4th April 2009 9:30 PM

Despite being offered a pensioner's meal at Wackers fish and chip restaurant last week I can't help feeling a certain youthful vigour creeping back into the old frame. Spring uncoils and there's a bit of bounce about. The willow-catkins that sway outside my window are especially pneumatic and they make me feel so gay, in an old-fashioned way, that I'm not going to apologise for the recent blog drought. Sorry.

On Wednesday night I went round to my Mums and watched England beat Ukraine 2-1, thanks to a winning goal from our inspirational and sometimes quite violent captain, John Terry. Although my Mum can't understand why a man who earns £150,000 a week insists on cutting his own hair with a knife and fork, she does recognise a crunching tackle when she sees one, and we were both in admiration of his poise and belligerence. When asked about up-coming fixtures and England's chances of qualification he said, 'We've got Khazakstan away and Andorra at home, which are two tough games.'

My Mum, who actually played a couple of games for Andorra in the late 70's, pointed out that by international standards this statement was not strictly true. Being a tiny village of 238 souls, cowering in the icy fastness of the high Pyrenees, Andorra is spectacularly ill-equipped to offer any meaningful resistance to most international teams. Such is the paucity of their resources that on one famous occasion in 1953, in a World Cup qualifier against Finland, two of the Andorran substitutes were Pyrenean mountain dogs. Their first success of any kind came in 1968 against a weakened Lichenstein team, when they managed to win a corner and two throw-ins. John Terry needs to know that when he plays against teams like Andorra or Lichenstein, he's not just wrestling with flesh and blood, but fighting principalities.

At half-time we were urged by Jamie Oliver to go to Sainsburys and buy hot-cross buns in celebration of Christ's victory over matter, but in light of the adverts use of smut and Jamie 'nice buns' Oliver's brazen lying, we decided to ignore him. The worst thing you can do to an egomaniac is ignore them, so in celebration of our 'victory over Jamie Oliver' we made the sign of the cross over some of my mum's walnut and beige biscuits. Luvverly jubberly!

Posted 9:30 PM | 161 Comments | Permalink