What’s Yours called?
28 February 2006
Dame, is your pan hot?
Lard and corn is dear;
I’ve come a-shovin’,
Tis but once a year.
So up to the flitch
and cut a gurt stitch;
If your hens don’t lay,
I’ll steal your cock away
Afore next Shrove Tuesday.
Three blokes sat in a bar, one Scottish, one Welsh and one English.
There’s that uncomfortable silence as the halftime whistle blows on SKY’s featured match and the three of them sit there staring into their drinks.
The Scottish bloke breaks the calm…
Scotland – “My wee bairn was born on St. Andrews day so I called him Andrew”
The Welshman nods approvingly while the Englishman stares into his pint not showing a glimmer of reaction. The hush once again falls over the three men as Andy Gray analyses the first half of Partick -v- Morton on the BIG Screen TV. Richard Keys becomes orgasmic as Andy threatens to get his chalkboard out. The Welsh member of the trio drowns out Keys’ squeals…
Wales – “My lad was born on St. Davids Day so I called him David.”
The Scot gives him that knowing look of assurance combined with a glint of respect in his eye (or it might have been indigestion caused by the pickled egg and crisps he wolfed down during the first half). The Englishman licks his finger and rubs the tongue of his Converse trainers to get the Guinness stain off – he likes the retro look but still wants his shoes to retain their pristine condition, after all he’s no Johnny Knocksville.
By this time Keys is post orgasm, sucking his thumb as he rests his head on Andy’s SKY SPORTS motif’d Wax Jacket. The SKY SPORTS info bar scrolls across the screen ‘Press Red for Fan Zone commentary of Keys’ heightened cries’ it duly informs the paying public.
Wales and Scotland look quizzically at each other and then at the English bloke who is now paying close attention to his beer mat carefully peeling off the top layer.
“What’s your kid called?” they say in unison.
The Englishman looks up, vigorously shakes the Carling logo from his finger and replies…
“Pancake.”
Wasn’t worth the effort really was it!
It’s a Dogs Life
27 February 2006
Last week can be best described as ‘radical dude’ understandable if you’re one of Tony Hawks’ sidewalk surfing crew, indecipherable if you’re a regular viewer to this site.
When I first started off with The Manual I set myself a personal target of a 2 stone loss with the figure of 12 stone dead a magical figure. I broke every rule last weekend and decided to weigh myself and surprisingly 12 stone 6lbs appeared on the scales – 2 stone in 50 days wasn’t too bad I thought to myself. My reward (and yes, I know that this isn’t gonna be everyone’s cup of tea) was a tattoo. I’d wanted one for a couple of years if truth be told, something in addition to a star that I have on my lower back.
So, I booked myself in and on Wednesday was inked by Award Winning Artist Darryl B at his parlour on Bristol Road, Gloucester. I haven’t really told too many people, I believe it’s a personal thing and to be honest I don’t particularly care if people frown on it or not. I wanted a Guardian Angel for personal reasons (not religious I hasten to add) so took a design that I’d found on the net down to Darryl and we discussed it from there. Some people say that Tattooing doesn’t hurt, it’s been a few years since my last one and I’d forgotten the pain that the needle brings – suffice to say I was grateful once my 2 hours in the chair was complete.
Due to the above I’ve had to stop abiding by the Manual ‘til it heals. But in view of my weight loss I’ve decided to continue following the instructions ‘til I get down to the magic 12 stone (11st 10lb being the ultimate goal) so I’ll still be boring the pants off the diary ‘til I reach my goal.
Last Thursday was a life changing day for Len and myself (I don’t think that’s being over dramatic). For a long while we’ve talked about getting a dog, specifically a Springer Spaniel as I owned one when I was a kid. Thursday evening we travelled to Stroud and walked through the door of Len’s work colleague to see a litter of Springer’s that were 3 weeks old. I’d wanted a bitch and there were 3 to choose from. I decided to be totally pragmatic about the viewing of the Puppies, not handling them and attempting not to pay too much attention to them as in my experience once emotion takes over you’ll buy any sort of cutesy little thing. I’d mentally prepared myself to be an emotional rock, asking questions about the Parentage, the Pedigree and the line from which the sire had come from.
As soon as the door opened Len squealed, I melted and the decision was made, we were having a dog…
We stroked and cooed and while I struggled to retain a teeny tiny bit of composure I had a chat with the owners about the history of the animal. I tried not to handle her as I’d prefer to get to know her when we finally pick her up on the 30th March so Len did all the petting and stroking whilst I attempted to convey a professional persona – extremely difficult for a self confessed immature thirty something.
Now we’re quibbling about names – Len will ‘on no account’ let me call her Judy (after QPR’s mascot) as she says a bloke in a 6 foot high cat suit with football boots on doesn’t bare any relation to the dog – I can see where she’s coming from.
The shortlist as it stands is as follows…
Holly
Maggie
Lucy
…with Holly being Len’s clear favourite. To be fair as I’ve picked the breed of the dog and sort of twisted her arm into actually getting one the least I could do would be to let her choose the name… But I still like Judy!
Jude (far right) attends Bungle’s Wedding
Kick off your Sunday shoes
24 February 2006
Yo! All you Hip Hop wannabe Breakers out there.
I’ve seen you on Challenge TV entering the R ‘n B dance offs strutting around in your baggy jeans and sleeveless vests like you own the place.
Here’s a tip for you, get some sensible clothes that fit your scrawny bloody frame - Asda do some top denims with elasticated waistbands that’ll stop your plaid boxer shorts creeping up over your 26 inch waist. They also do string vests at 5 quid for a pack of 3 so you’ll come out of the place tapping your back pocket like that brunette bird in the advert with change from a twenty. You can use the extra cash to buy a bag of soddin’ donuts - that might help you fill out you skinny streak of p*ss.
I don’t give a monkeys toss if the bulging arms creeping out of your vest can support you when your doing a spinning headstand throughout 720 degrees. If I was 6 stone wet through my arms could keep me in the air for 5 minutes too - cocky git! Oh and while I’m on the subject of arms, Wrist Bands are for the friggin’ WRIST mate not for half way up your bloody forearm, I dunno what the hell your trying to achieve there kidder.
You’re nothing but a Rock Steady Crew wannabe son. I could just about accept it if you wore a Mileta windbreaker and you were taggin’ your name in a shopping precinct in the Midlands and maybe doing a helicopter or two on some old kitchen lino with your mates.
As it is you stalk the satellite TV stations hoping one day to get a late night stint on Eurosport if they ever show any interest in the World B-Boy Championships.
Electric Boogaloo? You wouldn’t know it if it came up and smacked you in the chops pal. You wanna learn how to dance check out ‘Footloose’ - Kevin Bacon is where it’s at sonny jim. Leroy from ‘Fame’ could teach you a thing or two about urban cool and retro chic as well. Go on, take your Nike sneaks and bugger off back to school. Your name’s Humphrey and you study Latin dance at Smythe Twitterton Toffs college for the uppercrust and intellectually malnourished.
I’m out. Word.
The Top Ten
23 February 2006
After being inundated (well, I’ve had 3) with Top Tens www.steveqpr.co.uk brings you a special 2 for 1 offer this month courtesy of Dizzie.
THE TOP TEN GLOUCESTER RUGBY PLAYERS (or ‘hotties’ randomly associated with GRFC)
10. Jon Goodridge – our very own ‘Jonny’…
This man (when he has a shave) is gorgeous – a lean mean sprinting machine. Quicker than Steve when he’s asked to do a dripper run but with looks to match his speed. Unshaven he looks like a steely eyed adonis whereas when he hasn’t had the benefits of a Remington he can look a bit bedraggled hence him only struggling in at number 10 spot.
9. Henry Paul…
Although technically not a Gloucester player anymore if rumours are to be believed. I once shared a Jacuzzi and Steam Room (a www.steveqpr.co.uk favourite) with Henry and his brother Robbie when they were playing the crappy code for New Zealand. Both were fine figures of men although when I asked them if they fancied a menage a trois they politely declined saying that they didn’t drink cocktails whilst on International duty.
8. Simon Amor – ‘Tiny Tim’…
This man would come up to about breast height if he stood next to me. Nuff said.
7. Mark Foster – ‘Fozzie’…
The baaaaby of the team. Still takes his kit to the ground in a satchel allegedly. This man child is scrummy, I would happily take him home to meet my parents although he’d probably want to stop at Tumble Tots on the way. He runs like the wind and probably giggles when he breaks it. Can crash through the biggest opposition although I’m sure he thinks he’s playing British Bulldogs in the playground. When he’s ten years older I’ll look him up!
6. Duncan McRae – ‘Yum’…
Still registered as a player, but due to the severe neck injury suffered by him in the game against Ulster last season, he sits out most games, and gets actively involved in coaching instead. Offered my services as a masseuse during our clash against Leicester but got ushered away by Security until Stuart Barnes asked if I could give his chins a good seeing too in the privacy of the Sky commentary booth.
5. Mark Cornwell – ‘Pasty’…
Pasty to his friends (and stalkers). He gets extra points for being a Glawster boy. Lovely teeth. A huge oak tree of man, each branch tenderly sculpted into perfect form. Oh to be an Arboriculturalist.
4. Jonathan Pendlebury – ‘Package’…
This man is quite non descript in himself. I hadn’t paid him much attention at all until my friend, Emily attended the ‘ladies night’ in aid of Mark Cornwell’s testimonial. She sent me an excited text saying that JP’s ‘package’ was one to behold. After a text like that I find it impossible to watch a line out without being drawn to his tight shorts. After 4 consecutive line outs in front of the Clock last week I got a crick in my neck.
3. Bryan Redpath – ‘Basil’…
The second of our retirees on the list, this little package of gorgeousness makes me salivate. Short, ‘n stocky but the dark hair and chiselled good looks earns him the number 3 spot. At a recent GRFC supporters evening I sat in the front row and was hypnotised by our Basil, that hasn’t happened since my ‘Boom Boom’ addiction of the late 70’s.
2. Dean Ryan – ‘Boss’…
Not playing anymore, but there aren’t too many female (nor male I suspect) shedheads who wouldn’t have liked to put a smile on his face when he graced the hallowed Kingsholm turf. A huge bloke who could chop wood or collect butterflies with his bare hands. (I bet he waxes too!)
1. Alex Brown – ‘Browner’…
Straight in at Number One. The perfect man - Tall, slim, dark, hard, likes rugby. This is one stunning figure of a bloke. His figure should be bronzed and placed outside The Jockey on a pedestal. Even with a scrum cap on he looks like he knows how to handle himself off the rugby pitch if you get my drift.
Plagiarism at its’ Finest…
21 February 2006
Nothing much to report lately I’m afraid. A day off today saw me at the Gym and then attempting to rectify a plumbing issue in our house. Unfortunately after flooding the cupboard under the sink and swearing in more languages that I thought I was fluent in (I blame ITV’s 1970’s comedy ‘Mind Your Language’ for this retro outburst) nothing has changed and the dribble that best describes the water flow from our hot tap remains consistent.
To fill todays entry I’m publishing a match report written by our very own Chip on his Shoulder author who managed a wine filled weekend in Gloucester recently…
GLOUCESTER CITY AFC 4 GRANTHAM TOWN 1
The rugby-centric city of Gloucester shows little regard for its purveyors of the round-ball game. Squeezed almost apologetically between the city’s historic docks, a gargantuan tip and the village of Hempsted, Meadow Park is the venue for Gloucester City’s fortnightly battle against Southern League Premier relegation – a battle which is out of the sight and minds of their more illustrious Cherry and White neighbours of Guinness Premiership fame, and of course, no little fortune.
Although the ground is only 20 years old, the stygian gloom which descended as early as the 15th minute returned us to another era where gas lamps and not floodlights may well have illuminated the proceedings.
The hardy souls who had braved the murk were soon mumbling into their scarves as Tigers keeper Matt Bath fumbled and allowed Jason Turner to tap in. He may well have been seeking outside help at this point although the sign urging a call to the Samaritans (there…whatever the score) could have been a touch over-dramatic.
Mud fights between the substitutes and a PA announcement taking glee in a lost key in the Press Room (‘I’ll need a description – it’s a front door key’) kept the spirits up just long enough to see Gloucester back on level terms through a sweetly struck Jody Bevan penalty.
Just as the faithful were preparing for a well-earned half-time defrosting, the game took a wholly unexpected twist as visiting keeper Mario Ziccardi sped out of his area to upend the onrushing Michael Whittington and earn himself his marching orders for a second yellow card.
Salt was immediately rubbed into the gaping Grantham wound as Whittington found space in the six yard box to leave the Gingerbread men with a distinctly nasty taste to accompany their interval tea.
Although Grantham battled gamely for most of the second period, the Tigers finally made their numerical advantage count on 80 minutes as Dave Wilkinson took his toll of some tired legs to extend the lead. That man Whittington applied the coup de grace 2 minutes later as he latched on to a perfect chip from the ageless Adie Harris to send the ‘T-End’ and the rest of Meadow Park into ecstasy.
Finally out of the cold and into the cosy bar where they still let you – horror of horrors – drink alcohol in view of the pitch, long suffering fan and Manchester resident Andy Birchley, admitted that this was only his second win in ten years of intermittent prodigal journeys – ‘I hope this will see us shoot up the table & out of danger’ said the cheery exile. ‘If we can play against 10 men every week, the promised land of mid-table mediocrity will soon be within our grasp!’.
Spam
18 February 2006
Proof if proof were needed that Gambling really is the root of all evil. Not because (once again) my footy accumulator went awry this weekend. Not because Gamblers anonymous have announced record membership for this particular quarter. It’s down to this Diary entry.
I opened up my email this evening to be bombarded by comments for the Kenny Rogers related article. Umpteen emails from a Pharmaceutical site selling Viagra in varying quantities and also a Betting website selling financial security if I invested ‘a measly 10 dollars’ to open up an account.
Now, I can see how the Gambling site would’ve been drawn to the article but Viagra!? Answers on a Postcard please to Edson Arantes do Nascimento c/o New York Cosmos circa 1975.
If Viagra ever want an action shot of him to promote their product then I can only point them to this picture where he appears to be as stiff as the proverbial board…
Viagra - Helping Pele rise like a salmon since the mid 1970’s
Potty Trained
16 February 2006
I confess that I’m meticulous to the point of analness when it comes to… well, absolutely anything.
Freud’s theory on anality was that it related in part to toilet training as this act was a major factor in personality development. If that’s the case then I can blame falling headfirst into the bog when I was a kid for this character trait.
Last night I went to the Gym, carefully got unchanged folding up all my clothes and hanging up the items that required hanging up (we all know that there’s only one acceptable way to fold and hang jeans so I’ll skip that bit!). I opened my bag only to find that I’d forgotten my lycra undershorts. I’ve got six or seven pairs of these bloody things but for some reason I’d forgotten to pack them. As Frank Spencer’s Grandad used to say there’s a place for everything and everything should be in it’s place. That is (one of) my unwritten rules but unfortunately where the shorts should’ve been there was a pair of swimming goggles.
I could’ve just used the pair of shorts (the ones with an inner lining) that I’d planned to wear for the Steam Room but my state of mind is such that it would be a major hurdle to undertake to wear them with the ‘outfit’ that they weren’t intended to go with. It’s not a vanity thing, I just couldn’t wear them, it didn’t even occur to me as an option at the time. Instead I took the easy way out and put the ‘Swimming/Steam Room’ attire on and decided on a swim.
I usually I try to relax when swimming but it was impossible as in the lane next to me was a ‘Thorpedo’ wannabe. A skull capped, postage stamp speedo wearing bather who was obviously not a Wendy Craig fan as his pitiable efforts at Butterfly were embarrassing. I’m by no means an expert when it comes to the complexities of the perfect swimming stroke but I’ve seen enough versions of The Man from Atlantis to know that he was no Patrick Duffy.
Duffy perfects the sneeze and wipe manoeuvre on a colleague
I endured this bloke splatter, spraying, and plastering me for length upon length as he ploughed a furrow through the water (even Moses would’ve been impressed) until I could take no more. I got to the end of my last length and just for a split second childishly contemplated weeing into his lane before I got out. Fortunately for him Freud’s toilet training theory came into play and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I got out and gave him one of ‘those’ glares. You know, the one’s that are never seen by the intended recipient but make you feel so much better.
Texting Jonah
14 February 2006
‘In the Middle Ages, young men and women drew names from a bowl to see who their Valentines would be. They would wear these names on their sleeves for one week. To wear your heart on your sleeve now means that it is easy for other people to know how you are feeling’
I’ve just tried the aforementioned custom with a dish of Alphabetti Spaghetti and have now got a tomato sauce stained shirt with the word T-E-R-R-Y on the upper arm.
The broken record that is my list of excuses for not adhering to The Manual at the beginning of the week remains furiously spinning on the deck at a manic 78rpm. Yeterday was fine, badminton during my lunch break followed by football training in the evening were more than sufficient to satisfy The Manuals craving for a cardio workout. Those brace of Sports unfortunately have left my posterior in a state of abject misery and (in the words of Oliver Twist after a night kipping on Mr Bumble’s floor) ‘aching like a Bastard’ so I’ve decided to spend Valentines Night with Len as opposed to popping down the Gym.
This issue of my Diary is brought to you with a hint of melancholy as today I was banned, Yes BANNED from texting a very close friend. It appears that said friend has an issue with the content of the texts that I send and consequently I’ve been told not to contact him by mobile phone this evening.
The friend (and I use that term very loosely at present) in question is Beesy…
Beesy only wears the sequined pants for his medical complaint
It is alleged by Beesy that I (or rather my mobile phone) induce his football team into a losing mentality. The evidence is pretty damning I must admit. Out of the 16 times that my Sony Ericsson has been used to contact him during the 90 minute duration of a Bristol Rovers game this Season the ‘Gas’ have gone on to lose or draw 14 times winning only twice.*
Tonight they play Cheltenham and if there is one team in the whole of the football League that I would want them to beat it would be Cheltenham Town (it a whole Gloucester versus Cheltenham rivalry thing that is far too boring to even make its’ way onto these insomnia inducing pages). Consequently my phone will remain in it’s holster while I order a curry, crack open a bottle of wine and watch Liverpool -v- Arsenal with the wife.
Who says Romance is dead?
* Statistics may not be fully accurate at time of going to press
Quick Note…
12 February 2006
Sunday and I’m finally back in time with The Manual in a 7 day period that can only be desribed as fraught.
It’s been a bit of a slog this week but thankfully my early morning Saturdays and Sundays are becoming a routine that I seem to have encompassed rather than rejected and any midweek slip ups are invariably made up by a couple of weekend workouts.
I’m really starting to notice the difference now, T-Shirts that I’d relegated to the attic or the back of my wardrobe are now being slowly circulated back into my normal day wear. Jeans that were once Madness drainpipes are now MC Hammer Baggies.
It’s only a matter of time before I’m able to get into my Global Hypercolour Shirt…
… and Frankie Says Relax ‘T’ both of which haven’t seen the light of day since Adam was a lad.
Olly, Olly give us a wave
There are a couple of comments that have always stuck in my mind when it comes to football commentary, one of which relates to Tony Currie of Sheffield United. Playing against West Ham Currie used more angles than Pythagoras to skip through the Hammers defence. When the ball inevitably hit the net a young John Motson memorably spat into his microphone ‘A Quality Goal by a Quality Player’ possibly the high point in Motty’s career as never has he been so succinct and exact since that day.
Coincidentally Currie appeared today on Football Focus as one of the BBC’s top XI Footballing Cult Hero’s the full list of which can be found here.
Also on the show (and featuring in the Top XI) was Ian Holloway. Holloway, introduced probably for the first time to a viewing audience since his departure as ‘Ex Queens Park Rangers Manager’ looked tired and drawn. He bore no resemblance to the usual perky, cheeky smile and sparkle in the eye Olly that QPR fans have come to recognise.
After giving the matter a lot of thought I can say from the heart that I’m desperately sad about his departure from QPR and the way it’s been handled by the Club. Not because we’ve lost a footballing genius or a master tactician, just because… well, it’s Olly isn’t it.
Since his appointment as Manager during February 2001 when he took on an ailing side doomed for relegation from The Championship (not an enthralling prospect) he has injected passion, belief, pride and joy into the team and fans alike. Traits belonging to a once proud Club that had gone AWOL were slowly reintroduced. Not by the players. Not by Club officials. Certainly not by a dejected and diminishing fan base, but by one man. Ian Holloway was the Supersized Big Mac and Fries that fed the chronic anorexic that was Queens Park Rangers.
“This is our cave, and I like living in it.”
Holloway took those with ties to QPR on a rollercoaster of emotion, starting with the inevitable relegation followed by a year of steadying the ship in a league that we hadn’t graced for years. QPR in the old Division 3? It was, as most fans put it ‘a disgrace’.
Olly’s second full Season in charge brought with it a team hardened by a year in the lower Leagues, galvanised by a manager who gave them a fierce edge they looked more prepared to battle and grind out results. A late push for the playoffs saw us face Oldham in a 2 leg semi-final, the second leg of which took place at Loftus Road, a game that most fans (young and old) consider to be one of the finest games ever played there.
I’d driven up from Gloucester to purchase my ticket weeks beforehand and as I calculate it today the total cost of the ticket breaks down as follows…
Ticket Purchase Day…
6.00am ½ day off work leave early to beat the London traffic to get to Loftus Road
6.05am £30 petrol for round trip to Loftus Road
7.40am Arrive Loftus Road and wait for ticket office to open at 9am
7.45am Join queue of people at Loftus Road
9.30am Ticket Office opens
9.45am Obtain Ticket £17 (approx – I can’t remember!)
9.50am Drive back to Gloucester
11.45am Stop by Police 200 yards from work for speeding (36mph in a 30mph) £40 fine
Match Day…
12.00pm ½ day off work leave early to beat the London traffic to get to Loftus Road (decide to leave at 3ish)
2.00pm Get paranoid about getting stuck in traffic leave house a trifle early
2.05pm £30 petrol for round trip to Loftus Road
4.00pm Arrive Loftus Road
4.05pm Pint in the Springbok £2.50
4.55pm Pint in the BR £2.50
6.00pm Gates open
7.45pm Kick Off
9.35pm Everybody singing ‘Hi Ho Queens Park Rangers’. Hugs, kisses and tears all round.
12.10am Arrive Home – Don’t sleep much that night!
Grand Total - £112 plus 1 day off work. I would have paid double the price for the experience of that evening!
Unfortunately the Playoff Final in Cardiff didn’t go as well and we were beaten in Extra Time by a Cardiff side who on the day were no better than us, just luckier.
“Its one of my proudest days in football, but I’ve caught the bouquet again, I’m always the bridesmaid”
The 2003/04 Season saw us amongst the favourites for promotion and with the pressure on Olly to better last years disappointment and fans returning in their droves our new team of hero’s took us on a journey of big scorelines and drama aplenty. Blackpool were despatched 5-0 on a piping hot opening day and we marched on through the season battling Plymouth, Bristol City and Brighton for the two automatic promotion places. The last day of the Season saw us needing a win to secure 2nd place and a return to the Championship. Hordes of us drove to Hillsborough and watched our team beat Sheffield Wednesday 1-3 to confirm our promotion.
Olly and the players danced in front of us at the Leppings Lane Stand that day. Together we all celebrated our return. Not just to a higher Division but the return of a Football Club that was at one point close to losing it’s League status due to financial debts, poor management and dreadful performances on the pitch. A team that had lost direction, drive and the pride that it once had. Outside the ground we hugged friends, celebrated, laughed and joked. The smiles had returned, brought to our faces in no small part by a West Country bloke who loved the Club as much as we did.
“They say that every dog has his day and today is woof day. That might sound crazy but I want to go and bark!”
I didn’t have to write the aforementioned lines about him. If I’m honest with myself I think he’s pretty deserving of a bit of my time purely for the energy, commitment and future that he’s given my Club. Truthfully I could have easily summed it up in just 2 words…
‘Thankyou Ian’ - He would have understood.
“In football, there is no definite lifespan or timespan for a manager. After a while you start smelling of fish. The other week it looked like I was stinking of Halibut!”