Andorra -v- England
28 March 2007
Alka Seltzer is there nothing it cannot do?
Somehow last night as we struggled home through the riot police who had cordoned off an alley just off Las Ramblas (‘Hola’ must’ve been the password to get past them!) we stopped off at a bar for a whisky and managed to procure two 2 litre bottles of Evian from the bar owner. The Evian addled with Alka Seltzer proved to be a blinding mix, as I woke up this morning at 8.30 I had no after effects from the day before.
Al as usual moans like a bastard when he’s woken up early which is why when we used to holiday as a trio he and Beesy used to share and I got the double sofa bed so I wouldn’t wake them up - Today however he drew the short straw and as the Spanish version of Friends played on our TV…
‘Cinco Latte’s Gunther Por Favor’
…he woke up as expected with the usual ‘go back to sleep’ gripes which I duly ignored.
We checked out of the hotel at 11 and managed to arrange pick up of our luggage (for ‘luggage’ read 2 rucksacks!) from the hotel after the game which was a 9pm kick off.
A quick healthy (well the Subway foot long baton did have veg and salad in it!) breakfast later and we bought some papers and settled down to yet another litre of beer intet on making this ‘un last at least unitl we’d read the pages from cover to cover. The waiter had other ideas unfortunatey and brought us beer number two before we’d finished number one and also asked us to pay individually, I assume ‘cos he’d had other England Fans doing ‘runners’ the day before although how they’d be able to run with a litre of San Miguel on board is beyond me!
A square just off Las Ramblas was highlighted as a meeting place for England Fans and as we walked there we saw many flags being hung from lamposts and trees - as we hung ours up I was approached by a local rozzer shaking his head and saying ‘No Flag’. I pointed out theat there were LOADS of Flags hung around the square and why couldn’t I hang mine up. That’s when he got his knife out and began to cut all the flags down stating ‘Your Flags, My Square’ to all who would listen. This move was provocative in the extreme, the flags were doing no harm whatsoever and made the area a colourful and vibrant place to be, attracting other tourists who were taking photographs of the place. Cutting the flags down he bundled them up and walked away with them prompting angry reactions from England Fans although thankfully nothing too untoward.
After this unprovoked action by the Police we thought we might be safer in a cosy bar so retired to a small Pub around the corner returning to the square a couple of hours later to be greeted by all the flags back in place and jovial England fans singing, playing and retrieving footballs from the Square’s many Palm Trees…
At approximately 6.30ish we took the Metro to the stadium and began our journey to the Olympic Stadium. The gates opened at 7.30 and there was rain in the air and a cold biting wind - this was bad news for those England fans who had travelled and had decided that Barcelona meant the Costa del Sol and wore nothing other than a pair of shorts and a grimace!
We hung our flags on the half way line and set up camp amongst the England faithful our teeth chattering and flags billowing in the wind as Kick off drew nearer and the Stadium began to fill.
The Team came out to a cacophony of cheers and then it all went wrong.
I’ve never been part of a crowd that’s turned on its’ team so quickly. Within ten minutes the chorus of boos around us was deafening and the players that we had travelled to support withdrew as the criticism grew. The Manager was berated from the stands as were the team and when they went in at halftime at 0-0 some England Fans headed for the Exits - whether this was due to hypotermia setting in or just due to the poor quality of football only they will know.
Another 45 minutes beckoned and it surely could only get better. Thankfully England were dragged through the game by an inspirational Steven Gerrard who scored two and was the ONLY player on the pitch who looked like he wanted to be there.
As the whistle blew for the end of the game only Gerrard, Terry and goalkeeper Robinson made any effort to applaud the fans. The rest of the team led by Ashley Cole and Rio Ferdinand sprinted towards the tunnel as fast as their million dollar legs could carry them.
We left the Stadium, cold wet and despite the reslt somewhat downtrodden taking the Metro back to Las Ramblas for a final few beers before our 6am flight back home via Amsterdam.
Arriving at the airport at 2am we found our check in desk and made our beds on a hard, cold marble slabbed floor…
..we were eventually woken by a fellow England fan 2 hours later telling us that it was ‘….time to check in Lads’ as a KLM representative placed her queueing poles around us.
Reel Joy Litre
27 March 2007
An England Away Trip is always a memorable affair. Today however the day before the game was a blur - it all started to go awry as we waited for our flight at Bristol Airport at 5.30am. In an attept to embrace the culture of Europe instead of the sensible Bacon Butty and Mug of tea we went for the rather more cosmopolitan Ciabatta Roll and Kronenbourg…
Italy and France meet in deadly breakfast cocktail
We were packed in like sardines on our Amsterdam flight and despite indulging in the less than hearty inflight meal of ryvita and cheese our thoughts turned to the plan of action at Schiphol Airport. A recce of the airport using Google had brought with it the fact that along with the usual Hugo Boss and Yves Saint Laurent style shops that are ten a penny in most Departure Lounges the Airport housed it’s very own Casino a facility that myself and Al felt that it would be rude not to visit.
Thankfully it wasn’t difficult to find and within 20 minutes of landing we were sat in front of the finest slot machines that the Airport had to offer and being served yet more Kronenbourg - England Fans on tour - donchajustluvem!
After hemorrhaging ten Euro’s in what felt like as many seconds I sat and watched Al for a while as he seemed to be on a bit of a roll (as opposed to a ciabatta obviously) - unfortunately as soon as I started watching his luck took a turn for the worst and his healthy balance disappeared back to negative equity - I decided on chucking the last of my small change (which amounted to 5 Euro’s) in the slot machine in a vain attempt to get my lost 10 Euro’s back and then it all happenend a line of lemons with a ‘double’ sign at one end - I watched my balance begin to creep up a single digit being signified by a little bell. I waited for it to stop but it didn’t, quicker and quicker the digits rose passing 100, then 200, 3, and 400 finally resting at a magical 508. I attempted to cash out immediately for fear of the red 508 disappearing but pressing the ‘cash’ button set off a bell and a bright red light not seen since Starsky and Hutch were on the beat. I was approached by a smartly dressed lady who asked me to sign a slip and then she disappeared and returned with a fistful of Euro’s which we worked out was in excess of 200 quids worth. I did the only thing an honourable bloke (and England Fan) would do and got the beers in.
The flight from Amsterdam to Barcelona was a far more relaxed and roomy affair and I missed most of it as I attempted to sleep the early morning beers off. Following the slowest train journey EVER we arrived at the Hotel Condal and conversed in pigeon English with the Receptionist. As soon as he realised we were England fans we were given the room which must’ve been the furthest away from ANYONE in the hotel - top floor, corner, next to the lift - we saw one couple on Floor 5 through our stay there and I think they were lost. Still, at 25 quid each per night we weren’t complaining, it was clean, the water was hot and we were only 25 yards away from the middle of Las Ramblas.
View to Las Ramblas
1,2,3, Bungee
A quick wash and brush up and we ventured out into the Barcelona Streets it was 3pm local time and we had the rest of the day to experience the culture of this great City. Thankfully both myself and Al had both experienced Barcelona’s many cultural sights on previous visits so we found the first bar we could find and remained consistent with our beverage of choice.
Al looks quizzical as he utters the phrase ‘Dos Cervezas Por Favor’
After visiting a couple of local hostelries we decided that a seat in one of Las Ramblas’ many walkway bars was in order as we sat down and once again uttered the immortal ‘Dos Cervezas…’ to the waiter although as he walked away I noticed an evil glint in his eye - up to now we’d been paying about 8 to 10 euro’s for two beers. As I looked over to see where our waiter was I noticed two glasses full to the brim with San Miguel making there way over the road towards us the waiter struggling to carry them. Three quarters of an hour and two litres of beer later we were charged 20 euro’s for the priviledge of wading through more beer in a single glass than I (and some of the people who had their photo’s taken with us!) had ever seen.
Everything else is all but a blur - although I can recall being approached by some extremely scary ‘ladies of the night’ and it’s fair to say that if our hands were as adventurous as theirs as we walked (and subsequently sprinted) past the two of them we’d have spent the night in a cell. In fact the question ‘Blow job or Fuck?’ was probably the next most asked question in Barcelona that weekend just pipped to the top spot by ‘Why is Steve McClaren England Manager?’.
A day of Consitency as the night draws to a close
All That Jazz
Last weekend I was forced to cancel my Debit Card - Blame for the cancellation can be apportioned to juggling a bottle of Evian, MCN, a box of Wrigleys Extra and a VAT receipt out of Exeter Services on a cold Thursday morning - something had to be dropped and that something was my card which unfortunately slipped between the grating on the forecourt manhole cover, swam on the surface water for a nano second before disappearing out of sight. This event meant that (amongst other things!) I’ve been unable to use the saved card number in my online betting account to withdraw any winnings. Don’t get me wrong there’s not a substantial amount in there but the balance has hit three figures recently (and I’m not talking £2.67p). This mundane piece of information will explain the following…
21 March 2007
After a night experiencing the best hospitality that any Parents could offer which included…
Stella Artois
Vintage Red
Presents from Abercrombie
Steak the size of the national debt of Bolivia
KatiesCauliflowerCheese ©
Brandy
Swisher Sweets (not contrary to popular belief an After Dinner Mint)
…it was safe to say that as I got home and poured myself an Aberlour I was having the perfect evening.
Why I chose to turn the laptop on, open up my favourites, choose ‘betting accounts’, sign in and place a bet on Utah Jazz who were on a losing streak of 0-4 beating the Golden State Warriors who conversely were on a winning streak of 7-1 was beyond me. The odds were crap, the result questionable and before I questioned my sanity my stake was 80 quid.
I woke up this morning and realised the error of my ways and after dropping Rosie off at my Mum ‘n Dad’s I rushed to work swearing at traffic lights (for changing red at inopportune moments), fellow commuters (for being just that) and Talk Sport (comprehensive results service my arse - where’s the review of the evenings NBA action!?).
I pulled up at work turned on my computer and checked the NBA Website for the evenings results.
After trailing for most of the game the Jazz outscored the Warriors 28 - 18 in the final quarter to triumph 104 - 100 and thankfully increase the balance of my betting account.
The MVP (or ‘Man of the Match’ for all you anglophiles) of the evening? Carlos Boozer - I can’t help feeling that there’s a subtle message in there somewhere.
Snooze Lose - Booze Win
The Domestic
17 March 2006
I live in a small quiet suburban cul de sac where absoloutely sod all happens - if someone plays music loud it’ll be ‘cos they’re seeing if their speakers can cope with Il Divo at half Max volume - it really is THAT boring. I love it.
Last night at 8ish I was chucking an empty bottle of wine into the bin and heard a commotion at the door of the house at the entrance to the cul de sac. A bloke was banging on the door and was shouting something along the lines of…
‘Let Me In you F*ckingLittle Bitch’ to the owner of the house who is a single woman in her late 30’s. I immediately assumed it was a bit of a prank as the domestic bliss of the cul de sac doesn’t attract anyone who would use any sort of potty mouth.
As the door opened and he walked in I thought nothing of it until a second later when I heard screams and yells that didn’t seem to be prompted by a bit of jovial banter. I chucked the wine bottle in the general vicinity of the bin and sprinted across to the house and ran in using my spidey sense to locate the vicinity of the yelling.
This took me to the Kitchen where I opened the door to see the female homeowner on the floor with an upturned bin over her lap and a banana skin draped comically on her head. The bloke was bent over her shouting obscenities and I instinctively gave him the quick up ‘n down look and thought to myself…
‘Yeah, no probs, i can take this bird battering Tosspot’
I grabbed him pulled him away and from his bent over 4 foot 6 inch stance he grew to a mammoth 9 foot 3 inches (OK 6 foot plus - anyway he was a damn sight bloody bigger than my 5 foot 10 inch frame).
The next words I heard were…
‘Who the fucks this? Your fockin’ Sugar Daddy!?’
As he turned his attention to me I was slowly stating ‘Calm down Pal, Calm Down. I live across the road’. What I should’ve said was ‘Fockin’ Sugar Daddy you cheeky twat - I’m bloody MILES younger than you and I also look younger than her on the floor with the bloody banana on her head.’
He started going on about her doing the dirty on him and he wanted his dishwasher, beanbag and hoover back (I’ve precis’d his statement and left out the ‘focks’, ‘bitches’, ‘frigs’ and ‘c - words’ purely to save myself getting typographical RSI).
After a few minutes discussion I felt sufficiently comfortable to get the lady off the floor as the bloke ran out of breath (and profanities). I took her outside so she could get a rest from the tirade of abuse that was spouting from his mouth. Removing the banana from her head I asked her the stupidest question in the world…
‘Are you OK Love?’ her response was to break down in tears on my shoulder. These tears were somewhat shortlived however as a beanbag came out of the top window and landed where the banana had once rested. Next the hoover flew out of the front door followed by a few attatchments but this was peanuts to what was to happen next.
He disappeared past the front door back into the kitchen and I assume after rapidly gulping down a tin of Spinach came striding out carrying a Hotpoint front loader dishwasher, plumbing pipes trailing behind him, water pissing out of the kitchen from where the pipes had once been attached.
Then the Fuzz arrived - Two wagons flew into the culdesac and Bodie, Doyle, Starsky and Hutch all piled out and careered into the house hands ‘n legs flayling as they slid all over the water soaked laminate flooring.
Thankfully Juliet Bravo accompanied the Keystone Cops and she took the jibbering wreck of a lady away to comfort her leaving me to clean up the smashed wine bottle that had missed my wheely bin by bloody miles.
Blinky
13 March 2007
The annual www.steveqpr.co.uk trip to Cheltenham Races was an unsuccessful affair for this author. The highlight of the day was a Tuna and Mayonnaise foot long honey ‘n Mustard french stick from Subway on the way home which doesn’t say much about Subway but says a helluva lot for my tipping prowess which started at the first race in the gutter disappeared along some poo infested sewers during the second and third races and ended up in a reservoir between a Nuclear Power Station waste outlet and compost farm waste pipe at the fourth and fifth.
Both of the above frequent the same spawning ground
Thankfully I was saved by Gaspara who on the last race of the day opened up an unassailable lead after the first fence and was the only fancied horse to put in a performance that his pre-race billing had given him. This win just about gave me back what little credibility I started with and thankfully didn’t give me the record that Al now holds of having been to a race meeting and not picked out a winner in any of the races.
After having one winner Beester once again did his usual trick of informing everyone on the race course that he was Gloucester’s very own Betting Maestro. Those that listened were suitable impressed, not by this revealation but by his uncanny impression of Foghorn Leghorn after a few beers. Still, myself nor Al could hardly criticise. After being told for the umpteenth time by Gloucester’s self proclaimed Gambling Supremo that we should have gone ‘each fockin way’ he rubbed our noses in the dirt by doing just that and picking out 50/1 shot Zilcash in the final race scooping up a tidy £175.00 to add to his earlter winnings.
Didn’t They Do Well
11 March 2006
‘This is Paula Radcliffe. Congratulations you’ve just registered a personal best for the mile.’
Even though the aforementioned commentary has come from a bird that shits in the crowded streets of the Nations Capital I’m still happy to publish it on these pages - Let’s face it this website has seen worse revelations.
The time also applies to Rosie who despite being up at seven this morning for her walk around Crickley and also wolfing down 2 tins of Winalot and half a toasted hot cross bun managed to keep a steady pace with me and is gradually getting used to keeping a consistent cadence. In fact (despite the usual poo stop) she’s worth her weight in gold when it comes to the final incline approaching home, as my steps fade she pulls me on and urges me to keep pace with her.
The time, 7mins 46secs for the mile (followed by a 7m 56s) was down to my efforts of actually sitting down at the computer and formulating a playlist on i Tunes purely for running as opposed to having a random selection which, as documented in the Shuggy Otis Episode, is enough to stop me in my tracks when a mellow tune comes on.
So, to use a Bruce Forsythism (or even a Chandler Bingism if you’re a ‘Friends’ Fan)…
Bruce Springsteen - ‘Good Game’
Mary J. Blige - ‘Good Game’
The Stone Roses - ‘Good Game’
112 - ‘Good Game’
2 Pac - ‘Good Game’
The Beastie Boys - ‘Good Game’
Spiller - ‘Good Game’
Extreme Rambling
03 March 2007
‘It’s impossible to get lost in England anymore…’ www.steveqpr.co.uk 03/03/2007, 4.58pm
‘Excuse me can you tell me where we are?’ www.steveqpr.co.uk 03/03/2007, 6.44pm
‘2 miles from your required destination and heading in the wrong direction’ Owner of Farm House, Stanborough Lane, Gloucestershire 03/03/2007 6.45pm
Local knowledge means absolutely bugger all when you’ve been walking for six and a half hours, you’ve just latched and unlatched the 82nd gate of the day and the moon’s casting an eerie glow across the rolling fields in front of you.
How did we get to the point where I took it upon myself to swallow my pride, knock on the door of a farm in the middle of nowhere and ask for our current whereabouts?
I expect to be asking myself that question for years to come however for the benefit of the few that read this site (and for posterity’s sake) I’ll do my best to explain the days events.
It all started off so well, we’d gone to meet Michelle (or ‘Shellbab’ to give her her new Glawster colloquial name), Chip and Lucy (Shell’s Springer Spaniel) who’d popped down from Surrey for a weekend at a cottage in the peaceful Cotswold village of Naunton
The plan was to take the dogs for a walk to tire them out during the day and then retire for an evening meal at the Black Horse Inn back at the Village where a table was booked for 7.30 pm.
After a brief search of the Internet I decided on the aptly named Black Horse Walk as although we weren’t starting in Bourton it didn’t matter as the Black Horse Inn was en route and it looked like a nice way to tire the dogs out whilst experiencing the scenic hills and secluded countryside that the Cotswolds has to offer.
After a hearty breakfast comprising Drippers and… erm… that’s it. We set off at Midday expecting to return at approximately 4.30ish refreshed and ready for Final Score, a glass of Châteauneuf du Pape (7 quid at Tesco’s at the moment - fill your boots) and our Evening Meal.
The first photo of the day was taken and it was comically suggested that we ponder over the map and its’ contents - we weren’t to know that this would be a piece of prophetic posturing that would come back not just to bite us in the backside but to take great big chunks from both butt cheeks, tenderise them with a jack hammer, oven cook them until golden brown and serve them up in a kebab with chilli sauce and a bit of salad for a gaggle of drunken cannibals to consume…
After a bit of discussion where no-one was willing to assume the mantle of Official Map Reader Len decided to take the helm and we began walking, passing an elderly couple who Len shocked as she immediately set the tone of the day by requesting that the Gentleman chuck her in a bath and give her a good scrub down - despite her protestations that she actually meant our Dogs he seemed more than willing to get his hands dirty but she declined his offer although it appeared that his wife was more than a willing (if a little less able bodied) volunteer.
Following an hour and a half of walking where we’d already got lost once we were beginning to think that the Map might not be all it was cracked up to be. The phrase ‘NOT TO SCALE’ that appeared boldly on the page was probably the clearest clue that it was a surefire case of the blind leading the blind and as it transpired it was probably one of the most plainly obvious statements made since the Captain of the Titanic said ‘That Iceberg just glanced off our bow’.
Two hours in and we came across some Horsey type ladies who bore the Horsey Hatrick of Jodphurs, Moustaches and Wax Jackets - I showed them the Map and their comments were a little disturbing to say the least the phrases ‘Faaarkin Miles’, ‘Not to Scale’, and ‘Allow three days for Completion’ were banded around but thankfully they got us back on track but not before we realised that the day had the potential to go completely tits up if we weren’t careful.
After passing a couple of blokes in a 4×4 in the middle of nowhere (the general consensus was that they were up to no good but in a posh way) we came across our first fellow walkers of the day wearing the complete stock of Army and Navy Stores plus whatever they had in their rucksacks - as we were sporting a collection of coats, hats and a piece of paper that, although we were still calling it ‘The Map’ might as well have been in braille, I was beginning to feel rather underprepared. Unfortunately it was then that the Map lulled us into a false sense of security as we miraculously came across a road AND landmark that featured on it.
Like the Jedi in Episode III of Star Wars we had discovered a New Hope and decided that the bloody thing could be trusted again.
Back on track we followed paths, gates, through sodden mud soaked fields and finally arrived at Lower Slaughter where we pleaded with the owner of a Museum to let us in for a warm coffee and piece of cake.
We were asked to clean our shoes although thankfully he pretended to not notice the trail of mud that we were treading throughout his small Museum despite our efforts with the provided brush. The owner showed us through the tradesmans entrance and we sat down and were served some welcome refreshments - by this time we’d been walking for approximately three hours and weren’t even half way.
We’d passed a group of Ramblers one of whom was sporting a green velour tracksuit the waistband of which was ‘pulled up to her baps’ to quote Len - we all agreed that this was an accurate asessment. What we weren’t to know however was that we’d see this lady (on we assumed her 2nd lap) on the route that we were doing which would prompt the questions ‘Where are we going wrong?’ and ‘Can you get matching crampons to go with the velour when the going gets tough?’
As the hours ticked by our hopes were raised when we saw a sign indicating that Naunton was only 4 miles away - that’s when things started to wrong. Buoyed by the sign Len upped the pace and as we passed Green Velour woman for a second time the optimism that we were homeward bound increased our moral which prompted a tribute to the Ramblers in the form of a bit of Gangstas Paradise Hip Hop…
‘They been spending most their lives living in the Ramblers Paradise’ sung (as Chip mentioned) by Cagoolio (sic)
At one point in these last couple of hours we were probably only approximately half a mile from our destination but as the dark began to infiltrate the blue sky and the map became less visible we must’ve taken wrong turn after wrong turn through the fields and thankfully as the moon rose above us we spotted a road in the distance that we walked to and then the Farm containing the people that were to be our saviours!
After being told that we were heading in the wrong direction and we were a couple of miles away from Naunton we sat on the ladies drive and she attempted to put on her kindest voice possible suggesting that we weren’t that far away really (we were!) and that we’d done pretty well with the map that we were using (we hadn’t!).
She served us some drinks and called her husband who was out picking up a take away curry (Christ knows where from as civilisation was hardly just a stones throw away) and he agreed to take us back to our Cottage.
Ali and his wife (I’m afraid due to my dehydration, stupidity and weariness I can’t remember her name) were fantastic and had the four of us and two muddy wet dogs in their car and back to Naunton within 10 minutes – we couldn’t express our gratitude in any form other than verbal although both Bab’s (Len and Michelle) said that they’d be more than willing to give Ali a bit of physical access as he was a bit of a hotty.
We eventually arrived home at 7pm after being out for exactly 7 hours and walking approximately 14 miles – next time I’ll stay at home and take the dogs out on a treadmill.
The Route - The RED square indicates our start point, the GREEN square indicates our finish…
Sofa not So Good
02 March 2007
‘Ex-girlfriend, how you been? I see you still tryin to fuck with other women men,
Remember when I first met you in my cousin’s house, a week later we was fuckin on your Mommas couch’ - Break Ups 2 Make Ups, Method Man
Strong words from Meth there but I quote them knowing that my couch frustrations are well worth a teeny bit of potty mouth…
My first mistake was putting our (now) old sofa in the paper the week after we ordered our new leather one - You see I thought that if we were lucky it would take at least four or five weeks to sell, if we weren’t that fortunate then we’d have to stick it in the Garage after the new one had been delivered and play the wating game.
‘The Waiting Game Sucks, Lets play Hungry Hungry Hippos’
Unfortunately for us the Citizen Free Ads worked like clockwork and we had a call on the first night that the Advertisement appeared. No problem I thought I’ll stall the bloke, if he likes it we can barter a bit and it might at least buy us a few weeks. Then there’s the problem of transporting it if we do agree a price, he’s gonna have to sort out some transport for two 2-seaters, they’re not gonna fit in your average 4×4 so that’s another week at least.
As the big white transit rolled up our driveway an hour after the phone call and the doorbell rang I knew that my plan was spiralling out of control. The door opened, a neanderthal in denims appeared confirmed the advertised price in the paper, pulled out a roll of notes that a successful punter at the Cheltenham Festival would’ve been proud of and paid me the full asking price without a flinch. I helped him load the sofa’s into the back of his wagon and he drove off.
As I entered the house I saw the cold, uninviting, gaping space that once comfortably housed our Sofa’s. It was 6 weeks and counting to our estimated delivery date for the new ones - I did what any other bloke would’ve done, opened a can of Stella and trudged to the shed to get the deckchairs out.
Four months of inactivity is sufficient in a deckchairs life to accomodate spiders, cobwebs, ants and a brown sticky liquid that stains newly painted walls when it splashes across the floor and splatters up them - I immediately learnt this lesson as soon as I got the bloody things in the house.
We’ve now spent 7 weeks on the soddin’ things and my back has aged in dog years since we’ve been using them. After numerous phone calls to SCS our revised delivery date is the 20th March although ‘This is only an estimate Sir’.
The Worlds Longest Sofa is only a Three Seater