Is Kevin Painter pound-for-pound the angriest man in Britain? I suspect so. So angry in fact that his face has morphed physically to express anger at all times regardless of his mood.
I suspect he gets his aggravated countenance from his father who looks to me to be of very questionable stock. It wouldn't surprise me if he was a pig farmer for example - see the movie Snatch for relevance.
Anyway, I've backed overs 125.5 on how many times Painter will lick his fingers before his throws. This is buying money as he takes at least four licks when he's on a double or needs to psyche himself up, which is almost always.
Oh yeah, I accidentally layed the boy Hamilton just now when I was intending to back him. I thought I'd have a cheeky £5 on him at whatever it was 4.5 and £17 disappeared from my balance. Oops. Still you've got to laugh, the close games are going my way at the moment, it's just a shame I didn't try and wager cabillions on the dumpy fat man from the potteries.
Brett Lee / Simon WhitlockMeanwhile, there was something else I needed to mention, but I've forgotten what it was so, as you were until I remember...
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Cricketer of the day.. Graeme Swann
Chin Chin: Graeme Swann yesterdayI recommend you follow young Swanny on Twitter, he has some intriguing things to say: Graeme Swann
: Labels: Sport
This dude who allegedly tried to blow up a plane the other day when it had landed in Detroit - he was no more a threat to that plane and it's passengers than a fat man's fart and the CIA, FBI, DIY and MFI know it.
He was probably just preparing a rolly so he could have a smoke after a long flight. They make a big deal out of this sort of thing though don't they. They manufacture these little episodes to keep us all scared. They need stuff like this to occur to maintain this simmering level of paranoia amongst us so to keep this nonsense war on terror alive.
It's why they've never caught Bin Laden. They always let him get away when they've had a chance to have the dish-dash wearing som'bitch standing tall before the man. If they caught him, this war on terror would be over in the eyes of the general public, so they need him to remain at large.
They know Al-Qeada exists only between the pages of the newspapers - there is no Al-Qeada with a headquarters and a leader and a flag and headed stationery and a website, it's just a bullshit made up organisation for us to all focus our anger towards like Emmanuel Goldstein in Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four.
So yes, this Abdulmutallab fella, this is how much bullshit this whole thing is. The US "Intelligence" dudes have two lists for terrorists - one has about 500,000 names on it - Mr Abdulmutallab being one of them - and to have your name added to it you just need to have worn sandals and let off a firework on holiday somewhere.
The second list is much smaller and is for the scarier types who the US consider too dangerous to let them on planes bound for the US. But right, but, the only way to get on this list is blow a plane up or be caught in the process of blowing a plane up. The 9/11 bombers for example are on this list - I suspect they won't re-offend though.
Do you remember the shoe bomber? He's on that list. Did anyone ever actually test his bomb to see if it would have worked? No. And those liquid bombs? They tested those, but they didn't go as far as to test whether you could reasonably build one on a flight.
Bastards, trying to pull the wool over our eyes. All this means is just a shittier journey for the rest of us. They're talking about banning those in-flight map things so you can't track the plans progress and also considering locking toilets an hour from landing, which in my experience is when you're most likely to need a piss. We'll all have to collect our luggage with piss streaked trousers.
It won't be long before we're flying in those orange boiler suits, after being strip searched and placed on planes blind-folded and sensory deprived for the whole journey, fucking terrifying. Still, as long as we win this war on terror it'll all be worth it.
Torres: did me a favour, but still go back to Spain pleaseI happened to have a few shillings on the Bears to beat Minnesota last night. Very close victory it was too in OT after Chicago looked to be running away with it. As we speak though, the close games are going my way.
Now then, it's very rare that Arsenal, Chelsea, Manchester United and Liverpool all win in the same round of fixtures. However, we're at that time of the year where Martin O'Neil's seasonal lunacy kicks in and his team disintegrates (O'Neil was seen last night flapping about on his office floor apparently gasping for air), so I felt this week just might be the time to place a shrewd £7.50 wager on the 'old top 4' acca, which pays just enough for me to buy as many crumpets as I'll need for the harsh winter months ahead.
O'Neil: am I a fish?I shouldn't bet on Arsenal of course as it's only my boys that can mess this up for me now. Hopefully Avram Grant will be having his salad tossed by a Thai illegal as we speak and forget about his team selection.
I'm breaking with a betting superstition here, but all one can do is back ones own judgment no? Whatever will be will be. Much like Avram Grant, you pays your money and you takes your choice.
: Labels: Betting, Football
It appears I am moving. An unhinged paranoid schizophrenic friend of mine has been able to persuade an elderly couple that they'd be much happier if they swapped their cozy two bedroom centrally heated bungalow for a drafty room in a poorly run institution.
Alice and Howard: happy about their relocationSo anyway yes..carry on.
It's been an indifferent weekend I don't mind telling you. I've ventured outside twice since Christmas day and come home disappointed both times. It's staying indoors for me now until at least January 4th...2035 no 3035 hahahahahahaha.
So anyway..on Saturday the Pigeon's Quiz ended in utter chaos. We lost by just a single point...again! Very controversial circumstances denied us a win. It made heavyweight boxing title fights in Vegas look like Scrabble night at the Women's Institute.
With just one question between us and quizzing immortality, we were asked the simple question.."What was the 2009 Christmas No.1." Paulie two thumbs had the answer down before quiz master Colin had finished asking the question; "Killing in the name of"... Simples.
But no..he gave the answer as "Rage against the machine," the name of the band!! We asked for confirmation..did he want the name of the song or the band? The song he replied, the song the song. Several teams had given the band name as the answer..much sighing and confusion ensued, a fight broke out in the lounge bar, a woman fainted, my mother played with her Christmas cracker spinning top toy.
In the end it was decreed "IT'S CHRISTMAS 2pts FOR EVERYONE." Pandemonium. Windows were broken, glasses were smashed, a herd of buffalo stampeded through the main bar, Stevie V.01 broke his pencil, my Mother continued playing with her Christmas cracker spinning top oblivious to the surrounding uproar. Ultimately though, we were refused what was rightfully ours.
After the police and stewards had regained control we were kept in losers corner until the rest of the bar was cleared and finally escorted out and to our vehicles an hour or so later and were home by 1am, although I'm told fighting did continue in the town centre deep into the small hours of Sunday morning.
You said you wanted the fucking song title: Angry quizzers remonstrating with quiz master ColinThe next one is in January and has already been declared a category A quiz by Thames Valley police. If Saturday's ugly scenes are to be avoided, quiz master Colin has got to start using the technology available to him and start checking his answers before the off or take Jeremy Paxman like control of the game and announce beforehand that his answers are Scripture, rightly or wrongly, otherwise the 'Respect Campaign' has been for nothing.
We returned to the scene of the crime tonight for the more sedate but no less baffling Poker. I played a shocker. My second shocker in two nights. In my defense I've missed a couple of games and everyone had changed styles for tonight I can only assume as some terribly unfair practical joke on me.
Steve Peachy was looser than a student nurse on New Years eve for example and it was all too much for me. I took a painful shellacking and was back in losers corner before my buttock indents had had time to smooth out from the night before.
Relax this won't hurt a bit.There was the small consolation that Ronnie "the lamb" Baxter had given Dreamboy a slaughtering in the darts winning me a few quid. It's a shame of course for Paulie two thumbs that his relationship with Anderson will now end before it really began, as he'll surely have to concede now that he's just not the man he thought he was.
It's a shame it has to end like this of course, Paul's a mate and I don't want to see him hurt, but these things always end badly, otherwise they wouldn't end. It's for the best in the long run. And it's better to have loved and to have lost than to have never hit a double in a televised tournament. I think you know what I'm trying to say.
Ronnie Baxter: the latest average dart player to make Dreamboy look rubbishThese bets would be enough to finance a stab at a WSOP $1000 event should they come in and I see no reason at this point why I shouldn't be allowed to collect now just in case it goes tits up.
In other news..with the new year just around the corner it's time to start placing those, "first celeb to die in 2010" bets. Surely Ferguson's heart must be on the brink of bursting?
I hope it erupts just as he's berating a fourth official for not adding enough injury time. God works in ironic ways so I fancy Him to blow the final whistle on Ferguson early doors in January and I'll be having £20 on at odds of 75/1.
Through a combination of James Bond films, war films and 12 crumpets we've managed to see off Christmas Day for another year. Phew. It was touch and go for a moment, but I was able to spend Friday cocooned in warm nightwear at home in complete isolation from the mess of familial obligations and celebrity based TV specials which destroys so many souls up and down the country every December 25th.
Of course, it'll be several weeks before we'll be able to go near a shop for the throngs of bargain hunters willing to lay down their very lives to secure that discounted Kenwood mixer and egg whisk - but as long as I have access to the sammich sto' and they don't run out of crumpets we should be OK.
Shoppers: gahAlways a tragedy when this happens, but it is of course Boyle's fifth law of the Universe that when a chap enters into a relationship he immediately forgets about his pals, his compadres, his fellow mob members, his amigos.
It won't last of course. I don't know Gary Anderson, but he looks like the shallow type to me. I've tried to tell Paul. To explain to him. Even if you were actually to meet him Paul, I said, he'd just use you, use you like a piece of meat, that's all you'll get from the likes of Anderson.
Would he listen? Would he 'eck as fuck. We've all been there of course. So we'll just have to let him make his own mistakes and be there for him at the end to help him pick up the pieces of a shattered life and a broken heart.
Gary Anderson: Wham bam thank you misterSo who is this Premier League manager keen on frequenting brothels? It would have to be a very ugly bastard, miserable of demeanor. Probably someone not making a huge salary elsewise he'd be able to afford a classier and more discreet rendezvous, so he's probably in charge of a cash strapped club. Hmm..who could it be I wonder?
Oh well who cares? Silly tabloid nonsense. I'm not interested. Anyway, so I was just watching Sky Sports News; isn't Avram Grant an ugly bastard? So miserable of demeanor. He's clearly an OK manager and came within a missed a penalty of winning the Champions League with Chelsea, but it's got to be his looks and demeanor that have lost him the job at Chelsea and forced him to move to cash strapped Portsmouth.
Grant: Ugly and not making that much money..the driver of this police car.
If you were reading my blog earlier in the year you will be aware my last trip to Vegas was a rather disappointing affair. Partly through playing badly, partly through many soul destroying bad beats, but mostly because I felt awful physically. I had vowed never to go back in fact as it was such a struggle. Where Vegas is concerned however, the 'never say never' maxim is scripture.
My new found lung function has coincided with the publishing of the 2010 WSOP schedule and if I didn't know better I'd wonder if the WSOP dudes weren't specifically attempting to tease me into their Amazon room by including a series of mouth wateringly affordable $1000 games to their schedule.
I can hear her, hear her calling me. Calling me from deep within the neon lit desert night. I've heard that seductive voice before though people and it's not Lady Luck. You think it is, you're convinced it is, but it's that cruel pokering Siren luring me to my doom. I can't resist her though. I'm just not strong enough. Cherche Richie, cherche la Femme, dans la nuit.
Let it snow let it snow let it snow
It took me almost half an hour to negotiate my way to the sammich shop and back yesterday. Crazy! I did stop to have my hair cut on the way back of course, but still, this damned weather is getting my dander up...not because of the tricky driving conditions though.
What raises my dander so, is how we have the nerve to whinge about weather that is completely uncontrollable. This collective pomposity is at it's most extreme when it snows. I've done this myself of course so rest assured I've spent this morning giving myself a severe reprimanding.
In South East Asia they have typhoons and hurricanes and earth quakes that wipe out cabillions of people at a time. They feel the full force of Mother Nature's wrath annually and yet we have the nerve to get all uppity because the snow has made it impossible for us to go to France for the weekend or get to work - and that's the same work most people spend all year complaining about anyway. There's just no pleasing some people.
Are we really so arrogant that we can't accept that we are not the Guv'nors of this planet - Mummy Nature is in charge and when she wants to remind of this, there's nothing any of us can do about it, not me not you, not Al Gore and not even Berkshire county council regardless of how many gritters they have.
A road gritter yesterdayGlobal warming might very well be in effect, but to insist for even a minute that it's us that have caused it and the science is settled - even if that minute came while under the influence of whiskey and night nurse - is arrogance beyond and above anything you'll ever see from a Premier League footballer even Glenn Hoddle. It's a whole new level of arrogance and conceit in fact.
Let's not forget first of all, that these same science boffins who are leading the charge were sending badly hand written letters to Richard Nixon in the 60's and 70's about the coming of a new ice age! Up until the 90's the science boffin "consensus" was of global cooling, it's only very recently they've decided it's actually warming up.
It's bullshit, they discovered they could receive vast funding with this kind of Chicken Little scaremongering and when it became clear the global cooling idea was nonsense, they did an about face and started off again with the global warming prophesies of doom. As we all know - once the politicians get involved the actual truth falls by the wayside. One in particular, Al Gore, saw an opportunity in all this for some tom foolery and was so convincing he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize!
Al Gore: Hooray, you're even showing my bullshit movie tokids in schools, I'm rich beyond my wildest dreams. Suckers!
We're an ocean planet. The most voluminous (is that a word? Biggest anyway..) green house gas by miles is water vapour and there's noffin we can do about that. And also, even if CO2 was an issue, something like 95% of the CO2 emissions come from the ocean too.
These AGW campaigner dudes have started calling people like me "deniers." That's the sort of language your honest to goodness basic Islamic extremist uses. It's never followed by a constructive debate, just a stoning to death in the town centre.
It's very worrying when people use this kind of language in any walk of life, but especially so when it's coming from the science community. Science is never settled. Science just shows us that somethings, beyond a reasonable doubt, are so. I think Picard of the Enterprise said that and he should know. Science offers up theories and repeatedly tries to disprove them, there's never any absolutes in the science game.
I'm not a denier. I just have reasonable doubts and I also don't care if there is a serious problem anyway. The sooner we're done away with, the better off the galaxy will be is what I've always said.
What I'm saying people, is that we've been on this planet for about 40 seconds in relative terms, so for us to assume we're capable of messing this place up for good is utter utter nonsense. We'd do well to remind ourselves of this once in a while. So let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. A bit of humble pie might chill us out and make us nicer people.
Well now, I made my Rambo like return to pokering war this evening. I didn't win. I sort of made it through the first few waves of Russians but ultimately failed to make it back to base with the Mercan POW's. I did make it home with a tin of biscuits though so all was not lost.
Every player got a wee prize see, like a raffle cause it's Christmas and as anyone who has read his Bible knows, the shepherds and three wise science boffins celebrated the birth of the baby Jesus with a packet of custard creams.
Ironically I got a tin of biscuits last year too. I do love biscuits. I'd have preferred £1000 but still, you can't put a price on a full stomach...well I suppose if you added up how much your dinner cost you could, but you get what I'm trying to say no?
On the way home Heart radio were playing a couple of hours of soppy records which included one of Ronan Keatng's efforts - "When you say nothing at all." It's a standard slow song and that, pleasant enough, but what really is he trying to say in this song people? What, what, what is the message? It sounds to me like he's suggesting he prefers his girlfriend when she isn't talking. So in essence this song:
I'm predicting a 3-2 victory to the boy Jamie Caven (I think this is his name) who plays Dreamboy Anderson this evening while Paulie 'Two Thumbs' Townsend wrestles with his conflicting emotions.
I've just been watching Star Trek: The Next Generation, Geordi was attempting to restore warp power by completely realigning the plasma conduits feeding the warp coils, silly twat. Everyone knows you just need to adjust the concentration of the dilithium in the warp core crystals and wait for them to slowly take effect. I know he's blind, but how could he not see that? He's Chief Engineer of the Enterprise for crying out loud!
Geordi: blind twatIt's because Geordi's approach to engineering is much the same as the string of cabillionaire football club owners' attempts to buy the Premiership. You'd think winning the Premier League would be easy if money was no option, just buy in a job lot of super-stars and sit back and enjoy. The theory is often so different from the realty.
As far as I can remember, the only team that's successfully managed to "buy" the league was Blackburn and that was during a period of significantly annoying domination by Manchester United that essentially meant you just needed to do better than them to win it.
They squeaked home and then were relegated soon after. Producing a team that can be competitive over a decade, like restoring warp power, takes patience. Even if you're being attacked by the Borg and whatever the footballing equivalent of that is - being pursued by Manchester United probably.
Mark Hughes was never the man for the job at City. When you've got close to a billion pounds to spend on a football club the very last thing you ought to do is give the authority to spend it to a man who's mental dexterity is akin to one of those sorry sombitches you read about in the Daily Mail who go into hospital for a hernia operation and come out paralysed from the eye-balls down with a mushed up brain after having an anaesthetic injected into their spine by accident by an agency nurse or BTEC student on work experience. You may as well have given the job to Christopher Reeves even if he is dead. Is he dead? He is isn't he?
Reevsie: as good as HughesyFortunately for supporters of Championship contender clubs i.e. Arsenal and Chelsea - the A-rabs have replaced him with his Italian counterpart and not someone good. Phew...there was a real danger they might have picked someone decent and challenged for the title, but no they've just repeated their initial mistake which should see City finishing outside the top four.
We've seen two examples this week of why this incarnation of English football is rubbish compared to it's golden era of the early 80's - when shiny kits and big tashes were the norm and a central defender had to 'Reeves' a striker before he was shown a yellow card. Footballers still earned a wage that could fit on one sheet of his pay slip and John Motson was just beginning his decent into lunacy.
Richard Keys seemed genuinely perplexed and angry even, that Wolves had put out a second eleven against Manchester United in mid-week. More so in fact than when I quizzed him some years ago about his prejudice towards Arsenal and asked his partner if she likes to do it doggy doggy.
Keys' is for all intents and purposes a cave-man in a shiny suit, so perhaps we shouldn't be too hard on him, but since I know someone reads my blog to him - let me explain to him why his comments were rather duplicitous.
Keysie, why do you hate Arsenal?: Me giving Richard Keys a piece of my mind while craftily drinking in the rich natural aromas of his 'partner' .One's Premier League status has become so important that one has to do whatever is necessary to secure it. Even if it means offering up a game to the punters that is dead as a contest from the kick-off. A sound long-term strategy, but diluting the quality product Sky purports our football to be.
It's also the monies that encourage players to cheat and so often turns the game into a farcical charade - that turns the game into a product if you will. There was none of this in the early 80's. And it's also a myth that the game is more skillful today. It may be faster and the players fitter and more oily of face, but it's not more skillful.
Load up the You-Tubes and watch a game from that era and I'm telling you it's like slipping back into the loving embrace of an ex-girlfriend and enjoying the natural moist warmth of her fleshy goodness after spending many years sating your sexual appetite with expensively bought sex, negotiated and cynical and lubricated by KY jelly and similar emollients.
I think you know what I'm trying to say. I'll bid you good morning.
: Labels: Football, Nonsense, TV
It's mine! No, it's mine you feekin' eejit: Hull players - recognising this is almost certainly the last time they will play at the Emirates - grapple for Samir Nasri's shirt.Dole in two hours, you're on the dole in two hours..
It's always the way - you pop out for a chicken Tikka Masala wrap and six crumpets and when you leave the sto after not more than two minutes, there's a freakin blizzard in progress.
I've been dreading these weathers. Not because they make access to the sammich sto difficult, but because of the tedious weather reports on the news.
Every time it snows the news channels all send a team of stiffs out to the most effected areas to stand by a road where traffic has slowed to a crawl to let us all know that it's snowing.
This example of 'no shit Sherlock' reporting is something I can manage without and I'd be much happier if they gave advice on how to keep bread fresh over a prolonged period for people like myself who may have to make his own sammiches for three maybe four days in a row.
"It's snowing here, back to you in the studio."I've discovered that I have no rhythm and lessons promise to be long and hard. I hope though, with patience, I'll be able to play 'Row, row, row your boat' and maybe even 'Twinkle, twinkle little star' before frustration sets in and I smash the thing to pieces and turn to drink instead.
Good morning, so I've finished my course of antibiotics and I am much improved. If only the wider world had improved with me. If only. If only. Yes yes yes..gloom gloom gloom. Gordon Brown is still fumbling his way through his Premiership - ruining things here, destroying things there and sadly David Cameron is still alive and well.
The country is still bankrupt, the war continues and Christmas approaches with all the promise and good cheer of a kidney stone operation. The weather is cold and unforgiving. Snow today they say. Damned global warming. It's a good job they're having that summit in Copenhagen to address theses balmy temperatures as I'm running out of Cornetto's.
* * *
It arrived on a lorry that had a police escort as it was so big. Rather than a dinky little craft on which I thought I'd be able to whizz about on Farmoor reservoir, it was akin to the kind of thing that carries 200 people across the channel in 25 minutes. The propeller things were like something off the space shuttle.
The absurdity of my purchase made me laugh heartily and this in fact was what woke me up. Indeed I was still laughing hysterically some moments after I had awoken. I do so love to laugh like that, it happens so rarely, but once I was fully awake it suddenly didn't seem quite so funny and I felt a bit of a twat. I then made some tea and tried to think of something else to banish my embarrassment.
Sport now - I'm amused by Wolves' fans complaining about the ten team changes made before last night’s game against Manchester United from the team that beat Tottenham on Saturday. I know that Wolves' fans read my blog so let me just address them directly for a moment.
If we’re honest with ourselves Wolves' people, if we look deep within our souls for the truth, what we find there is that when you bought your tickets for the Manchester United match you bought them because you wanted to watch Manchester United’s players. You wanted to see Wayne Rooney and Ryan Giggs and experience Old Trafford and just have a day out. Your own team's selections were essentially irrelevant.
I know you beat Spurs away, but once you took the lead in that game in the 3rd minute you were hanging on for grim death for the remaining 87 minutes – there was no real chance of Wolves achieving a similar result at Old Trafford.
There were only three of you who traveled to Manchester genuinely believing there was a chance of a Wolves win – and those three people were actually only one person; a schizophrenic from Dudley who, furious at having to fork out over £100 for three tickets for himself just to see the reserves, attacked a lady at the box office and subjected her to a four hour long gang rape.