EVERTON SUFFER THE CURSE OF SCALEY

-
-
We were at The Lane again this afternoon. A very nervous Lane, for the visitors were Everton, who for the past two seasons had gone home with all three points and I had been an unfortunate witness to both games. This day's game had assumed extra significance due to the fact that Everton's recent good form and surge up the league meant they would arrive at The Lane confident of repeating their previous success. This was indeed a problem and unable to witness yet another depressing defeat, I resolved to do what I could to help my boys.
-
That's why on Friday I was to be found in Joe Coral slapping some hard earned cash on Everton to finish in the top four. A victory against us today would close the gap on fourth considerably, a defeat would put them 11 points adrift. I even encouraged boss John Williams, no stranger to the bookies, to lump on at 20-1 which is what they were offering, without telling him my real motive which was to put a spanner of the works of Everton by my backing them. My record at the bookies is lousy. Everything I back turns to dead wood in an instant, every player I draft into my fantasy football team is either injured in the next game, sent off, yellow carded, misses a penalty or scores an own goal.
-
So it was reasonable confidence that I took my seat at The Lane this afternoon. True to form two first half strikes by Pav and Modric sent the crowd into raptures as we survived a dodgy second half display to win 2-1. Magic. Villa next. They look good for a bet.
-

The Scaley curse strikes again through Modric

BROOKSIE'S BASH

The Legend Himself

What a great night we had last night. We were invited to the retirement party of good friend and legendary Cheats guitarist Chris Brooks. He was retiring from work not from playing and a good job too, for he has lost none of his old skills. In fact, as I told him, he must have been studying the ‘Play In A Day’ series of books since he left us six years ago, for his dexterity on the guitar to have improved so much. His band, a four piece with a guest appearance by the best sax man around Paul Jolly, ripped up the atmospheric Italian wine bar in his home town of Luton until the early hours of the morning. There was even an appearance from the local constabulary during the night, the irony of which was certainly not lost on me!

Featuring a mixture of reggae and folk, rock and blues classics the band’s two set were warmly received by an appreciative audience who danced the night away with vigour and verve. Brooksie had told me to bring my bass along for a jam, and by the end of the evening I was wishing I had. Good luck in retirement Brooksie mate. Like me you have earned it and you will enjoy it too. Now, if you ever need to play ‘I Shot The Sheriff’ again, I’m your man!

-

Music Is The Best

CLICK PLAY FOR VIDEO

Sorry it's a bit dark but the music is good!

A RIGHT RESULT

-

But you can see the goal!

-
The White Hart Lane saga seems to have reached a most satisfactory conclusion. I have waited until now to give you blog readers a good laugh because for much of the time it wasn't funny.
-
It all started at the beginning of the season in September when we took up our mini season ticket package and arrived for our first game. Luckily the pillar that was obstructing our (expensive) view was a welcome one as ten men Manchester United fought back from 1-0 down in the first minute, to run out winners 3-1. AT the price we were paying I expected a clear view of whatever mayhem was being presented out there on the pitch and wrote to tell them so sending them the above picture. They replied saying that it was not obstructed as 'you can see the goal'. I informed them that if I wanted to see just the goal, I would have asked for seats right behind it!
-
We were moved. When I looked at the stadium plan I was delighted. We had been moved nearer the halfway line and 13 rows back, perfect! With eager anticipation we took up our new places at the Wolves game. What a view and position! We were soon to realise why these seats were vacant. About 10 minutes before kick off the family from Hell arrived. Son from Hell sat in the seat next to Trish. Dad from Hell and his three mates sat behind us. Son from Hell had tourette's and a twitch. At any moment, and usually in a quiet passage of play, he would suddenly, as if an electric current has suddenly passed through him, (actually not a bad idea!) grab Trish's leg and shout out 'you f-------, c----' at whatever player or official was passing by. What made this worse was the fact that his 'friends' and family thought this to be funny and I soon was to realise where he got it from as they turned out to be the most foul mouthed and abusive morons I have ever had the displeasure to encounter.
-
How I wished for a Star Trek phaser set on vaporise, and believe me I would have used it! They were an embarrassment and to think that the world's resources were being wasted on keeping them alive made me more angry.
-
Anyway, this story has a happy ending. Yet again I complained to the club, threatening all sorts of exposure. Our second match in these new seats had revealed these sub-humans to be season ticket holders! We could not be expected to tolerate that for the rest of the season could we?
-
The club responded. They moved us. Across the ground to block 13. We took up our new seats for The Villa game. I can actually say having sat there twice, these are the best seats I have ever had in any ground anywhere in the world. I just hope they have sorted out the other problem A solution would be for the club to have an 'ejector' fitted to each seat as in fighter jets. A quick fix and no parachute! Good old Tottenham, some faith in customer service in this country has been restored.
-

View from our new seats.....'how are you today Harry!'

THE LAST TIME

..

There is an old saying that everyone knows and that is ‘all good things come to an end’ whether it is death that separates us from loved ones or the passing of time and changed circumstances that does it, that it will happen is a certainty. For my band The Cheats, this happened last night at the inauspicious Buntingford Sports and Social Club when singer and guitar player Steve Ratcliffe made his curtain call.

.

Steve has been with us in The Cheats for four years but incredibly had decided to swap playing live for his pipe and slippers, content to slip into advanced middle age in the bosom of his expanding family. Recently grandaded Ratcliffe thus took off his guitar for the last time at midnight last night. We wish him well in his dotage and will be auditioning his replacement this week and next. The King is dead…..long live The King.

.

Steve's final curtain call

RICHARD'S NIGHT OUT

-

A strange couple of days have just passed. On Thursday Trish and I ended up in a gay bar in London and it happened again last night, this time in Luton! The story behind this latest alternative night out has a lot to do with our friend Richard, Arsenal ticket purveyor and his charming wife Annette. I must state here for the record that Richard is Welsh and like my other Welsh friend in Scotland, likes nothing better than a few pints or more.

So when we eventually turned up at The Black Horse in Luton to meet them for a chat and a drink it was enevitable that when last orders were called, Richard was anxious to continue drinking elsewhere in town. It turned out that the nearest bar open late was The California Inn just round the corner. 'It's a gay bar' Richard told us and although I am old enough to remember 'Gay Way' reading books at school I was under no illusions about where we were headed.

The pub in question used to be known by another name, and was a deadly place where the most exciting thing that happened was when the number of drinkers inside the creaking watering hole exceeded single figures. Someone then had the bright idea of turning it into yet another gay Luton bar. And what a good idea it was too. Instead of the dreary, drab, dark interior of yore it has been transformed into a lively and very friendly pub/club/bar. We were soon accosted by a six foot transvestite who I think was selling raffle tickets, I didn't ask what the prize was. The music was loud and crap, but the drinks were cheap, six good glasses of wine for £8, which was the price of a bottle, although as usual the beers were the usual crappy lagers.

We stayed there for about two hours before wandering back to Trish's where I just about had enough energy to watch Amy Williams win gold in the womens' skeleton. Now that's what I call class!

GOLDEN GIRL

LONDON CRAWLING

-

Greenwich University

-
London was the destination today, Greenwich to be exact, to visit Charlotte at her university. I have been once before and although Greenwich is a reasonably acceptable part of London, one just has to suffer the getting there, which in our case today, was by rail. Suffice to say the journey with First Crapital Connect did not go without a hitch. We reached St. Pancras International without a problem but after that the troubles started and how typical when you are on a tight schedule-we had to be back home by 8 pm and we did not leave until 12.30.

-
Stranded just outside Farringdon due to an electrical failure I had plenty of time to marvel at the precision of the Victorian brickmanship in the wall we had ground to a halt by. What a pity the same craftmen had not been in charge of installing the electrical system on the train! Eventually we were able to limp into Farringdon where we were asked to find an alternative means of transport to Charlton.

-
The rest of the day went pretty well really. We had a guided tour of Greenwich campus following a reasonable dinner at a local Spanish restaurant where the menu was so limited that I nearly did a really gross thing and ordered fish and chips. I an honestly say that when in Rome I always do as the Romans do, so when in an Indian restaurant for example, you don't order a kebab. It always makes me wonder about the mentality of people who do that kind of thing, so I never do, but nearly, nearly very nearly I did today.
-
Our visit to London ended in the pub where Charlotte works. We had a fine welcome there meeting her workmates and looking at all the photos on the wall of the recent drunken revelry in which Charlotte seemed to feature regularly!

-

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY FOR A BIKE

- -

Today I got back on the bike. Not unusual for me I know but it was such a lovely day I decided to go and see my friend Mike who lives in Dunstable. Now here I have to be fair to him, he's trying, again, to give up smoking. He's doing it in testing times. A couple of weeks ago, on the way back from White Hart Lane his car gave up the ghost on the hard shoulder of the M25. We had to be recued by the AA and they were value for money on that night I can tell you. And he has no job and no way to repair it. But I digress. A couple of days ago he called me to say he was going to buy a bike. He had seen one in the store that poses as a pawn shop but is really a place where knock off goods are sold. To prepare himself for this purchase he had borrowed a (too small) bike from a relation.
-

Here I have to point out that Mike has spent most of the time I have known him deriding bike riders, identifying them as 'fair game' from behind the wheel of his (now defunkt) car. In true poacher turned gamekeeper fashion he is now to be found leaving his lungs around on a road somewhere in the local area. Good luck to him. I certainly will support him but rest assured, if I am EVER in my 4x4 and I see him in the near distance............
-

Anyway the ride to and from Mike's was uneventful for the most part although I had the customary 'I'll pull out from the side road because you are invisible' incident. Now you have to have nerves of steel to ride a bike round here. Not only are the roads full of potholes due to the ravages of the last two winters, but they are also full of shitty drivers. When I tell people I cycle, they usually are incredulous, giving me a slighly weird look up and down, but I can tell you whenever the going gets tough on the road all I do is think back to last summer when I was in The Caribbean on the island of St. Vincent visiting Trish's mum then these roads suddenly hold no fear.

-

For those readers who did not receive my diary during the summer, here is the relevant extract:
-
MONDAY AUGUST 10th 2009: THE VINCY VAN

The van, tightly packed and sweaty, threw itself around the tight hairpin bend. A sheer drop down into a rainforested valley beckoned an inattentive driver. The engine screamed in pain as the vehicle surged round and into the tight climb on the other side of the corner. The chassis of the van swung back to the vertical and all inside went with it as one. The van headed on its' precarious way up and further into the interior of St. Vincent.

Our day had started in unremarkable fashion. The drive to Piarco airport was short and early. Of course, with their usual efficiency, Liat airlines not only contrived to make their flight to St. Vincent an hour and a half late but also contrived to have seemingly arranged for us to have no airplane to board after we had passed through the gate! As we emerged onto the tarmac expecting a twin engined 44 seater hopper there was nothing to see. All stood around wondering what to do. As usual someone took the initiative and went off to see if the plane in the far distance was the one we were supposed to be boarding. It was. Soon we were flying over a aquamarine sea and islands large and small towards our destination.

The runway at Arnos Vale airport is right by the sea. Indeed the plane comes in over the water and touches down instantly. To my right I saw The Arnos Vale Cricket Ground where the West Indies had recently and amazingly lost a test match to Bangladesh. A strong hit it seemed, would be 'six and out' into the Caribbean. We were met by 'Cousin Fred' a tall 46 year old Vincenzian who turned out to be our minder and fixer. He took us in a ramshackle taxi driven by 'someone he knows' to the Capital, Kingstown.

St. Vincent is an island much less traveled by the tourist. Few white faces in evidence here. Consequently one has the feeling that what you see is everyday life carrying on regardless of visitors. Fred took us to the 'van station' where we were to catch transportation to the north of the island and the village of Rosehall, Trish's family home. Fred seemed to know everyone, being constantly greeted by strangers and on occasion passing scribbled bits of paper which I took to be betting slips.

The van 'station' was an incredible place. Hot, noisy and busy. A concrete rectangle by the sea in the middle of town. The vans themselves are just that, vans but with windows and seats. Like a minibus but with less headroom. The old Volkswagon 'hippie van' style springs to mind. However these vans were modern, Toyotas, Nissans and Mitsubishi. Some were in better condition than others. Most of them were outrageously decorated and constantly roared in, beeping their horns for recognition and trade. The sliding side door would then open, often before the van had come to a halt, and the occupants,'conductor' first, would squeeze themselves out. As I was to find out later, these vans would be packed beyond bursting, every seat taken with young and old alike and where there was no seat, one would be fashioned using a wooden board. The conductor would then tout for trade among those waiting and once packed the van would take off on it's new journey.

Fred organised our luggage to be taken first. The two suitcases took up two seats and they were classed as two people and thus $10. The van filled up with passengers and roared away taking our suitcases and four our bottles of Duty Free with it. Fred had spoken to the driver and assured us that everything would be safe. I got the feeling that it would not be worth the grief no to carry out his request.

The village of Rosehall is a fair trek from Kingstown and not many of the vans were up for the journey. Fred had actually organised it so our luggage would firstly be dropped off at the house and then the van would come back for us. As one particular van had taken the luggage we had to wait for it's return and travel with that one regardless of the fact that in the iterim, at least one other van would have been going in our direction. We went shopping for food.

On return, we waited for two hours. On more than one occasion I wished we had taken a taxi but then I would have missed what was to come. As we waited, we were offered trinkets and fag papers from numerous hawkers who Fred chased away with a few well chosen words or phrases that I had no understanding of. A witless Rastafarian took his shirt off and danced in front of us shouting, clearly either off his tree or brain damaged from years of dope smoking. Fred got rid of him too.

Fred and I became bored waiting, so leaving poor old Trish guarding the shopping, we sloped off through the packed market to a Roti Bar where we had a beer and got some take away food. When we returned, so had our van. Fred quickly commandeered three seats and we were ushered inside and took our places near the rear. Reggae music was blaring from the tinny speakers back and front. My knees were pressed tightly up against the seat in in front of me. I had barely enough room to move, and that was before the van began to fill up. And fill up it did.

In the hot the sweaty place it seemed as if all and sundry were suddenly making a beeline for our transportation. One by one in they came through the side door. The music blared and the conductor persuaded more and more that there was indeed enough room for them. Soon,even with the wooden board seat, it seemed we were full. I counted 17 people and I reckoned there were seats for 14. Desperately I said to Trish, 'surely we are full' as an 18 stone woman, laden with her shopping approached the side door which suddenly seemed tiny compared to her more than ample frame. But no, somehow and contrary to the laws of physics, she shoehorned herself into a space previously not in evidence. With the skill of a Tokyo rush hour metro guard, our conductor squeezed the door shut and we were ready for the off.

Our driver gunned the engine and we powered out of the square. I realised that the last time I had felt as I did now was in 1968 on the North Bank at Highbury when 67,000 people squashed themselves into the ground to see my heroes lose 4-0 to a mediocre Arsenal team. Soon we were roaring up and out of Kingstown.

Trish had warned me that the drive would not only be a long one but uncomfortable too. She forget to mention highly dangerous as well. St Vincent is a volcanic island. Vegetation is lush and the landscape is mountainous. The narrow road we were on wound it's way around and around hills and hairpins that the driver seemed to regard as part of a personal time trial challenge. Occasionally we would approach a village, usually a ragged straggle of small dwellings and shacks. Our road went straight through the middle. Instead of slowing, our driver actually accelerated, blaring his horn as he advanced. In the distance I could see the usual stray dogs wandering in the middle of the street. The West Indians en masse have a lackadaisical approach to life, never moving quickly, sauntering coolly their way through. I suddenly realised this included West Indian dogs, for as our van approached, they seemed to be playing some super cool version of chicken, waiting until the very last moment as we bore swiftly down on them, to languidly stroll out of the way. My buttocks clenched as small children next appeared as the dogs sped past but they seemed to be rooted to the side of the road as we hurtled by. I thought for sure one of them must dart out sometime in some village somewhere.

Suddenly a passenger in our helpless band would call out something incomprehensible and our driver would apply the brakes, hard. But we were so tightly packed in, we were like a human seat belt. I realised it was the way to signal that this was your stop. Then we were off again. As we rocketed along I started to compare the sensation of this trip, to the experience of the new ride 'Stealth' at Thorpe Park which I had ridden in the early summer, at the insistence of some of my Year 6 children. That was truly terrifying. The difference was that Stealth lasted a mere 26 seconds. After the best part of an hour I was still aboard our ride.

In order to take my mind off what I thought was to be certain death at any minute, I began to look at my fellow passengers. To my left was Trish whose fingernails were digging into the seat in front. To her left was a Rastafarian who looked like 'The Cat In The Hat' by Dr. Seuss. His tall, colourful, Rasta hat bending over comically as it jammed against the roof of the van. Behind me was a woman and her two small children who were singing along with some of the reggae and soca tunes blaring over the scratchy speaker. Meanwhile their mother was taking and making phone calls on her mobile screeching at the top of her voice so loudly I had to cover my ears. Then there was Fred looking cool and thinking about his winners, and bizarrely in front of me an elderly man and wife who were actually asleep! Then there was the fat lady, who luckily for those sitting in her row was the first out. The others, including the two young girls sitting next to the driver were soon out too, leaving us, and a few who were going further, to survive the rest of the journey to Rosehall.

-

Not THAT Rosehall!