Rocks Around And Thinks That He's The Toughest

Terry looks up out of his bottle bottom glasses and tells you he's got sixty notes on Nounou at fives.  It has to be worth a tenner. You bang it on with Haggis and get Pat and Big Bernard to join you, tenners each.  Steve is trying to talk to you about someone who hit him with a hammer who might reappear on the scene and he's asking if "that mate of yours" can be employed to take care of matters.  "Say the word Steve.  It's a done deal."  Come on Nounou you fucker, you're leaving it late.  "They're the luckiest fuckers ever to be court martiled by the 'RA," says Pat and you nod in agreement because a .22 is the usual order of the day.  "Come on, Nounou!" and the bastard's running like its arse is on fire but he's left it too late surely.  Steve interjects to tell you about the times he used to get paid to take care of problems and you know he's into you for a few quid but you're going to let it ride because you know he's here with his missus and you don't want to show him up.  Ray starts telling a story about something you did, some unpleasantness you were involved in, and he's got the wrong end of the stick.  He's talking it up like it was last week but it was a couple of years ago.  A nasty business.  You won.  The men at the table look at you and reckon you're a bad fucker and for now it serves to let them think so.  "Come on , Nounou!!"  He's left it too late.   "Come on, you cunt!!"  Photo finish but it looks bad.  Turn away from the telly and Beranrd says he doesn't want to talk politics because he knows fuck-all but Ourselves Alone are fucking themselves over and then the SP comes on the screen and Nounou has won, the fucking wonderhorse, the giant, the God.  "Ah, fuck the' RA.  Go collect."

Posted by: papmeister at 14:32 | link | comments

Stressed and fed up.  

Posted by: papmeister at 18:49 | link | comments (1)

I feel sorry for people who don’t like sports. I know they wouldn’t want my sympathy, and might even look down on me for finding pleasure in what are just games at the end of the day, but I still feel that I am the lucky one and they are the ones who are missing out. I’m not just talking about the pinnacles of sport, and I’m not just talking about winning.  I’m talking about all sport. The glorious pitting of oneself against another or sometimes just against oneself. The learning curve where you find your own measure as a man or woman, where you sometimes become your best self, an extended version of what other people perceive as you; where communities can see themselves in a new and better light; where occasionally those with no hope find hope. When I think of my own sporting heroes I always think of the long distance runners, the Africans, the people who can rise above disadvantages so disproportionate that they shouldn’t even be on the same planet as the Westerners, and yet they run them off it. I think of sublime moments of genius that have enlightened and enhanced my life: a goal by Zidane, a shimmy by Ali. But most of all I think of moments that are part of the shared experience, the family of sport, that I have been embraced in for seconds before being returned to the Monday to Friday world of work and cares. I think of how I have felt when I was a part of a city transformed and redeemed by its sporting representatives; how I have understood another human being more through their ultimately futile endeavours on the field of play, lived in their skin in that moment, than I will ever understand a phoney parade like the Oscars or the snakepit of politics. Through sport I have been Maradona, I have been Tyson, but most of all I have been a part of you and you have been a part of me and wherever you are, for just one brief time out in our lives, we have been each other.

Posted by: papmeister at 01:36 | link | comments

After I'd worked the madness ticket to get paid out of the bank job I was pretty much unemployable.  I needed to get some employment on my record, anything, just so's I could start looking for something new and I wouldn't have to put the bank down as a reference.  I took a job working in a clothing warehouse, pushing a large metal trolley around for eight hours a day, loading up orders for shops.  Great work if you wanted to get fit and lose weight.  After the bank it was a breath of fresh air to work at a place where the bosses were accorded with the kind of respect that manifested itself in responses to statements like "Less talking, more working" with "Shut up, you daft cunt."  One of my new friends was a bloke called Biz.  Biz was well on his way to becoming a legend.  He'd worked at the warehouse on about three different occasions, each time saving up enough money to go do something he really wanted to do.  He'd travelled all over the world, spending months at a time in places like Thailand or Australia.  Being Biz, some of the trips hadn't worked out because he would just ad lib the trips - like the time he saved up to go to Canada with a plan to work in the Canadian building industry, arriving in January when everything was under feet of snow and so he just spent all his savings drinking and meeting whatever Canada had to offer in the way of dames.  Back at the warehouse Biz had a laissez faire attitude to work; he'd ring up sick, "Hi, I won't be in today, I've got a migraine," and in the background would be the noise of the fruit machine and Biz's mates asking him what he wanted to drink.  He'd get away with it; even the bosses loved Biz.  He didn't care about anything as long as he could work, save for a trip and have enough money for some fun in between times.  He was in his house for two days with all the lights on and the curtains closed before someone broke down his door, ignored the TV in the living room showing the lunctime news, and went upstairs.  It takes some guts to hang yourself but like I say, Biz didn't care about anything.

Posted by: papmeister at 08:33 | link | comments (1)

And so we bid farewell to the good doctor.  I first made his acquaintance when I was a callow youth of 16 and I've followed his adventures ever since.  It's been a ride, HST; adios. 

Posted by: papmeister at 19:35 | link | comments (2)

Thirty-five minutes till kick-off.  Let us gather for a moment in silent reflection, bow our heads, and pray that God remembers that He is a Catholic. 

Posted by: papmeister at 11:54 | link | comments (2)

 These aren't my words but someone needed to say it: "The community around Bert McCartney's mother owe it to themselves, to Bert's mother and to all these mothers, to ensure the Army that is meant to protect them harbours no murderers. Its job is not to protect those that kill their own, but to protect their own from being killed. Otherwise, what is the point? Stand the Army down; they are no longer the people's army but the people's tyranny."

Posted by: papmeister at 11:05 | link | comments (1)

And just to comment on that little league table, can I point out that Tom, who has known me about 28 years and with whom I communicate every single freakin' day, should be somewhat ashamed of his lousy showing.... 

Posted by: papmeister at 00:37 | link | comments (2)

 For the highly competitive amongst you - here are the quiz results

Rank	Name	Score
1	tim	90
2	Dylan	80
3	watfordusa	80
4	howardo	70
5	Andrea	70
6	arf saastama	60
7	leigh	50
8	Carnack	50
9	enion	50
10	tom	50
11	limine	50
12	Coop	40

Posted by: papmeister at 00:32 | link | comments

Have you been paying attention?

http://www.quizyourfriends.com/yourquiz.php?quizname=050216073836-473390 

Posted by: papmeister at 12:44 | link | comments (6)

 F yez all.

Posted by: papmeister at 20:47 | link | comments (1)

A fog of phlegm has descended upon me.  It sent advance warning of its arrival last Wednesday when I was lying on my back, fashionably drunk, and attempting to watch some football on television.  Every now and again I shot bolt upright and coughed, resembling nothing more than a waking zombie in a morgue.  I briefly considered going upstairs to get a white sheet to place over my cadaverous self to complete the effect.  From there on in things have gone downhill.  By Saturday night I felt that the air had turned to treacle and walking through it, let alone breathing it, had become impossible.  But, as you would expect from someone brought up in one of Broadway's first families, the show went on and I staggered into work, hacking up, spluttering, sneexing and generally determined to take as many of the bastards down with me as I could.  I have a Hungerford/Columbine mentality when it comes to illness.  So, last night I am sat there at work, fading like autumn light, and I get a text message from a friend who is on his way to London.  It reads, "Drinking Stella on train.  Reminds me of trips to Glasgow."  I reply, "Full of cold at work.  Reminds me of siege of Stalingrad."  Eventually I get home in the wee small hours and sleep the fitful sleep of the feverish.  Weird visions inhabit my dreams.  Camilla Parker Bowles is speaking to me.  "Herr Paps!  You are not leaving so early?"  I answer, "I do not find this party amusing."  "Ah- but it is just beginning. Come, we will make itamusing - you and I - Ja? Herr Paps - this is for you,"  and with that I turn to see Prince Harry singing in a pure, unbroken voice...

The babe in his cradle is closing his eyes
The blossom embraces the bee.
But soon, says a whisper;
"Arise, arise,
Tomorrow belongs to me"

I wake up and resolve to "go steady" with my painkiller intake.

Posted by: papmeister at 09:19 | link | comments

A few years back, five of us went to Cornwall.  We were five people with disparate interests but just so you know what kind of people I surround myself with, I will tell you that the included the world's most heavily tattooed bird-watcher and, and this is key for the purpose of this story, an industrial archaeologist.  The reason that this is key is because Cornwall used to be the site of several tin mines and one of them, at Pendeen, can be visited and if you're interested you can be taken on an underground tour of the mine.  Of course, to an industrial archaeologist this is about as exciting as life can possibly get, so we set off for Pendeen arriving at about 11 in the morning.  Now, personally I have no interest in mines, tin or otherwise, and cannot think of anything I would less rather do than spend time underground, figuring that I'll be spending plenty long enough there sooner or later without being given a choice.  So, I went to the pithead with the four intrepid explorers and we asked the guide how long the tour would take.  "About an hour," said the old guy whose job it was to show people round the disused workings.  "We passed a pub just down that road," I declared, "and that is where you will find me in one hour's time."   This met with everyone's satisfaction and we went our separate ways.  I check my watch and estimate that if I shape up I can have probably five pints in the hour allotted and set to work with the zeal of a man on a mission.  However, what I didn't know was that deep underground the tour guide, warming to his task, had realised he was dealing with an industrial archaeologist.  And so they were getting a tour like none other, or to be more precise, a tour like three others.  Yes, dear readers, they were three hours in that dank and dingy hole and thus I was three hours in my comfortable and pleasant hole.   Now in my place there were only one or two locals who seemed rather horrified by my speed drinking.  This horror gradually developed as I checked out the jukebox and found several cracking singalong hits on there.  So, as is my custom, I started firing money into the jukebox and exhorting the timid locals to join me in a song and dance.  This continued until 2.30 when the landlady advised that the pub closed at said time.  "but, mine hostess, that is not possible for I, a lonely traveller, have nowhere else to go and I must wait for my friends.  And, what's more, are you not enjoting this unexpected midweek festivity?"  So, the pub was kept open for me, to the delight of the locals who were by now in the swing of things.  Eventually the miners emerged, dirty but wiser.  They entered the pub and were met with these unforgettable words from the landlady: "Please take him away now, thank you." 

Posted by: papmeister at 13:10 | link | comments (1)

Sometimes I get so angry I can hardly articulate my anger.  So I'm just going to type the thing that has made me angry and see if that helps.  Yesterday's edition of  The Daily Mail. 

Posted by: papmeister at 09:45 | link | comments

I went to the Valentine's Fair yesterday, which is basically a large funfair with rollercoasters, ghost trains, dodgem cars and stalls where you can win worthless crap.  When I was little the fair was called The Feast and you'd look forward to it for weeks.  My older brother or sister used to take me and get great pleasure from feeding me hot dogs and candy floss then taking me on the waltzers and watching me throw it all back up again.  Simple pleasures.  So yesterday I took The Kid to the Feast and discovered that it is the fastest way to lose a large amount of money I know (not including an afternoon in William Hills after a skinful of ale). Most of the stuff at the Feast was a bit too old for The Kid - more aimed at teenagers, and he took one look at the ghost train and decided that it looked a little too spooky for his liking.  In fact, there was one thing there, I think called The House of Terror, that looked a little too spooky for my liking.  So we went on safer options like the dodgems.  The Kid sat in abject terror as I drove like an escaped lunatic on insanity drugs.  His fear was heightened by the fact that I like to accompany my dodgem driving with constant high pitched cackling and deranged laughter, broken only by requests to The Kid such as "Right, who's going to get it now?  Point 'em out and I'll total them."  I like to think I am a responsible parent.

Posted by: papmeister at 19:50 | link | comments (2)

It is 1983 and you are in The Hoop and Toy.  Outside the streets of London are starting to stink of Thatcher's yuppie excess and "fuck you, I'm alright, Jack" philosophy but inside The Hoop and Toy you are discovering that you like drinking and you love French girls.  There are two of them sat opposite you, oblivious to your staring.  One of them has the blackest hair and the blackest eyes you have ever seen.  Her beauty is such that no one in the pub can concentrate on what they are doing.  Except you, because you are learning to multi-task.  It will serve you well.  Twenty two years later you are in Joseph's Well listening to a band who sound like three hundred bands you have heard in between and Music Lovin' Johnny D is riding shotgun.  You're still multi-tasking.  There is a black girl who may or may not be unconscious of how she looks but you can see she has the fierce beauty that's like a currency at 22 years old.  Plus ca change, plus c'est pareil.  At least we got rid of Thatcher.

Posted by: papmeister at 08:33 | link | comments (1)

Apparently we have taken Ellen MacArthur to our hearts after she completed her solo round-the-world voyage in record time this evening.  I say apparently because I don't actually know anyone who could give a toss.  I'm sure it is a remarkable, if utterly pointless, achievement.  But does it inform our view of the human condition any more than someone eating 400 burgers in an hour?  That too would be a remarkable achievement and just as pointless.  I always remember the "explorer" Ranulph Fiennes at moments like this.  I've stuck the word explorer in inverted commas because that's what he called himself but I'm not sure you actually warrant the title unless you are "exploring" somewhere, which would entail going somewhere uncharted, undiscovered, somewhere no one else had been before.  The Polar regions are remote, admittedly, but they're fully charted in any atlas you care to buy and people have been there before. My Dad's mate, Harry, who'd worked on building sites all hs life, summed it up for me.  He leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered to me in the pub, "That Ranulph Fiennes, he ought to get himself a proper job; the stupid, posh bastard."  I feel the same about Ellen.  I can't help thinking that at her age she ought to have some friends and a bit of a social life.  Anyway, in the spirit of her record-breaking, I have decided that it was about time that I got into the record books.  I would like some suggestions of records I could attempot to break.  My only guidelines are that they are not smart-ass suggestions, that they should not take more than one hour, they require no preparation and they pose no threat to life and limb.  I'll qualify that: I'll give it a go if someone else's life or limb is threatened, just not mine.

Posted by: papmeister at 23:53 | link | comments (3)

 I was speaking to Sigmund Freud's grandson last night.  An opportunity, you might think, to seek some deeper insight into the Granddaddy of psychology or a prompt to delve into my own psyche.  Well, that's what you'd think.  However, being the base-born fool that I am only two thoughts sprang to my mind, both of which I resisted. The first was to ask whether or not he had any tips for Cheltenham and the second was battling the overwhelming urge to say, "Henry Loves Minced Morsels."

Posted by: papmeister at 10:30 | link | comments (1)

Bird watching.  Wash the breakfast things and see the birds compete for the seeds and scraps you put out for them. Notice whom for wheels are turning. The wren is back.  Winter survival battles played out on my little patch of earth. Avenues all lined with trees, picture me and then you stop watching. These routines make things possible.  Wash, rinse, dry, put away. Pessoas como você, encontram isso fácil.  There is a relentless greyness to this time of year; suicide weather, and you think about how easy it must be to take your life if you really need to. My illusion, worn like a mask of self-hate.  Collared doves lumber and lie like bait.

Posted by: papmeister at 10:56 | link | comments (1)

My friend has sold his house and is moving to Scotland on Saturday.  It's a little bit like Homo Erectus deciding they don't like walking standing up and going back to all-fours and a life of tree-dwelling.  If you're Scottish, and someone is reading this to you, I apologise for my sweeping generalisations about you all.  Now, carry on with your Bucky and don't trouble yourself any further - the jellies will kick in soon.

Posted by: papmeister at 08:09 | link | comments (8)

I am not a scientist.  True, some of my work on a formula involving vodka, blue curacao and orange juice was worthy of peer review and publication, and I have been known to partake in a variety of other experiments trying to push the envelope of human knowledge and experience but on the whole I am not a scientist.  To this day I reckon the hardest exam I have taken was Chemistry 'O' Level, which I took when I was 16.  Somehow I managed to pass it but I put this down to the fact that it was "multiple-guess" and I was making a large withdrawal from the karmic bank.  So last night I was thinking about what it is that sets me apart from scientists personality wise and came up with the conclusion that it is not a stereotype that many of them are completely mad.  There were three chemistry teachers at my school; all of them to some degree insane.  Firstly there was Mr Ramsden.  Outwardly he seemed fairly normal but scratch the surface and he was a leather glove wearing left-hander who did ticks the wrong way round and clearly had a nazi fixation.  Then there was Coffin Carrier, who dressed, day in, day out, as if he were a pallbearer.  And finally there was the gloriously-nicknamed Jasper, who permanently wore the white coat so favoured by scientists the world over as they whisper in your ear when you are trying to refuse to electrocute the person in the next room, "The experiment requires that you continue."  Soon we will discuss the physics teachers with the guest-starring role going to Masher Marshall who had to leave our school and go immediately to a mental institution without passing go.  But I'm saving the best for later - step forward Dr D, the psychology teacher.  If ever there were a case of "Physician, heal thyself," he was it, writ large.  

Posted by: papmeister at 09:15 | link | comments (5)

The Aire, the Swale, the Nidd, the Wharfe, and the Ash, the Beech and the Oak.  The Jay, the Magpie, the Blackbird and the Wren.  The Prince, Tommys, Anywhere.  The Dales, the Slieve Mish.  Carling, Bushmills.  The Bhoys.  Accepting that soon I'll be drenched to the bone.  My little world.

Posted by: papmeister at 09:43 | link | comments (10)