I'm Jimmy Sirrel of Meadow Lane and The Gorbals

I went with my girlfriend and her dad to the Nottingham Playhouse on Saturday to watch a play about Notts County. Quite odd for a fan of Nottingham Forest* and two fans of Chelsea FC to go and watch a play about Notts County, do you think? Well, not really. Diary of a Football Nobody is a play by William Ivory (commissioned to celebrate 150 years of Notts County not wining anything) which is based on the book Steak...Diana Ross by former County midfielder David McVay and it's about much more than Notts County.
David isn't your average footballer, he left school with three A Levels and likes to listen to Nick Drake LPs when he's alone in his bedroom. That's when he's not alone in his bedroom 'having a wank' because as McVay points out "having a wank's a bit like scoring a goal - there's no such thing as a bad one". McVay wrestles with why he chose a football career over going to university. It's clearly something his grandfather can't understand. We know this because three generations of McVay's family live in the same council house in the Clifton area of Nottingham, which isn't a situation you'd imagine one of today's dynamic young players having to contemplate. But however much of a tortured young man McVay is he still falls into the same trappings of being a professional footballer as most others, like drinking copious amounts of Shipstone's bitter on nights off and 'backscuttling' anything that moves down some of Nottingham city centre's darkest alleys. In stark contrast to today, some of the players - including McVay - have to supplememt their income by selling eggs around Nottingham suburbs. Which includes 'backscuttling' a housewife who doesn't have the funds to pay. Can you imagine Frank Lampard selling eggs? No, thought not (although I can imagine Wayne Rooney doing it).

The performances here are comically brilliant. Perry Fitzpatrick is outstanding as McVay, Eric Richard is superb as the incomprehensible Glaswegian nutcase manager Jimmy Sirrel (he attempts to see off some Manchester United fans trying to invade the County dressing room with a corn scalpel). Those two are the only actors with only one part to play. The rest of the cast play multiple parts including an excellent Rupert Hill playing Don Masson (when every English league team had an armoury of Scottish enforcers to pick from) and Sophia Di Martino who also has to play supporting roles of various County players.

The scenery is cleverly done with projections in a Roy of the Rovers comic style providing the atmosphere. Something which comes to the fore whenever we're confronted with the unseen but not unfelt presence of giant County centre half Brian Stubbs who makes his non-entrance with a giant shadow and with the opening riff of Deep Purple's Smoke on the Water playing.
So, not just for County fans. It's a play about life, family and where you're from. And I'm proud to say I'm from Notts. Diary of a Football Nobody deserves to be up there with the greatest works of art about football like Gregory's Girl, Fever Pitch, The Damned United novel and Another Sunday and Sweet FA. Which are, of course, about football but much more besides. And anyway, who wouldn't love a play that opens with a photo montage of Nottingham in the 70s with Yours is No Disgrace by Yes playing over the top? Heaven for me, that.

*Notts County fans are like Scotland fans: it sticks in their craw that the hate they feel for their biggest rivals isn't reciprocated. Forest view their biggest rivals as Derby County closely followed by Leicester City and any team from Sheffield. Notts County are generally viewed by Forest fans as a team your old men support. They're the Dad's Army of football fans, and the team will forever be the bridesmaid of Nottingham football. I work with County fans and one always has to shout "Goo-in dahn!" whenever he sees me along with a finger pointing down gesture, no matter how many games Forest have gone unbeaten. The County fans attitude to Forest is summed up in one of the best lines of the play, after a local derby played at Forest's City Ground in March 1974: "And we do 'em, nil-nil!"

Kwitter

Hello. What you've just witnessed was me taking a break from blogs for the month of January. Not only did I take a break from blogs, I also took a break from social networking sites. Oh yes. And I feel much better for it too. I knew that something had to give when I my drumming tutor told me I was becoming obsessed with Facebook. He could tell I was becoming obsessed because I was checking Facebook on my phone in the middle of a drumming lesson.
So come January 1st I deactivated my Facebook account and did the same with Twitter. The trouble with Twitter is that you can't deactivate your account without deleting it. So I did. I have to say that I don't miss it. Twitter is something that I don't feel I've ever really come to grips with. It's okay for finding out about stuff, but it's pretty unokay if you're not particularly interested in X Factor or Question Time as your Thursday and Saturday night Twitter feed will be clogged up with people quacking on about both. I believe this is called, ugh, 'sofalising'. I'd call it 'a bag of wank.' I can't pay attention to TV shows and use my mobile internet device at the same time. Sorry. So I am no longer a Twitterer, which probably comes as a great relief to people who followed me.
As for Facebook, I bumped into a friend at Forest three weeks ago who asked me why I wasn't updating my Facebook profile any more. I told him it was because I was having a break from it. He replied "To be honest, you were getting on my tits a bit." Which I took as meaning that he thought I was a little verbose and gobby. I liked his honesty, it's made me look at how I handle myself on Facebook. Although that friend has now been deleted from my Facebook friends. There's being honest and there's being a honest. If he don't like it, he can fuck himself*, just because he writes about Forest for The Observer....

I have to say it's all been rather freeing. I've watched films, listened to LPs, practised a lot more on the drums and got through tons of stuff on my TV hard drive. You should try it, and I'll definitely do it again.

Anyway, as for the blog I've decided not to blog as much and change what I blog about. I mean who wants to read another bloody blog about the queue at the bank or supermarkets or the neighbours? I don't, especially when others do it so much better than me. I also won't be blogging as much as instead of working for 8 hours a day 5 days a week, I now work 10 hours a day 4 days a week so I won't have so much time.

But have this, it's great. I wonder what they'd have been like if they hadn't spent the mid to late 70s traipsing around the stadiums of America as Aerosmith's support act but doing more stuff like this:



*Not really, yeah I've deleted him but he's still a sound lad.

Meerkat manor

I've just seen what an awful lot of disappointed children will be getting for Christmas. It looks more like a badger with a birthmark. I'm going to put Churchill the insurance bulldog in a Manchester United negligee and make a killing.

Love in a time of bubble perms*

With all this talk about Wayne Rooney and prostitutes, I think it's time to hark back to a much simpler time. A time when footballists weren't on mega wages and they had to find much simpler pleasures. A time when football philandering was seen as something quite quaint.
I give you, as an example, Nottingham Forest legend Mr Peter Shilton. To furnish those of you who may be unfamiliar with the fact, here's something pasted from The Observer website:

"Shilton was arrested for drink-driving after being found at 5am in a country lane with a woman called Tina in his car. When Tina's husband Colin arrived he said the pair were partially clothed. Shilton hurriedly drove away and crashed into a lamppost. He admitted 'taking a lady for a meal' and was fined £350 and banned from driving for 15 months. He then had to endure countless terrace chants of 'Shilton, Shilton, where's your wife?'"

Now isn't that just a gorgeous little tale of love in the 70s and early 80s? Shilts was obviously missing something from his marriage so he took 'a lady for a meal', did you get that? A 'lady'. His respect for women knows no bounds. And he's put his hand in his pocket and treated her to a slap-up dinner. What a gent.

Now, Shilts obviously couldn't be seen to be booking into a hotel in Nottingham with which to entertain her. No, no, he's too much of a face in the city and his cover would be blown. So Pete has a Jaguar. A Jaguar has nice reclining leather seats. Throw the guy a bone here, he's trying his best. Now, when Colin arrived, down this lane round the back of Nottingham racecourse, near Holme Pierrepont National Watersports Centre, the couple were partially clothed. Isn't that just a beautiful image? Shilts's little white bum flashing up and down? This was an age before sex became exotic and women started demanding mutual enjoyment. Bloody women. I think the term that could be used here is 'having it off'. This is the time before 'dogging' had been invented so Shilts doesn't hang around, no sir! He's off and crashes into a lamppost, probably with his Farah's Action Slacks and nylon Y-fronts still around his ankles. This is thirty years ago, so there's no Mr Loophole to get him off the charge. Pete takes his punishment like a man and takes his ban and his dreaded returns to the City Ground with Southampton like a man.
Come on, ladies, could you resist a man with a bubble perm, large hair and some blingy medals in the cabinet? Course you can't.

So there's a lesson for today's footballers: you don't have to spend thousands on hookers and Marlboros, just treat a lady with a little respect and she'll deal out what you want in the back of a flashy car round the back of Nottingham racecourse, near Holme Pierrepont National Watersports Centre.

*I love the way the names Colin and Tina are involved in this story. They're names that are so 'of-the-time', do you not think?**

**I know these little footers can be annoying, but you try reading Stewart Lee's new book. They're on every page and go on and on and on and on.... But I kinda like 'em.

A load of rubbish to kill time

Let's get the football out the way: I'm not surprised, England will NEVER win the World Cup again in your lifetime. And as for people predicting the results, how can you? As Danny Baker says "Football is chaos and you can't predict the outcome of chaos." I saw one bloke give his prediction that England would win 2-1 yesterday after extra time. How can you be that certain of a scoreline? Tosser. I predicted England would bottle it, Germany ain't that good.
Anyway, I was in Nottingham on Saturday night, walked passed a Nando's with a sign outside that said "Piri piri - so good they named it twice." I know Nando's is now seen a s a bit of a joke but I've never been in one. Until Saturday night I thought it was a Mexican restaurant until it occurred to me that chicken piri piri is a Portuguese dish. I didn't go to Nando's, my pre-theatre restaurant of choice is Pizza Express. You can have junk food like pizza but because it's at cosy middle class haven that is Pizza Express, it's okay. And why do those sort of upmarket chain restaurants insist on playing jazz? It has to be the most un-relaxing music to listen to, after industrial metal and grindcore, I suppose. I once remember Talk Talk's Mark Hollis saying that music should never be used as background. In Pizza Express's case it's not background music because you've got Charlie Parker parping away in your earhole.
I fully intend to be the last person in the UK never to have eaten at a Nando's. Or Aberdeen Steakhouse. Or Spaghetti House. Or Garfunkel's. Or Bella Pasta. Am I missing out?
I saw about twenty minutes of Glastonbury on Friday night. That really is turning into some corporate rock cash cow now, isn't it? Take that John Peel Stage; it featured bands who I don't think Peel would have liked very much. From what I saw it put on bands who record labels pushed on there to up their profile. I came to Peel only when I started working shifts, his shows mainly consisted of unlistenable garbage but every twenty minutes or so a diamond would get pulled out. I recall one night we were given death metal followed by Sandy Denny followed by George Formby. What I don't recall is the singer off of Bloc Party showcasing tracks from his new solo album.
The drums then. I think I'm getting to the stage where I need to play with other people. So if anyone knows a guitarist and bass player in the Newark area who are looking for a distinctly average-to-poor-but-will-get-better drummer, then drop me a line. No timewasters or raggae musicians please.
Here's my drum tutor showing off. He's the one on the drums, by the way:

Curled Wup

Well, the World Cup then. It leaves me cold. It does nothing for me. I think I can trace this to a number of factors:

• I support Nottingham Forest and Nottingham Forest only. I hate most of the players in the England team (apart from Dawson, James and Milner), and I despise most of their 'fans'.


• People who normally hate football who are suddenly 'experts'; like those witches in the canteen at work whose only previous knowledge of Ashley Cole is through his estranged missus. I'm nowhere near a football expert, and I regularly go and watch my team. You know, pay money to go in and everything.


• Flags on cars, hanging out of windows, bunting, face paints etc. Normally sported by those in the point above.


• Sponsorship. If you buy a Hyundai off the back of ITV's World Cup break-bumpers then you should be shot.


• In particular to this world cup: those bloody horns. Make it stop. The sound of the crowd is a much more rewarding experience. One good point about the horns - they'll probably drown out that stupid Pukka Pies England band featuring Bernie Clifton. The band who only know two tunes: The Theme from The Great Escape and This is the Self-Preservation Society. Those horns have resulted in me seeing a grand total of about fifteen minutes worth of football. Apparently FIFA have endorsed their use because it's part of South African football culture. By that token, should England host the 2018/2022 World Cups then I fully expect to see the reintroduction of rattles and mindless violence.


• The pubs become unbearable. I'm not a massive drinker these days but I hate TVs in pubs. Pubs are supposed to be all about socialising, not getting a cricked neck watching Slovenia v Algeria. And why go to a pub when it's free to watch at home? Why not leave the pubs free for people who want to escape football.


• Football isn't a summer game. By the time May comes around I've had enough of football, and even I'm not an obsessive. I refuse to watch Soccer Saturday because I not only detest Jeff Stelling but I'm not really bothered about Chris Kamara reporting from a ground while the match goes on, unseen, over his shoulder. I do have a weakness for the BBC's Final Score though, but that's because I find Garth Crooks fascinating.


• People who, normally those mentioned in the second point, who call it 'footy'. I hate that word. I hate it even more than 'soccer', at least 'soccer' does historically have a point (it was used as a corruption of the word 'association', as in 'association football' to differentiate it from rugby football in the 19th Century).

Anyway, never mind all that, I went to my first folk festival yesterday. That was an experience, people just take musical instruments and start jamming, man. There was also the best food stall ever there, he gloried in the name of The Pie Minister. I spurned his charms to have a curry - it was the worst curry I've ever tasted, I've tasted better Tyne Brand curry out of a tin, and I dribbled a load down my new Gap jeans, that yellow will never come out. Next year it's the Pie Minister all the way for me, especially as he was offering minted mushy peas.
I only really went because The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain were on. I love them. I don't know why they're always associated with folk music. Indeed one of them made a joke of this in the between-song patter, he say "I don't know if you know much about folk music, but..."
The thing is with The UOOGB is that it's just a good fun thing. I think it was a stroke of genius using them as the last act on the last day considering that folk music, and folk music fans are usually pretty serious. They're also a little bit posh - one's called Hester - but that kind of eccentric poshness which is always delightful.

I don't know a lot about folk, but like art, I do know what I like. What I don't like is these bearded types with fingers in their ears singing sea shanties. What I do like is a bit of folk rock (they had a folk rock band yesterday, with, horror of horrors for serious folkies, a drummer) and just the lovely stuff, like what we had yesterday with the excellent gaelic singing of Julie Fowlis. Even I know that she's pretty big news in folk music circles. What I like about music sung in any other language than English is that you can make up your own words (like I do when listening to my beloved Super Furry Animals when they sing in Welsh). I also admit I fell in love a little with Ms Fowlis. Ooops.

Anyway, here's my favourite Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain interpretation, pity they never played it yesterday.

Escape from the cinema

Hey, remember that film Escape to Victory? Yeah, terrible, isn't it? Well they're only going to remake it. The ringleader? One Mr Vinnie Jones. Oh dear. Why remake something that bad? The original starred footballing greats like Pele, Bobby Moore and, er, John Wark. Who does Mr Jones want to put in the Bobby Moore role? Yes, that's right, David Beckham aka The World's Most Overrated Footballer. Three cheers for Becks! Not.
He'd love that, Beckham, wouldn't he? He can really mix it up with his mates in La-La Land if he's made a fil-m. Perhaps his big buddy Tom Cruise could give him some acting tips. Or then again, maybe not.

Another irritation this week:

• The new Jacob's Creek ad. The very idea of dinner parties fills me with dread at the best of time, but this ad is set at a dinner party with a bunch of wise-cracking Australians. In my head I shoot the fucking lot with an AK47.


• Those pricks who sat behind me at Forest last night. For their information that 'little Scottish twat' is the same 'little Scottish twat' who got our team to third in the table. Oh, and to the woman who shouted out "I'm missing Holby City for this!", why didn't you stay at home then? Although someone's retort of "Who are they playing?!" was inspired. Sometimes the things people shout out are hilarious (there's nothing more life-affirming than hearing a nine year-old boy, in full view of his parents ,shout "The ref-er-ree's a wanker!"), not that crew, they were just full of bullshit from the first whistle. Even when we were coasting to a win. What makes it worse is that they were clearly season ticket holders. Groo!

Non-irritations this week:

• Alison Steadman and David Troughton in Alan Bennett's Enjoy at the Theatre Royal in Nottingham. Good to see quality actors actually at work. And who'd have thought Bennett would have put blow job gags in one of his plays? Steadman looked absolutely knackered during the curtain calls though.


• Alice in Wonderland. I got caught up in the whole 3D gimmick with this. The 3D doesn't actually make that much difference apart from a few spears being thrust towards the screen, but thoroughly enjoyable nevertheless. I reckon it's only the second Tim Burton film I've seen too.


• Drums. My man got me to do some hard stuff this week. I need to practise, so it's good I've bought my own drum kit, int'it?


• Forest manager Billy Davies's match programme notes; I'd love to hear them read aloud by a five year-old.

Anyway, if you don't like this then you don't like music:

15/04/89

I remember what I was doing vividly on that day. I'd got the house to myself and thought I'd go and buy Guns 'n' Roses' Appetite for Destruction album - I could then come home and play it very loudly on my new stereo.
Got home, didn't really bother finding out what the Forest score was because in those days Forest playing a big game like that was a regular occurrence. Had just got into Welcome to the Jungle and there was a knock at the door. It was a friend of the family, who happened to be a big Liverpool FC fan. He had tears in his eyes, which I thought was strange because in those days, pre-Diana, nobody cried in public.
I asked him what was wrong and he just garbled about their being trouble at Hillsborough and a crowd crush in the Liverpool end. He couldn't understand why the Forest supporters had been allocated the Kop end of the ground, which was bigger, so Liverpool, admittedly a bigger club couldn't take more spectators. That's all he kept saying, over and over again.
He went when I told him my parents weren't there and I flicked on the telly. It was one of those strange situations, pre rolling news channels, where a sports presenter just had to keep talking (Like Heysel and the 1997 Grand National). On this occasion it was Bob Wilson as the BBC had cameras there and it kept going over to the ground live.
Being on your own was very disconcerting.

As Forest were the other team playing that day I knew quite a lot of people there that day. Most of them will tell you that they thought it was crowd trouble and started shouting abuse at the Liverpool supporters, hopefully with the advent of mobile phones it wouldn't happen today. That abuse turned to a sense of 'o-oh' when bodies started to be laid in front of the Forest end with covers over them.

No one should go to a football match and not return. If there's one legacy those 96 tragic people have left it's that crowd safety, first aid cover, stewarding and policing at all league football grounds is now of the highest order.

From a Forest supporter's angle, this is worth a read.

Clough injured

Spooky. I wonder if this is the great man commenting on the impending releaser of The Damned United from the grave? I doubt it, I don't believe in sprits and spookiness.

In that filmed report there's a shot of the statue with a chain around its neck and a hood over the head, looking like he's about to be hanged. I wonder if Don Revie's family had anything to do with its removal.

Uke can play too

Look at that bastard. The Red Destroyer. That's what I bought with some of my birthday cash. I know it's not the smartest in the world but it'll do until I learn how to play the thing, then I'll upgrade to something like this beast. I got that one because I thought I'd support local business and got it from a shop in town and that was the only one they had, unless I wanted it in pink or turquoise. The man said I could go for lessons if I wanted but I think that just might have been an excuse to get me alone in a room to touch my bum. I daren't tell him I'd bought a tutor manual and CD off the internet.
The problem is that you tell people you have a ukulele and the following discussion always ensues:

Assorted Tosspots: "What did you get for your birthday?"
Me: after reeling off a list of presents "...and I bought myself a ukulele out of the cash"
AT: "Wo-hoa, you like George Formby then?
Me: "Not really, besides, he played a banjo ukulele..."
AT: (singing) "I'm leaning on a lampost at the corner of the street...."
Me: "...mine's a guitar ukulele..."
AT: (in George Formby voice) "He-hee, turned out nice again..."
Me: "No, no, it's not a banjo ukulele"
AT: (singing again) "...when I'm cleaning winderz..."
Me: "It's. Not. A. Fucking. Banjo. Ukulele!"
AT: "All right, calm down, Jesus, I never even go the gag in about Little sticks of Blackpool rock"
Me: "Piss off"

So, as you can see, having a ukulele isn't easy, it's tossers at every twitch and turn.
Mind you, if it's good in enough for Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot, it's good enough for me. Who knows, one day I may be good enough to join this excellent set up, and perform this little heartbreaker at The Albert Hall.

In other news, I notice that yesterday was 'the most historic day in the world ever'. That is the most historic day in the world ever since he got elected last November. The thing is, what if Obama's rubbish? How many disappointed people in the world are there going to be? It seems like a lifetime ago now that we had our own massive disappointment. Anyone remember May 1st 1997?
I was talking to my gig-going chum about the inauguration last night, he told me that security was so tight that "they've had to call in the Home Guard". I can just imagine a portly old gentleman asking to be excused because he needed the toilet and could he not have to stand for so long because his gout was playing up. Gig-going chum's that daft that when I told him I had a uke, he thought it was the hot new Xbox game. "Oh, I thought it was like Guitar Hero but for ukuleles" he droned. Yeah, Ukulele Hero, you numpty. Mind you, I'd buy it...

The most historic thing for me yesterday was that Derby County got knocked out of the Carling Cup. How unfortunate for them that they're going to get knocked out of two cup competitions in the same week.
Oh, and I dropped off to sleep at work yesterday. I just thought I'd close my eyes for a few moments. Next thing it's five minutes later. That's the power of Steve Wright in the Afternoon for you playing shedloads of patriotic American music. If I'd been caught I think I'd have been in rather a lot of bother. They should give me more to do, shouldn't they?

2008 and all that

That's 2008 then. The Bright Ambassador highlights:

• Guitar Hero 3 - how to kill weekend afternoons during a crap summer


• Dexter


• Nottingham Forest's promotion


• Mad Men


• Metallica back on form


• Charlie Brooker's print and TV tribute to Oliver Postgate


• Fleet Foxes


• The sitcom Pulling - deliciously filthy


• Word magazine's Prog edition


• Danny Baker back on 606


• Rebecca Romero


• Son of Rambow


• The rise of Christine Bleakley


• Dead Set


• Jez using a £20 note as a masturbatory visual aid on Peep Show


• The Ting Tings


• Seeing Peep Show's Isy Suttie in the flesh (pictured)


• Elbow finally getting the recognition they deserve


• Kristen Schaal in The Flight of the Conchords


• Armstrong and Miller's Timeghost podcast


• Terry Wogan leaving Eurovision - how about him leaving Radio 2?


• Watson and Oliver at Edinburgh
  

What didn't float my boat:

• Sam Allardyce not coming to Nottingham Forest


• Graham Norton joining Eurovision


• The way newspapers, especially The Sun and Daily Mail, use the slightest thing as a stick with which to beat the BBC. I'm surprised I haven't seen a headline along the lines of 'Man's disgust at getting papercut from the 1985 edition of Radio 1's Which Way Now? pack. Fat cat Beeb bosses laugh themselves unconscious at the news during the Christmas party WE paid for'.


• The film PS I Love You


• The Ting Tings


• Nottingham Forest playing like a steaming pile of poo from August onwards


• Ashes to Ashes (the telly show, not the Bowie song)


• Dirty Sexy Money - the biggest waste of talent since ELP


• The upward curve of Frankie Boyle's career


• Hole in the Wall

What to look forward to in 2009:

• Guitar Hero: Metallica Edition


• Seeing Metallica in February for the first time in sixteen years


• Anything else Metallica-related

That's me done for this year. Happy Christmas - whether you like it or not. As Geddy Lee says, with alarming regularity immediately pre-interval, I'm 'going to take a break for some brain surgery.' Things are out of my control a little work-wise in the new year, so whether I'll be back sooner rather than later is yet to be seen.

To quote Derek Batey, be good to each other. Ta-ra.

What enthusiasm?

As much as I'm not overly keen on Curb Your Enthusiasm, I've found myself, over the past couple of weekends, having Larry David moments.
Take Saturday, for example. I was doing a spot of housework in my kitchen whilst listening to selections from my iPod, in particular playing a pretty mean air guitar to this. Anyhow, while in my cleansing and air-guitaring state, I must have inadvertently pumped a bottle of white Carex hand soap I keep on at the kitchen sink. True to form the postman turned up at the crack of midday to deliver a parcel which needed signing for. I could see that he couldn't make eye contact with me but seemed to be focused on my navy blue pullover. When he'd sodded off, I went back to my household chores. I then noticed a load of Carex hand soap all over the draining board, and, horror of horrors all down the front of my jumper. The postman must have thought, in my red-faced state and with a load of thick, white liquid down my front, that I'd been having a spot of 'me time. Nooooo!!! No doubt he couldn't wait to get back to the sorting office to laugh about it 'with the lads'. Ugh.

And last Sunday, I broke my own rule about not going to pubs where a TV plays to watch the big Forest v Sheep football match. I waited outside the pub for my mate to turn up (I hate going into pubs on my own). I'd bought a Q magazine from the newsagents on the way and was passing the time reading it. While waiting, this woman with a small dog on a lead approached me (The dog was one of those Greyfriars Bobby types - a Wanky Terrier I think they're called). The dog stopped and started sniffing the bottom of my jeans. The owner made no effort to call the dog off, and then it arched its back, as a dog parking its breakfast does, and started to have a shit. Now, I don't know what the dog had been eating, vindaloo by the look of if, but it had serious diarrhoea problems. The woman was then saying to the dog - the fucking dog, mark you, she forwent apologising to me - 'oooh, just a minute, let mummy get a bag'. At this point a wasp landed on my face, I started swatting with the magazine to get it off and ended up stepping in the dog toffee whilst the old bag was scrabbling in her bag to a receptacle to put the shit in. Bah! I had to do that thing where you find some grass and scrape your shoe along it to get the grass off. And then you find you need a stick to poke it out. I spent the rest of the afternoon watching people near me sniffing and looking at the bottom of their shoes. Still, it was a good match. In the second half.

Anyway, in other news, that Q magazine carries a great article by Billy Bragg about how he'd almost given up on his son showing any interest in the guitar. That was until Guitar Hero 3 of course. Now his son's forming a band. How cool is that?
Talking of guitars, this one's still in my local music shop window. When I get my Christmas bonus, a moment of madness may overcome me and I shall probably end up buying the bloody thing. It'll be like the final scene of That'll Be the Day where David Essex goes in to buy his first electric guitar.