It seems years ago now, but it was actually only a couple of months. You'll notice that this piece isn't finished. It's been that way for a long time. I was about to let it lie unused in my hard-drive, and then thought why not just put it out there and let other people contribute.
So go ahead. Have a read through, and if you have any suggestions for the parts that are not yet completed you can add them in the comments section.
2007/08 Season Review
The Shaun Wright Phillips award for a promising talent going to a big club to sit on the bench: Steve Sidwell. Formerly of Reading…now of Chelsea.
The George Graham memorial Worst Game of the Season award: Fulham 0 – 1 Newcastle. This came a few weeks before both of these clubs sacked their respective managers. If you watched this match you would have understood why. Totally devoid of quality and settled by a penalty in the last minute.
Best signing: Roque Santa Cruz (Blackburn Rovers). £3.5 million for 21 goals in his first season in the Premiership. A class player.
Worst signing: Laurent Robert (Derby). More or less all of Derby’s signings could win this award, but to pick such a temperamental and weak-minded player for a team like Derby was idiotic. That he left Derby to join a team in Toronto says it all.
The Jamie Redknapp award for absurd misuse of the word ‘literally’: BBC pundit Steve Claridge "Martin Jol was literally a dead man walking at Spurs.”
1. Manchester Utd
Best: 4-0 win at home to Aston Villa. The Rooney-Ronaldo-Tevez tripod of brilliance ran riot as Villa shipped four to the champions for the second time in the season.
Worst: 2-1 loss at home to Manchester City. Not only was it the Manchester derby, and not only did it seal a league double for City, but it came on the 50th anniversary of the Munich air disaster.
Best player: Ronaldo gets all the plaudits, but Carlos Tevez – in his first season at the club – was immense. Scored crucial late equalisers at Spurs and Blackburn, as well as the only goal in the win at Anfield.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…’The Godfather II’ – No one thought it could be better than the last one, but it was.
2. Chelsea
Best: 2-1 win at home to Arsenal. In a must-win game they bounced back strongly after going a goal down.
Worst: 1-1 home draw with Wigan. A last-minute equaliser when you’re chasing the title is always tough, but for it to come from Emile Heskey is a real kick in the knickers.
Best player: Ricardo Carvalho. One of the top centre backs in the world at the moment. He scores goals and brings the ball out of defence with supreme confidence.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…
3. Arsenal
Best: 2-0 away to Milan. Did what no other English team has ever done, and did it in style.
Worst: 2-2 away to Birmingham. The wheels well and truly came off.
Best player: Cesc Fabregas. Although he faded slightly towards the end, he scored crucial goals and dominated the midfield.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…’Things Fall Apart’ – Yes, they do.
4. Liverpool
Best: 4-2 at home to Arsenal in the CL quarter final. Dubious penalty, but great spirit and quality when needed.
Worst: 1-1 at home to Wigan. The only thing worse than a late Wigan equaliser at your home ground from Emile Heskey is the same thing from Titus Bramble.
Best player: Fernando Torres. Had a lot to prove and he proved it.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…’Don Quixote’ – Spaniard tries to be a hero and almost succeeds.
5. Everton
Best: 7-1 at home to Sunderland. Cahill and Yakubu had a field day.
Worst: The loss on penalties to Fiorentina in the UEFA Cup. Having overcome a 2-0 first leg deficit and dominated the game, they then lost in the cruelest way possible.
Best player: Phil Neville. For those who criticise him, look at what the club has done since he became captain.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…
6. Aston Villa
Best: 6-0 away at Derby. The goals flew in from all angles.
Worst: 4-1 and 4-0 losses to Man Utd home and away respectively.
Best player: Gareth Barry. Sadly though, he’ll never be a top four star.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…
7. Blackburn Rovers
8. Portsmouth
9. Man City
Best: Doing the double over Man Utd.
Worst: Losing 8-1 away to Boro on the last day of the season. And also allowing themselves to be bought by a corrupt Thai politician. Here’s a tip: never sell out to a man who was ousted in a coup in his home country.
Best player: Stephen Ireland. In fits and starts, but he’s young.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…Mama Mia! – An entertaining and successful tribute to the ability of a famous Swede.
10. West Ham United
Best: 1-0 home wins over Liverpool and Man Utd
Worst: 1-0 loss at home to Man City on the opening day. It rather summed up the season of mediocrity that was to come.
Best player: Mark Nobel.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…Scream – Survival is the key as one character after another is slain.
11. Tottenham Hotspur
Best: 4-4 at home to Chelsea.
Worst: 4-4 at home to Villa.
Best player: Robbie Keane. One of the most underrated strikers in the league.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…
12. Newcastle United
Best: 4-1 at Spurs. No one would have predicted it.
Worst: 1-0 at Derby. Being pummeled 6-0 by Man Utd was bad, but losing to the worst team in Premiership history is too much.
Best player: Nicky Butt. One of few bright sparks.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…’The Da Vinci Code’ – Hugely popular, devoid of quality.
13. Middlesbrough
Best: 2-2 at home to Man Utd
Worst: 2-0 loss at home to Cardiff in the FA Cup.
Best player: Stewart Downing. If he had a right foot he’d be world class.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…
14. Wigan Athletic
Best:
15. Sunderland
Best: 1-0 win at home to Tottenham on the opening day of the season courtesy of a last-minute Chopra strike.
Worst: 7-1 loss away to Everton. What a mauling.
Best player: Kenwin Jones. On his day he’s an animal.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…
16. Bolton Wanderers
17. Fulham
18. Reading
19. Birmingham
Best: 3-2 win at Spurs in Alex McLeish’s first game in charge.
Worst: 4-0 loss at Villa Park in the Birmingham derby.
Best player: Sebastian Larsson. Classy Swedish player who takes a great set piece.
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…
20. Derby County
Best: Their one victory at home to Newcastle 1-0.
Worst: 11 points and a goal difference of –69, aka the entire season.
Best player: I seem to recall Kenny Miller scoring more than one goal…
If their season was a work of fiction it would be…’The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ – Moments of savagery banded together in a way you’d rather forget.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Monday, 23 June 2008
Muhammad, founder of Islam, and why his hate-filled bullshit doesn't belong in a country like Belgium
So far on this blog I’ve mused mostly on trivial matters in Brussels. Matters such as nights out, good places to visit, and of course the exploits of the greatest amateur side in Europe’s capital, FC Irlande. Now, however, I’m going to write about something that’s meaningful and urgent. The fact that I began writing this on Friday the 13th might prove ominous.
Yes, as you begin reading this article on Islam and Muslims in Brussels you might be thinking, “easy Ross, don’t want to get a fatwa on your head.” Admit it, that’s the first thing you were thinking, wasn’t it?
Is this thought an over-reaction to biased and hysterical western media coverage of Islam in the post-9/11 world, or a rational fear based on the actions of millions of fanatical Muslims around the world since the rise of Muhammad in the 7th century?
Those are difficult questions to answer. I first want to explain the background to this article, and then talk about my thoughts on the situation in Brussels, Britain and Europe.
I’ve been at home for the past four days with a throat infection. In my ample spare time in this period I’ve been watching a lot of political videos on youtube, and reading a great many articles on various current events. When I came to the subject of Islam, terrorism and the west I was gripped by the words of one man: Robert Spencer. He’s an American author, columnist and expert on Islam. You may have noticed his name already in the link to the website ‘Jihad Watch’, of which he is the co-founder.
What really inspired me to write this piece was a video I watched of a lecture he delivered to the Heritage Foundation in November 2006, shortly after the release of his book ‘The Truth About Muhammad, Founder of the World’s Most Intolerant Religion.’ Here is the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECaMeMl6--4
(Note: this is the first of seven parts. Each clip features a link to the following one.)
Spencer is an eloquent speaker and clearly an expert in his field. During his lecture I learnt a number of startling facts, all of which come from sources that Muslims themselves consider most reliable. One was about child marriage in Islam. When Muhammad was in his early 50s he married a six-year old girl, and consummated the marriage when she was 9. As Spencer points out we cannot label him a pedophile because this was common practice at that time and in that part of the world. “He was not the first… nor was he the last.” What is disturbing, though is that because, “there is no moral standard higher in traditional Islam than Muhammad”, child marriage is common in some Islamic countries. For example when the Ayatollah Khomeini became leader of Iran in 1979 he quickly passed a law that changed the legal marital age to 9.
The most shocking thing I learnt, however, comes in part six during the Q&A session with the audience. Around the five and a half minute mark Spencer is asked a question by a young Frenchman who laments the fact that his country has fallen apart since large numbers of Arabs began emigrating there around 30 years ago.
Spencer points out that this came about as a result of the 1973 oil crisis. In order to ensure a steady supply of oil, European governments, amongst other things, entered into an agreement with Arab governments to accept large numbers of immigrants from the Arab world. The Arab governments wanted to create enclaves around Europe, and so insisted that the new arrivals not be forced to assimilate.
This brings me to Muslims in Brussels. Of the 1. 3 million people living here, just under a third are Muslim. I see them everyday, on the tram and metro and in the streets. By them, I mean women. Specifically women wearing headscarves or in Muslim dress. I have never talked to one of these women, nor their male equivalents.
My friend Andy (a long-time Brussels resident) and I talked about the topic of Muslim integration once. He said that all the other non-Belgians who come here manage to fit in. It’s only the Muslims that don’t. I can dispute this with only one example. One of my private lessons is with a young Turkish lady. If you saw her in the street you wouldn’t guess she was a Muslim. It’s not just that she’s not wearing a veil; she’s dressed in very stylish, western-style clothes. When she told me she was a Muslim I was very surprised. What would not surprise me is if all of my European friends were to tell me that they also have never talked to a Muslim woman in a headscarf nor have any close Muslim friends.
I have never asked my Muslim student about her beliefs, about her feelings of Muhammad. I wonder what would happen if I was to push her on this topic and point out that he had sex with a 9 year-old girl.
These are tough questions, but they are questions I would ask every person who wants to live in Belgium, Britain or any other free country. Spencer says the same thing. In countries like Britain there are thousands, if not millions of MUSLIMS who BELIEVE THINGS THAT CONTRADICT OUR VALUES (capitals added for deliberate tabloid-style sensationalist tone). British Prime Minister Gordon Brown loves to parrot the phrase “British values”. It’s very clear that he’s talking to Muslims when he says this, but like all scared, politically-correct politicians he doesn’t dare say so. Muslim values and British values don’t match. I believe that anyone wishing to live and work in Britain, or become a British citizen should be asked the following questions, amongst others:
1) Do you believe homosexuals deserve to be beheaded?
2) Do you believe a woman should be required to wear a headscarf in public?
3) Do you believe, as Muhammad did, that non-Muslims should be offered only three choices: conversion, subjugation or war?
4) Do you believe that the Holocaust took place – that between 1933 and 1945 the Nazi party exterminated approximately six million Jews?
5) Do you recognise the state of Israel and Israel’s right to exist?
If your answer to either question one, two and three is yes, and the answer to either four or five no, then you don’t belong in Britain (and by the way, I despise the Israeli government and the atrocities they commit against the Palestinians, but I still believe in their right to exist).
Let me clear up a myth about Islam. It is not a religion in the traditional sense. It is a political-military enterprise, and was enshrined as such. The first date of the Islamic calendar is not Muhammad’s birth or death, nor even the date of his first “revelation” (speech marks used sarcastically to suggest that his revelations were bullshit), but is in fact the date that Islam became a political and military force. While Christian states have evolved into democratic ones, Islamic states exist in Africa, the Middle East and across Asia, and in these states the concept of separating church and state does not exist. This is why people who share the beliefs of Muhammad should not be allowed to live in Britain or Belgium. They are part of a system that wants to replace our beliefs with theirs – and their beliefs are littered with hate.
There are undoubtedly many non-Muslims who also hold some of the contradictory beliefs mentioned above, but the difference is they are not part of a religion run by extremists who want to create an Islamic state in Britain and around the world. Let me clear up another myth about Islam. The word ‘Islam’ does not mean peace. It means submission. When they say ‘religion of peace’ they do really mean it though – when the entire world is an Islamic state. By asking the questions I posed earlier we can find out if this is what people desire. In fact, if you want to save time you could just sum it up thusly: do you want to Britain to be run by Sharia law? If you do, you don’t belong here. Sharia law does not recognise the equality of women, homosexuals or non-Muslims. Not only this, IT ACTUALLY ADVOCATES THEIR DESTRUCTION. I believe all religions are cuckoo, but in this one the ludicrous hatred and violence are spelt out. You can’t spell Muhammad without mad.
Yes, as you begin reading this article on Islam and Muslims in Brussels you might be thinking, “easy Ross, don’t want to get a fatwa on your head.” Admit it, that’s the first thing you were thinking, wasn’t it?
Is this thought an over-reaction to biased and hysterical western media coverage of Islam in the post-9/11 world, or a rational fear based on the actions of millions of fanatical Muslims around the world since the rise of Muhammad in the 7th century?
Those are difficult questions to answer. I first want to explain the background to this article, and then talk about my thoughts on the situation in Brussels, Britain and Europe.
I’ve been at home for the past four days with a throat infection. In my ample spare time in this period I’ve been watching a lot of political videos on youtube, and reading a great many articles on various current events. When I came to the subject of Islam, terrorism and the west I was gripped by the words of one man: Robert Spencer. He’s an American author, columnist and expert on Islam. You may have noticed his name already in the link to the website ‘Jihad Watch’, of which he is the co-founder.
What really inspired me to write this piece was a video I watched of a lecture he delivered to the Heritage Foundation in November 2006, shortly after the release of his book ‘The Truth About Muhammad, Founder of the World’s Most Intolerant Religion.’ Here is the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECaMeMl6--4
(Note: this is the first of seven parts. Each clip features a link to the following one.)
Spencer is an eloquent speaker and clearly an expert in his field. During his lecture I learnt a number of startling facts, all of which come from sources that Muslims themselves consider most reliable. One was about child marriage in Islam. When Muhammad was in his early 50s he married a six-year old girl, and consummated the marriage when she was 9. As Spencer points out we cannot label him a pedophile because this was common practice at that time and in that part of the world. “He was not the first… nor was he the last.” What is disturbing, though is that because, “there is no moral standard higher in traditional Islam than Muhammad”, child marriage is common in some Islamic countries. For example when the Ayatollah Khomeini became leader of Iran in 1979 he quickly passed a law that changed the legal marital age to 9.
The most shocking thing I learnt, however, comes in part six during the Q&A session with the audience. Around the five and a half minute mark Spencer is asked a question by a young Frenchman who laments the fact that his country has fallen apart since large numbers of Arabs began emigrating there around 30 years ago.
Spencer points out that this came about as a result of the 1973 oil crisis. In order to ensure a steady supply of oil, European governments, amongst other things, entered into an agreement with Arab governments to accept large numbers of immigrants from the Arab world. The Arab governments wanted to create enclaves around Europe, and so insisted that the new arrivals not be forced to assimilate.
This brings me to Muslims in Brussels. Of the 1. 3 million people living here, just under a third are Muslim. I see them everyday, on the tram and metro and in the streets. By them, I mean women. Specifically women wearing headscarves or in Muslim dress. I have never talked to one of these women, nor their male equivalents.
My friend Andy (a long-time Brussels resident) and I talked about the topic of Muslim integration once. He said that all the other non-Belgians who come here manage to fit in. It’s only the Muslims that don’t. I can dispute this with only one example. One of my private lessons is with a young Turkish lady. If you saw her in the street you wouldn’t guess she was a Muslim. It’s not just that she’s not wearing a veil; she’s dressed in very stylish, western-style clothes. When she told me she was a Muslim I was very surprised. What would not surprise me is if all of my European friends were to tell me that they also have never talked to a Muslim woman in a headscarf nor have any close Muslim friends.
I have never asked my Muslim student about her beliefs, about her feelings of Muhammad. I wonder what would happen if I was to push her on this topic and point out that he had sex with a 9 year-old girl.
These are tough questions, but they are questions I would ask every person who wants to live in Belgium, Britain or any other free country. Spencer says the same thing. In countries like Britain there are thousands, if not millions of MUSLIMS who BELIEVE THINGS THAT CONTRADICT OUR VALUES (capitals added for deliberate tabloid-style sensationalist tone). British Prime Minister Gordon Brown loves to parrot the phrase “British values”. It’s very clear that he’s talking to Muslims when he says this, but like all scared, politically-correct politicians he doesn’t dare say so. Muslim values and British values don’t match. I believe that anyone wishing to live and work in Britain, or become a British citizen should be asked the following questions, amongst others:
1) Do you believe homosexuals deserve to be beheaded?
2) Do you believe a woman should be required to wear a headscarf in public?
3) Do you believe, as Muhammad did, that non-Muslims should be offered only three choices: conversion, subjugation or war?
4) Do you believe that the Holocaust took place – that between 1933 and 1945 the Nazi party exterminated approximately six million Jews?
5) Do you recognise the state of Israel and Israel’s right to exist?
If your answer to either question one, two and three is yes, and the answer to either four or five no, then you don’t belong in Britain (and by the way, I despise the Israeli government and the atrocities they commit against the Palestinians, but I still believe in their right to exist).
Let me clear up a myth about Islam. It is not a religion in the traditional sense. It is a political-military enterprise, and was enshrined as such. The first date of the Islamic calendar is not Muhammad’s birth or death, nor even the date of his first “revelation” (speech marks used sarcastically to suggest that his revelations were bullshit), but is in fact the date that Islam became a political and military force. While Christian states have evolved into democratic ones, Islamic states exist in Africa, the Middle East and across Asia, and in these states the concept of separating church and state does not exist. This is why people who share the beliefs of Muhammad should not be allowed to live in Britain or Belgium. They are part of a system that wants to replace our beliefs with theirs – and their beliefs are littered with hate.
There are undoubtedly many non-Muslims who also hold some of the contradictory beliefs mentioned above, but the difference is they are not part of a religion run by extremists who want to create an Islamic state in Britain and around the world. Let me clear up another myth about Islam. The word ‘Islam’ does not mean peace. It means submission. When they say ‘religion of peace’ they do really mean it though – when the entire world is an Islamic state. By asking the questions I posed earlier we can find out if this is what people desire. In fact, if you want to save time you could just sum it up thusly: do you want to Britain to be run by Sharia law? If you do, you don’t belong here. Sharia law does not recognise the equality of women, homosexuals or non-Muslims. Not only this, IT ACTUALLY ADVOCATES THEIR DESTRUCTION. I believe all religions are cuckoo, but in this one the ludicrous hatred and violence are spelt out. You can’t spell Muhammad without mad.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Attention women: Just because it's Euro 2008 you don't have to pretend to like football
Before I begin, let me make the following prediction. Someone, probably a woman, will claim that this piece is sexist. It is not sexist. Sexism is believing that men are superior to women. They’re not. If I say that I don’t like watching football with women it’s not sexist. It’s just a preference.
So let me begin. I don’t like watching football with women. Sorry. You have many wonderful qualities, but being good company during a football match is not one of them.
Since Euro 2008 started I’ve watched a number of matches in the company of women. From these, and other experiences I can divide the female football viewer into two categories: bored, bitter and uninterested; or clueless, cacophonic and over-the-top excited for reasons they can’t explain.
Accept it, women. Every two years your man will spend five weeks of the summer watching one or two games a day. If he wanted you there he’d say, yeah babe, I’m watching the football, come down, I’d really love that.
Snap poll: Men – how many times have you said that to your mrs?
Snap poll: Women – how many times has your man said that to you?
The answer to both questions is never. ‘Yeah, I’m watching the football’…that’s as far as it gets.
When men watch football we like to bounce opinions and observations off each other. We throw out an opinion, one of the lads in the group picks it up and elaborates and thus a healthy footballing banter is born. Offer an opinion or an observation to your average female football viewer and it enters a black-hole of confusion.
Many women will try to overcome this natural lack of knowledge by studying intensely before a match, as if it’s a chemistry exam. I appreciate the fact that you’re trying to fit in and that you want to penetrate what has been, since its creation, an almost exclusively male domain, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to. I’m not sat here LAMENTING the fact that women aren’t good company during a football match. I prefer it that way. Football is for me and the lads. You have your own things that you and your friends can enjoy.
And this is the part where I get into hot sexist water by naming some stereotypically female activity like yoga or shopping. So instead I’ll just move on.
FIFA, UEFA and the other footballing bodies don’t help this increasing feminine presence. Have you noticed how many times the cameramen will show shots of women in the crowd? Part of it is pandering to a male audience high on beer and adrenalin. “Phwah, wouldn’t mind a bit of that!” etc. But part of it is also saying, “see women, you too can enjoy football.”
Yeah, you can enjoy it. Some of you undoubtedly do enjoy it. But even if that’s the case, as homoerotic as it will sound, I still prefer the company of men.
So let me begin. I don’t like watching football with women. Sorry. You have many wonderful qualities, but being good company during a football match is not one of them.
Since Euro 2008 started I’ve watched a number of matches in the company of women. From these, and other experiences I can divide the female football viewer into two categories: bored, bitter and uninterested; or clueless, cacophonic and over-the-top excited for reasons they can’t explain.
Accept it, women. Every two years your man will spend five weeks of the summer watching one or two games a day. If he wanted you there he’d say, yeah babe, I’m watching the football, come down, I’d really love that.
Snap poll: Men – how many times have you said that to your mrs?
Snap poll: Women – how many times has your man said that to you?
The answer to both questions is never. ‘Yeah, I’m watching the football’…that’s as far as it gets.
When men watch football we like to bounce opinions and observations off each other. We throw out an opinion, one of the lads in the group picks it up and elaborates and thus a healthy footballing banter is born. Offer an opinion or an observation to your average female football viewer and it enters a black-hole of confusion.
Many women will try to overcome this natural lack of knowledge by studying intensely before a match, as if it’s a chemistry exam. I appreciate the fact that you’re trying to fit in and that you want to penetrate what has been, since its creation, an almost exclusively male domain, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to. I’m not sat here LAMENTING the fact that women aren’t good company during a football match. I prefer it that way. Football is for me and the lads. You have your own things that you and your friends can enjoy.
And this is the part where I get into hot sexist water by naming some stereotypically female activity like yoga or shopping. So instead I’ll just move on.
FIFA, UEFA and the other footballing bodies don’t help this increasing feminine presence. Have you noticed how many times the cameramen will show shots of women in the crowd? Part of it is pandering to a male audience high on beer and adrenalin. “Phwah, wouldn’t mind a bit of that!” etc. But part of it is also saying, “see women, you too can enjoy football.”
Yeah, you can enjoy it. Some of you undoubtedly do enjoy it. But even if that’s the case, as homoerotic as it will sound, I still prefer the company of men.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
FC Irlande - La Lorgnette Tournament
The La Lorgnette tournament took place on the 24th of May. I apologise to the lads for not writing this report earlier, but stuff kept coming up. Now that I’m at home sick with nothing to do I’ve finally finished it. I present to you: How Not To Organise a Tournament, by Ross Grainger.
February: Alec sends out an email saying we’ve been invited to a tournament in Brussels hosted by La Lorgnette, a team in our division. He says he’s working that day so he needs a volunteer to be captain and put a team together. I’ll do it, I say. How hard can it be? Send out an email, show up, collect the trophy. Piece of cake. Plus the tournament isn’t until the 24th of May. Loads of time to organise.
Rest of February: Work, football, booze, sleep; work, football – LEAGUE CHAMPIONS! – booooooooooze, sleep…
March: Work, football, booze, sleep; work, football, booze, sleep…
April: Work, football, booze, sleep; work, football, booze, sleep – EASTER! – work, football…
May 11th, 12.02pm: Alec forwards an email from the La Lorgnette tournament organiser asking for my details. The La Lorg what now?
May 11th, 12.03pm: Dear FC Irlande lads, Ross here, sorry for the short notice…
May 22nd, two days before the tournament: Somehow I’ve scraped together 10 players and myself. We’ve even got a keeper, Big Danish Peter.
May 23rd: Dear Lads, Ross again. Here are the details for the tournament. Two group games, semi final and final. 11-6. Meet at Schuman at 10.
D-Day, 8.00am: Wake up. Something doesn’t feel right…
9.00am: It hits me like a train. I didn’t email Peter.
9.01am: From mobile 04-884-606-03 – Ptr, Ross, soz 4 lte msg get ur arse 2 la lorg by 11 cheers bye
10.05am: Although he lives just round the corner, Kieran is the last one to arrive. He’s brought his friend Milac, a tall, friendly and soft-spoken Serbian bloke with the kind of gentle face that makes you wonder how his country produced so many war criminals. He’s got a big plaster on his neck after a post-Champions league final scrap in which someone bit him. Cue terrible jokes about FC Irlande liking players with bite. Despite his injury, he agrees to cover for Peter, who has yet to respond to our barrage of messages.
10.45am: Two of the three car loads have arrived. Kieran rings: “Ross you fucking e-jit, you sent us to the wrong fucking place!” For once in his life he’s right.
10.49am: Crowds of people, music playing, a barbecue. Where are the changing rooms? Where are we playing first? What’s this paper you’re giving me? Sign what? Where?
11.00am: Like all amateur tournaments, this one, luckily for us, is running late. Milac has donned the keeper’s outfit. The team is as follows: Milac in goal, Ben (former FC Irlande captain) right back, Rafa centre back, Dualta right back; Christophe and David sitting deep, Peter on the right, Kieran on the left, Sigve behind me and Sean up front.
“All right lads, this is all a bit haphazard due in large part to my poor organising skills (ironic laughter), but when you put all the details aside and step on that pitch it’s just another game of football, and we all know how to play football. People know who we are. They see these green and white stripes and they tremble because they know we’re the team that arse-raped our way to the 2B title. Lets do it.”
Game 1: Win 3-0 v Boca Sublime. I scored from six millimeters after a looping cross from Kieran. Sean adds another after a disastrous goal kick from their keeper. We settle down and play some decent football despite the rock-hard, dust-bowl of a pitch. Sigve adds a typically tenacious third in the second half.
Between Game 1 and Game 2: Ben leaves to go and pick up a friend’s dog that he said he’d look after. It’s a big golden retriever that likes to jump on people and chase footballs.
Game 2: Win 3-0 v AS Midi. We’re a bit slow to get going, but we open the scoring with a beautiful team goal. The ball is worked from the back. I feed Sean with a delicate pass, he picks out Peter sprinting from deep as if the fag shop is about to close, and our soon-to-be-former Dutchman finishes low and hard. Great goal.
At the back, as in the last game, our makeshift defence is coping well with everything they face. David and Christophe are linking well. Sean bags two more, the second after a vicious out-swinging corner from… oh yeah. Me.
The two hours between Game 2 and Game 3 (the semi final): Disaster has struck. Dualta has injured his ankle. It happened in the previous game. He made a totally unexpected and mazy run from deep, beating a couple of men and exchanging passes with me. He was through on goal when his ankle, or possibly his entire body, gave way. In any case it’s the ankle that’s fucked. We’re down to ten. Too late to recruit anyone. Besides, we’re playing so well that the even with 10 we feel confident enough.
Ten minutes into the first half and we’re 2-0 down. The team looks deflated, beaten, like we’ve given up already. I can feel the knives sharpening, the vexation building… why didn’t you bring more players Ross? Er, I’m incompetent?
I can’t remember what was said at halftime. I certainly know that I said nothing special. The only change we made was to put Dualta up front, despite being unable to run. It’ll take one of their defenders out the game, we say.
In the second half we start playing to our abilities. I go on a mazy run down the left and squeeze a cross back for Sigve, who taps in under pressure. 2-1. Each half is just 15 minutes long, so the normal feelings of franticness that come with chasing a game late on are increased five-fold. With about eight minutes to go all notions of position and formation have gone out the window. Apart from Ben and Rafa holding ship at the back everyone is running everywhere, especially me. At one point I drop right back almost to our own box to collect a goal kick, so desperate am I to rectify the situation.
With the last action of the game we put together a neat passing move. I again go down the left and find a gap, I’m clean through on goal, left-foot shot, saved by the keeper, back to me, I round him, to the byline, pull it back, and there’s Sigve again! 2-2. We go mental.
Had it gone to extra time we almost certainly would have won it, but it’s straight to penalties. The opposition look dead and dumbfounded. We’ve got the momentum. Who wants to take one? I ask. There are only three to take. Christophe, David and Sean step forward. Christophe fires his in with wonderful technique, and they reply in kind. Step forward Milosh to write his name in FC Irlande folklore by saving the second. After David scores and they score their third it’s left to Sean to put us in the final. He makes no mistake. We’re elated.
Once the celebrations are finished we realise we can’t afford to start the final with ten men. The team we’re going to face are young and fit, and half-decent. Dualta is completely finished; to make him play again would be a crime against humanity. We need a ringer, and time is short.
Everyone gets their phone out. Fuck, who can we call? This guy, no he’s busy? What about – nah he’s away? Oh there’s – nah he’s shopping with his girlfriend. Suddenly a name comes to mind. A typical Belgian resident who claims about six nationalities. He’s a third team player, but definitely good enough for the seconds.
“Giorgio.”
“Yeah, good call.”
“Who’s got his number?”
Giorgio is willing to come, but has a few problems getting here. By the time he arrives we’re 1-0 down after some sloppy defending from a corner. By sloppy I mean no one attacks the ball as it comes in, no one clears it when it bounces.
On comes Giorgio to replace Kieran at left-back. It works a treat. From a free kick Sean pressures their keeper. It looks like the kind of fair challenge that always results in a free kick for the keeper, but the ref is a good one and lets play continue. When the ball bounces Kieran fires home. 1-1.
At halftime there is an unsavoury argument regarding the number of players on the pitch. One of their players has left, and some of our lads think we should put someone on the bench. No way, I say. It’s their problem. The whole incident mars what should have been a great spectacle.
In the end they borrow a player from La Lorgnette. They probably now wish they hadn’t. From a throw-in on the left Kieran finds Sean, who turns the new recruit easily and fires home at the far post. 2-1. It’s this goal, and his others, that help Sean win player of the tournament.
We have chances to kill the game off, but don’t take them. It doesn’t matter. Once again our defence holds firm, and our midfield takes control of the game. It finishes 2-1. After nearly six hours, four matches and much consternation we’re champions. My ingenious tactic of only bringing eleven players and thus creating a Band of Brothers-style camaraderie has worked a treat.
The trophy is slender and silver, with a cup on top that we estimate will take one and a half pints. As our name is called and I step forward to collect it amidst the applause I feel proud, exhausted and over the moon. “You lucky bastard,” says Dualta, laughing.
February: Alec sends out an email saying we’ve been invited to a tournament in Brussels hosted by La Lorgnette, a team in our division. He says he’s working that day so he needs a volunteer to be captain and put a team together. I’ll do it, I say. How hard can it be? Send out an email, show up, collect the trophy. Piece of cake. Plus the tournament isn’t until the 24th of May. Loads of time to organise.
Rest of February: Work, football, booze, sleep; work, football – LEAGUE CHAMPIONS! – booooooooooze, sleep…
March: Work, football, booze, sleep; work, football, booze, sleep…
April: Work, football, booze, sleep; work, football, booze, sleep – EASTER! – work, football…
May 11th, 12.02pm: Alec forwards an email from the La Lorgnette tournament organiser asking for my details. The La Lorg what now?
May 11th, 12.03pm: Dear FC Irlande lads, Ross here, sorry for the short notice…
May 22nd, two days before the tournament: Somehow I’ve scraped together 10 players and myself. We’ve even got a keeper, Big Danish Peter.
May 23rd: Dear Lads, Ross again. Here are the details for the tournament. Two group games, semi final and final. 11-6. Meet at Schuman at 10.
D-Day, 8.00am: Wake up. Something doesn’t feel right…
9.00am: It hits me like a train. I didn’t email Peter.
9.01am: From mobile 04-884-606-03 – Ptr, Ross, soz 4 lte msg get ur arse 2 la lorg by 11 cheers bye
10.05am: Although he lives just round the corner, Kieran is the last one to arrive. He’s brought his friend Milac, a tall, friendly and soft-spoken Serbian bloke with the kind of gentle face that makes you wonder how his country produced so many war criminals. He’s got a big plaster on his neck after a post-Champions league final scrap in which someone bit him. Cue terrible jokes about FC Irlande liking players with bite. Despite his injury, he agrees to cover for Peter, who has yet to respond to our barrage of messages.
10.45am: Two of the three car loads have arrived. Kieran rings: “Ross you fucking e-jit, you sent us to the wrong fucking place!” For once in his life he’s right.
10.49am: Crowds of people, music playing, a barbecue. Where are the changing rooms? Where are we playing first? What’s this paper you’re giving me? Sign what? Where?
11.00am: Like all amateur tournaments, this one, luckily for us, is running late. Milac has donned the keeper’s outfit. The team is as follows: Milac in goal, Ben (former FC Irlande captain) right back, Rafa centre back, Dualta right back; Christophe and David sitting deep, Peter on the right, Kieran on the left, Sigve behind me and Sean up front.
“All right lads, this is all a bit haphazard due in large part to my poor organising skills (ironic laughter), but when you put all the details aside and step on that pitch it’s just another game of football, and we all know how to play football. People know who we are. They see these green and white stripes and they tremble because they know we’re the team that arse-raped our way to the 2B title. Lets do it.”
Game 1: Win 3-0 v Boca Sublime. I scored from six millimeters after a looping cross from Kieran. Sean adds another after a disastrous goal kick from their keeper. We settle down and play some decent football despite the rock-hard, dust-bowl of a pitch. Sigve adds a typically tenacious third in the second half.
Between Game 1 and Game 2: Ben leaves to go and pick up a friend’s dog that he said he’d look after. It’s a big golden retriever that likes to jump on people and chase footballs.
Game 2: Win 3-0 v AS Midi. We’re a bit slow to get going, but we open the scoring with a beautiful team goal. The ball is worked from the back. I feed Sean with a delicate pass, he picks out Peter sprinting from deep as if the fag shop is about to close, and our soon-to-be-former Dutchman finishes low and hard. Great goal.
At the back, as in the last game, our makeshift defence is coping well with everything they face. David and Christophe are linking well. Sean bags two more, the second after a vicious out-swinging corner from… oh yeah. Me.
The two hours between Game 2 and Game 3 (the semi final): Disaster has struck. Dualta has injured his ankle. It happened in the previous game. He made a totally unexpected and mazy run from deep, beating a couple of men and exchanging passes with me. He was through on goal when his ankle, or possibly his entire body, gave way. In any case it’s the ankle that’s fucked. We’re down to ten. Too late to recruit anyone. Besides, we’re playing so well that the even with 10 we feel confident enough.
Ten minutes into the first half and we’re 2-0 down. The team looks deflated, beaten, like we’ve given up already. I can feel the knives sharpening, the vexation building… why didn’t you bring more players Ross? Er, I’m incompetent?
I can’t remember what was said at halftime. I certainly know that I said nothing special. The only change we made was to put Dualta up front, despite being unable to run. It’ll take one of their defenders out the game, we say.
In the second half we start playing to our abilities. I go on a mazy run down the left and squeeze a cross back for Sigve, who taps in under pressure. 2-1. Each half is just 15 minutes long, so the normal feelings of franticness that come with chasing a game late on are increased five-fold. With about eight minutes to go all notions of position and formation have gone out the window. Apart from Ben and Rafa holding ship at the back everyone is running everywhere, especially me. At one point I drop right back almost to our own box to collect a goal kick, so desperate am I to rectify the situation.
With the last action of the game we put together a neat passing move. I again go down the left and find a gap, I’m clean through on goal, left-foot shot, saved by the keeper, back to me, I round him, to the byline, pull it back, and there’s Sigve again! 2-2. We go mental.
Had it gone to extra time we almost certainly would have won it, but it’s straight to penalties. The opposition look dead and dumbfounded. We’ve got the momentum. Who wants to take one? I ask. There are only three to take. Christophe, David and Sean step forward. Christophe fires his in with wonderful technique, and they reply in kind. Step forward Milosh to write his name in FC Irlande folklore by saving the second. After David scores and they score their third it’s left to Sean to put us in the final. He makes no mistake. We’re elated.
Once the celebrations are finished we realise we can’t afford to start the final with ten men. The team we’re going to face are young and fit, and half-decent. Dualta is completely finished; to make him play again would be a crime against humanity. We need a ringer, and time is short.
Everyone gets their phone out. Fuck, who can we call? This guy, no he’s busy? What about – nah he’s away? Oh there’s – nah he’s shopping with his girlfriend. Suddenly a name comes to mind. A typical Belgian resident who claims about six nationalities. He’s a third team player, but definitely good enough for the seconds.
“Giorgio.”
“Yeah, good call.”
“Who’s got his number?”
Giorgio is willing to come, but has a few problems getting here. By the time he arrives we’re 1-0 down after some sloppy defending from a corner. By sloppy I mean no one attacks the ball as it comes in, no one clears it when it bounces.
On comes Giorgio to replace Kieran at left-back. It works a treat. From a free kick Sean pressures their keeper. It looks like the kind of fair challenge that always results in a free kick for the keeper, but the ref is a good one and lets play continue. When the ball bounces Kieran fires home. 1-1.
At halftime there is an unsavoury argument regarding the number of players on the pitch. One of their players has left, and some of our lads think we should put someone on the bench. No way, I say. It’s their problem. The whole incident mars what should have been a great spectacle.
In the end they borrow a player from La Lorgnette. They probably now wish they hadn’t. From a throw-in on the left Kieran finds Sean, who turns the new recruit easily and fires home at the far post. 2-1. It’s this goal, and his others, that help Sean win player of the tournament.
We have chances to kill the game off, but don’t take them. It doesn’t matter. Once again our defence holds firm, and our midfield takes control of the game. It finishes 2-1. After nearly six hours, four matches and much consternation we’re champions. My ingenious tactic of only bringing eleven players and thus creating a Band of Brothers-style camaraderie has worked a treat.
The trophy is slender and silver, with a cup on top that we estimate will take one and a half pints. As our name is called and I step forward to collect it amidst the applause I feel proud, exhausted and over the moon. “You lucky bastard,” says Dualta, laughing.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Euro 2008 in Brussels - Holland and Spain take off
“Genius Ross, Dutch master class, don’t blink.”
This was the text I got from our Dutch winger, Pete, after Holland’s second goal against Italy. For a team goal I don’t think this one will be beaten.
I was in Café Régua, just off Place Flagey. It’s a Portuguese bar, and what it lacked in numbers it made up for in tranquility and ample seating space; a far cry from Fat Boy’s on Place Luxembourg, where I had earlier watched France and Romania battle out a boring 0-0 draw.
Place de Luxembourg is the watering hole for the city’s Eurocrats (the parliament building is just next door). Knowing that the clientele are well-paid and highly stressed the local pubs are a tad more expensive than normal. Five euros a pint is steep by anyone’s standards. And I’m not sure whether the name came first and the barmen second, but it’s an apt name nonetheless. Actually the full name I’d give it is Fat (American) Boys, Slim, Dour-Faced European Girls.
It was lucky that I arrived twenty minutes before kick off. By six the place was overflowing with fans, with the French far outnumbering the Romanians. France, missing Vieira and Henry, struggled to create openings, while the Romanians were happy to soak up the pressure and try and nick a goal on the break. It made for a dire spectacle.
The most entertaining part of the match was a technical problem with the TVs. There were two screens on the square outside about ten metres apart. Although both were on the same channel, one was about two seconds behind the other. Had there been any goals or decent chances there might have been some consternation from the fans on the left side who were watching the delayed feed.
When that snooze fest ended I hopped on the 95 bus to Gare Etterbeek, then the 23 to Buyl, then, as it was a nice day and I’d just missed the 71 bus, I walked to Flagey. It’s a nice walk once you get to the pond. Its grassy banks are lined with young people, drinking, smoking, gazing into the water or watching the ducks. It was the perfect night for it.
Café Régua is probably the place to be when Portugal are playing, but on this night it was quiet. I spoke tentatively in French to the Portuguese staff and managed to order a beer and a cheese sandwich. The beer was decent; the football outstanding. What a great match to set this tournament alight.
Italy didn’t play badly. In midfield they’re still as crafty as ever, especially with the cultured play-making skills of Pirlo. It was up front and in defence where they suffered. Without Cannavaro they lacked that aura of impenetrability at the back. And up front Luca Toni had a night to forget. His attempted lob from 10 yards was woeful.
This night, though, belonged not to the spectacle of the humbled World Cup champions, but to the Dutch. Belgium and Holland are roughly the same size, have similarly small populations, and are right next to each other. Yet for decades the Dutch have consistently produced masterful teams, while Belgium produce a decent tournament squad once every ten years or so.
I said in my previous entry that I was supporting no one, but when people ask me who I want to win I often say that I have a soft spot for Holland. A small, clean, peaceful and liberal country that has produced so many great footballers, Holland are the only country whose penalty shoot-out record in major competitions is worse than England’s. Although this year’s team has great attacking quality, I didn’t think they’d make it far due to their defence. Yesterday, though, thanks largely to some great saves by Van der Sar, they kept Italy at bay.
Yesterday’s win was orchestrated by Wesley Snjeider. He put the finishing touch to a sweeping counter-attack for the second goal, and was a constant threat throughout. It was a Dutch master class, and the Italians were well-beaten. The Group of Death suddenly looks very promising for Holland.
Speaking of death, four days of drink and late nights took their toll on Tuesday when I found myself struck by fever. It meant I was unable to watch Spain demolish Russia 4-1, or watch Greece’s anti-football bandwagon fall apart against Sweden.
This was the text I got from our Dutch winger, Pete, after Holland’s second goal against Italy. For a team goal I don’t think this one will be beaten.
I was in Café Régua, just off Place Flagey. It’s a Portuguese bar, and what it lacked in numbers it made up for in tranquility and ample seating space; a far cry from Fat Boy’s on Place Luxembourg, where I had earlier watched France and Romania battle out a boring 0-0 draw.
Place de Luxembourg is the watering hole for the city’s Eurocrats (the parliament building is just next door). Knowing that the clientele are well-paid and highly stressed the local pubs are a tad more expensive than normal. Five euros a pint is steep by anyone’s standards. And I’m not sure whether the name came first and the barmen second, but it’s an apt name nonetheless. Actually the full name I’d give it is Fat (American) Boys, Slim, Dour-Faced European Girls.
It was lucky that I arrived twenty minutes before kick off. By six the place was overflowing with fans, with the French far outnumbering the Romanians. France, missing Vieira and Henry, struggled to create openings, while the Romanians were happy to soak up the pressure and try and nick a goal on the break. It made for a dire spectacle.
The most entertaining part of the match was a technical problem with the TVs. There were two screens on the square outside about ten metres apart. Although both were on the same channel, one was about two seconds behind the other. Had there been any goals or decent chances there might have been some consternation from the fans on the left side who were watching the delayed feed.
When that snooze fest ended I hopped on the 95 bus to Gare Etterbeek, then the 23 to Buyl, then, as it was a nice day and I’d just missed the 71 bus, I walked to Flagey. It’s a nice walk once you get to the pond. Its grassy banks are lined with young people, drinking, smoking, gazing into the water or watching the ducks. It was the perfect night for it.
Café Régua is probably the place to be when Portugal are playing, but on this night it was quiet. I spoke tentatively in French to the Portuguese staff and managed to order a beer and a cheese sandwich. The beer was decent; the football outstanding. What a great match to set this tournament alight.
Italy didn’t play badly. In midfield they’re still as crafty as ever, especially with the cultured play-making skills of Pirlo. It was up front and in defence where they suffered. Without Cannavaro they lacked that aura of impenetrability at the back. And up front Luca Toni had a night to forget. His attempted lob from 10 yards was woeful.
This night, though, belonged not to the spectacle of the humbled World Cup champions, but to the Dutch. Belgium and Holland are roughly the same size, have similarly small populations, and are right next to each other. Yet for decades the Dutch have consistently produced masterful teams, while Belgium produce a decent tournament squad once every ten years or so.
I said in my previous entry that I was supporting no one, but when people ask me who I want to win I often say that I have a soft spot for Holland. A small, clean, peaceful and liberal country that has produced so many great footballers, Holland are the only country whose penalty shoot-out record in major competitions is worse than England’s. Although this year’s team has great attacking quality, I didn’t think they’d make it far due to their defence. Yesterday, though, thanks largely to some great saves by Van der Sar, they kept Italy at bay.
Yesterday’s win was orchestrated by Wesley Snjeider. He put the finishing touch to a sweeping counter-attack for the second goal, and was a constant threat throughout. It was a Dutch master class, and the Italians were well-beaten. The Group of Death suddenly looks very promising for Holland.
Speaking of death, four days of drink and late nights took their toll on Tuesday when I found myself struck by fever. It meant I was unable to watch Spain demolish Russia 4-1, or watch Greece’s anti-football bandwagon fall apart against Sweden.
Monday, 9 June 2008
Euro 2008 in Brussels - Opening Weekend
Here’s a question I, and a great many other Englishmen have been asked recently: “Who are you supporting at Euro 2008?”
Yes, neither my home country (England) nor the country I live in (Belgium), nor any of the “home” nations (Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Northern Ireland) managed to qualify for Euro 2008. That doesn’t mean I can’t still have fun though.
Because if there’s one place you’d want to be to celebrate a European festival of any kind it’s Brussels. With the EU and NATO based here you can find ample numbers of supporters from all 16 countries represented at this year’s tournament.
You can also find a bar for just about every nationality. Saturday it was to Place Flagey for Portugal v Turkey. After Portugal’s impressive victory Flagey square was a cacophany of car horns, as Portuguese fans poured onto the streets to celebrate their 2-0 win. The way they were celebrating you’d think they’d have won the whole thing.
Yesterday (Sunday) was spent at the Hairy Canary in Schuman, just opposite the mighty European Commission building. It’s a small, friendly place, run by Irishmen (unlike a great many “Irish” bars in Brussels and elsewhere in Europe). I watched Croatia labour to victory over Austria, and then Germany ease past Poland 2-0. At the end of the bar there were a group of boistrous Polish fans who now and then broke into chants of “Polska! Polska!” My friend Stephen, who works behind the bar, thought there might be trouble when the Poles lost, but the defeated fans slipped out quietly.
Tonight it’s Group C, aka the Group of Death. Despite sharing a border with both France and Holland (who, along with Italy and Romania, make up group C) there aren’t any French or Dutch bars in Brussels – that I know of. As my Euro 2008 journey continues I will do my best to find a niche in Brussels to suit every nationality.
And as for the question of who I'm supporting...no-one. Let good football prevail.
Yes, neither my home country (England) nor the country I live in (Belgium), nor any of the “home” nations (Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Northern Ireland) managed to qualify for Euro 2008. That doesn’t mean I can’t still have fun though.
Because if there’s one place you’d want to be to celebrate a European festival of any kind it’s Brussels. With the EU and NATO based here you can find ample numbers of supporters from all 16 countries represented at this year’s tournament.
You can also find a bar for just about every nationality. Saturday it was to Place Flagey for Portugal v Turkey. After Portugal’s impressive victory Flagey square was a cacophany of car horns, as Portuguese fans poured onto the streets to celebrate their 2-0 win. The way they were celebrating you’d think they’d have won the whole thing.
Yesterday (Sunday) was spent at the Hairy Canary in Schuman, just opposite the mighty European Commission building. It’s a small, friendly place, run by Irishmen (unlike a great many “Irish” bars in Brussels and elsewhere in Europe). I watched Croatia labour to victory over Austria, and then Germany ease past Poland 2-0. At the end of the bar there were a group of boistrous Polish fans who now and then broke into chants of “Polska! Polska!” My friend Stephen, who works behind the bar, thought there might be trouble when the Poles lost, but the defeated fans slipped out quietly.
Tonight it’s Group C, aka the Group of Death. Despite sharing a border with both France and Holland (who, along with Italy and Romania, make up group C) there aren’t any French or Dutch bars in Brussels – that I know of. As my Euro 2008 journey continues I will do my best to find a niche in Brussels to suit every nationality.
And as for the question of who I'm supporting...no-one. Let good football prevail.
Thursday, 5 June 2008
You're on the metro
In the metro there are two concepts the Belgians don’t understand:
1) When the doors open, let me get off first. During rush-hour it’s like charging into a scrum, except there's no ball and the object is to push the opposition over the end-line.
2) When you’re on the escalator, STAND ON THE RIGHT, PASS ON THE LEFT.
Also, a message to the people who fix the escalators:
You've been repairing escalators in metros all over the city since I arrived - eight months ago. I imagine you were doing it for some time before that. You cordon them off with your flimsy yellow fencing, fumble around for an hour or two (or, in the case of Montgomery, a week) then leave us be. Then, totally without warning, they break again, and we're forced to march up them like packs of drones (we're drones whether the escalator works or not, but at least when it's working we can escape the feeling more quickly).
Might I suggest you hire some outside expertise, as it's quite clear you have no long-term answer to this problem.
"Hmm, the solution we implemented last time only lasted for a few months. What shall we do?"
"How about the same thing, only lets do it for three hours this time. Not two."
Could it be that the people who fix the escalators know that if they find a permanent solution they'll have no more work? Surely not...
1) When the doors open, let me get off first. During rush-hour it’s like charging into a scrum, except there's no ball and the object is to push the opposition over the end-line.
2) When you’re on the escalator, STAND ON THE RIGHT, PASS ON THE LEFT.
Also, a message to the people who fix the escalators:
You've been repairing escalators in metros all over the city since I arrived - eight months ago. I imagine you were doing it for some time before that. You cordon them off with your flimsy yellow fencing, fumble around for an hour or two (or, in the case of Montgomery, a week) then leave us be. Then, totally without warning, they break again, and we're forced to march up them like packs of drones (we're drones whether the escalator works or not, but at least when it's working we can escape the feeling more quickly).
Might I suggest you hire some outside expertise, as it's quite clear you have no long-term answer to this problem.
"Hmm, the solution we implemented last time only lasted for a few months. What shall we do?"
"How about the same thing, only lets do it for three hours this time. Not two."
Could it be that the people who fix the escalators know that if they find a permanent solution they'll have no more work? Surely not...
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Scenes from a trip to Amsterdam
Amsterdam. A bridge, a canal. A little patter of rain. A yearning for a coffee shop.
“What’s that down there?” asks Olly.
“What?”
“I think that might be one. The walls on the outside have big murals on them.”
“I like the way you’re thinking.”
It’s a small, light place filled with plants.
“We have that one in our bathroom,” says Morgan. It’s a palm. Lush, yet unremarkable.
The place is run by a woman with silver hair, without a care in the world. She reminds me of the old woman from ‘Tales of the City’ by Armistead Maupin. She chats about the upcoming smoking ban, about the juice they sell.
A group of people leave and we take their copy of Scrabble. There are two others being used by two other groups.
I try to explain to the lads that this is my ideal holiday, “because I have nothing to do. Back home there’s always something going on. Work, football, have to go shopping, make dinner, make lunch, do the laundry, iron my shirts, shave, shower, email this person, email that person…” I trail off, staring outside at a bike chained to a lamppost.
Morgan quickly builds up a lead in Scrabble. Me and Olly struggle to get more than 10. Words like ‘here’, ‘great’. Olly keeps complaining about how he has no vowels. I put ‘face’; he adds a D to it.
We eat some toasted sandwiches and drink the juice. Two Australian girls eat space cakes and drink coffee at the table across from us. They laugh at our misfortune in the Scrabble.
At one point there’s an R, then below it a space, and then, still going vertically, the word ‘jive’, one of my more imaginative entries. I put an E down between the two.
“Rejive?” asks Olly.
“Yeah. Rejive: to bring the jive back.” Morgan has a mouthful of smoke and tries not to choke on it.
“What about rejiver: the person who initiates the rejiving?” he asks.
“Yeah it’s a flexible word,” I say proudly.
“A rejivee: the person who benefits from the rejiver,” says Olly.
“Or perhaps people fleeing the jive.”
For comedy value, and because I can’t put anything else, we agree that ‘rejive’ is a legitimate word.
“What’s that down there?” asks Olly.
“What?”
“I think that might be one. The walls on the outside have big murals on them.”
“I like the way you’re thinking.”
It’s a small, light place filled with plants.
“We have that one in our bathroom,” says Morgan. It’s a palm. Lush, yet unremarkable.
The place is run by a woman with silver hair, without a care in the world. She reminds me of the old woman from ‘Tales of the City’ by Armistead Maupin. She chats about the upcoming smoking ban, about the juice they sell.
A group of people leave and we take their copy of Scrabble. There are two others being used by two other groups.
I try to explain to the lads that this is my ideal holiday, “because I have nothing to do. Back home there’s always something going on. Work, football, have to go shopping, make dinner, make lunch, do the laundry, iron my shirts, shave, shower, email this person, email that person…” I trail off, staring outside at a bike chained to a lamppost.
Morgan quickly builds up a lead in Scrabble. Me and Olly struggle to get more than 10. Words like ‘here’, ‘great’. Olly keeps complaining about how he has no vowels. I put ‘face’; he adds a D to it.
We eat some toasted sandwiches and drink the juice. Two Australian girls eat space cakes and drink coffee at the table across from us. They laugh at our misfortune in the Scrabble.
At one point there’s an R, then below it a space, and then, still going vertically, the word ‘jive’, one of my more imaginative entries. I put an E down between the two.
“Rejive?” asks Olly.
“Yeah. Rejive: to bring the jive back.” Morgan has a mouthful of smoke and tries not to choke on it.
“What about rejiver: the person who initiates the rejiving?” he asks.
“Yeah it’s a flexible word,” I say proudly.
“A rejivee: the person who benefits from the rejiver,” says Olly.
“Or perhaps people fleeing the jive.”
For comedy value, and because I can’t put anything else, we agree that ‘rejive’ is a legitimate word.
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