Pompey playing up

To those of you reading this who aren't really interested in football, I'll give you 100 points if you stay with me until the end, yes? It shouldn't be too hard - there's videos and everything......

A few Saturdays back I was in the enviable position of being able to catch some of Sky Sports' Soccer Saturday programme, where Jeff Stelling and his ex-footballing foursome enthusiastically provide an afternoon of vidiprinter based banter.

Laughs on the show are many and close together, as opposed to few and far between. Most of them involve Paul Merson's mispronunciations or Charlie Nicholas's invented phrases, but every now and again someone more unexpected gets centre stage.

The show is liberally sprinkled with visits to pitchside reporters at stadiums up and down the country. Naturally, these reporters are often at the mercy of fans standing behind them. Many of these 'loose cannons' fail to do enough to register a laugh with me back in the comfort of my lounge, but here's one who did.....

The scene is Fratton Park. Portsmouth are playing Nottingham Forest. One fan, behind reporter Paul Walsh, does a sterling job of giving us a laugh at his own expense for a few seconds; deliberately over exaggerating the nerve-jangling experience of a football match.....

.....and here he is again a little while later, falling victim to the infamous 'Fratton Park Strangler'....

Good effort sir.


Oh and I'm a man of my word, so if you stuck with me to the end, have 100 points on me.

Two monsters a-munching

Are you having a giraffe?......All for a packet of Monster Munch?

Apparently so.

In disbelief, I read that two armed robbers (one with an axe and one with a hammer) plundered a Greater Manchester newsagent of nothing more than a single bag of the paw-shaped baked corn snacks.

Brainless.

Crisps are great though, eh. Always been my weak spot of the junk food realm, so they have. What a culinary coup it would be if someone discovered they were good for us. (I wonder if Henry McLeish is at a loose end - he could maybe do another one of his reviews)

Prior to my days of literacy, I was absolutely oblivious to the delights my older brother was receiving when he asked my Mum for some "C - R - I - S - P - S".

You see, I would have known if he'd said the word, but spelling it out completely foxed me. After his request was granted, I assume the rascal must've taken them to a different room for eating - all the while I was probably sat watching Brum.

Alas, it wasn't long until I became old enough to be permitted crisps on a semi-regular basis and the Hula Hoop haven that was my Gran & Grandpa's house became a frequent watering hole. Yes, I took great delight in placing a beef hoop round each finger before picking them off one by one.

Since then, I've never really looked back.

So, I'd be thrilled to hear is what kind of crisps you would pull out all the stops to get hold of (although perhaps not as outrageously as the duo mentioned earlier).

You can hit me with your favourites, top three types/flavours or just a good old crisp anecdote.

I'm open.....

Better out than in

"Every hour a child spends outdoors each week reduces their chance of becoming short-sighted by two per cent."

In between blinking duties, that was a newspaper article my eyes saw over this past week.

I’m genuinely grateful for Waitrose quality sight to date. If these Cantabrigian scientists are correct, then my childhood supports their theory – I played outside at every available opportunity.

(Cantabrigian means 'from/of Cambridge'. I hold my hands up, it was new to me too.)

Anyway, I began to recount some of the outdoor activities that may have contributed to my virtuous vision.

Here’s a selection:

Football

This was always going to be recalled first.

Squint trees or jumpers for goalposts. It’s hard to express the clarity with which the memories from hundreds of evenings at ‘the field’ are seared into my mind.

Mainly fraught doubles tournaments, sometimes sides. The reputation of our Bothwell set-up went before it. Friends from Uddingston thought nothing of cycling three miles just to be a part of those matches.

A special shout goes out to Adam Armstrong here, for all those afternoons and evenings hitting and saving long range shots.

Survival-hunt

You know the drill.

Required the following: 1 x housing estate; 1 x cold evening where you could see your own breath; 2 x ‘het’ participants; 15+ ‘not het’ participants; 1 x unathletic type to suffer the ignominy of being caught first. Could also be played on bikes.

Footy-down

Only played on bikes, with multiple cyclists.

A large square was selected and you had to remain on your bike within that limited space. Competitors interweaved, trying to make opponents ‘put a foot down’ without getting in a tight spot themselves. Proceedings gradually whittled down to one winner. Tactics, psychology, balance and skill.

In my opinion it was never played as much as its ingenuity deserved.

Go-karts

Of the pedal variety. And maybe not so much in my teens!

Kettler anyone? It’s only fair that I be quiet here and give you a moment to reflect. Some of you might be smiling.

Rope-swings

There was always one of these kicking about somewhere.


I'm keen to hear your memories of incredible childhood outdoor gaming......

Shafi only has i(s) for me

Shavi, my local newsagent owner, has one set aside for me every morning.

This guy’s good. Despite my paper-hopping over the past year, from Herald to Mail to Telegraph to Times, it didn’t take long for him to latch on that the ‘i’ had become my rag of choice. Monitored me, so he did.

Truth be told, I’ve still to establish if Shavi is definitely his name. I think it is, but I don’t use it to his face yet. I’m going to ask him soon.

We normally talk about the weather; a news headline; the fact he gets up at 4am; or about how I feel most tired on Thursday mornings.

Anyway, he stashes a daily copy of the i for me. My side of the bargain is to keep him sweet with the exact money for payment, or as close to that as I can manage. (The look on his face when I took in a tenner one morning showed me loose change is like lots of sons to him)

You see, that’s the beauty of the i – it only costs me 20p. If I don’t get a proper chance to devour it, I’ve hardly wasted money. A bit like buying a Chomp and not eating it. That said, I reckon I absorb at least 10p of it each day.

An offshoot of The Independent, it has just celebrated its first birthday. Describing itself as “the essential daily briefing”, pages two and three comprise of a matrix-like arrangement of succinct news story summaries, which are then expanded on further inside.

The same format exists in the sport section. James Lawton and Sam Wallace comprehensively front that impressive department.

There’s comment, letters and features too, while the likes of Stefano Hatfield (executive editor) and Simon Kelner usually have daily columns that ‘read short’.

“Ah, but we’ve got the Metro, and it's FREE!” I hear some of you exclaim. The Metro reminds me of Onslow from Keeping Up Appearances.

So, why not have a look at the i for yourselves? Just 20p or five for a pound. Let me know if you rate it.

I'm off to bed.

ZZZzzz ZZZzzz ZZZzzz ZZZzzz

His name is ‘Shafi’ by the way – asked him this morning. He spelt it for me too, so you can quote me on that.

p.s. I've got a big box of Chomps needing eaten if anyone is interested.

My way or the highway

Oh, is that what he thinks, is it?

Well, Transport Secretary, as much as I’m thrilled at your proposal that a new 80mph motorway speed limit might boost the British economy, here’s how it could affect some of the rest of us…..

• Mums will become even more nervous passengers.

• Friendly youths on bridges above us (modern day Railway Children perhaps?) may be inconvenienced as to what time is best to misplace their eggs.

• Commuting professional footballers will…….no, actually, they’ll remain at a steady 143mph.

• Husbands and wives will get to their in-laws quicker, unless they avoid motorways.

• Sat-nav hosts will take delight in announcing pre-junction instructions post-junction.


…..and, Mr Hammond, as sensible as I can see it is to have more 20mph restrictions in urban zones, that also impacts Joe Public…..


• Cyclists will bemoan cars for being too difficult and unpredictable to overtake.

• Rabbits, buoyed by increased life expectancy, will have a field day, which might drive squirrels nuts.

• Tractors could go viral.

• Chicken chow meins will be 10mph colder – unless Lee or Rafik are driving – they’re not ones for change (although they do like to be given the right change).

• Lollipop operatives across the nation might need to undergo a revised “Gauging Distance and Speed” module.


Therefore, Philip, do think carefully before you mirror, signal, manoeuvre with this vehicular vernacular.

Dear Carlos,.....

“I’ll play on broken glass in the middle of the M8 if I have to!”

That’s one quote I’ll never forget.

Churchill? No. Luther-King? Eh, wrong again. Carlos Tevez? Certainly not. Vinnie Jones? Closer, but you won’t get it.

It was expressed via the finger tips of John Welsh from Castlemilk. I still have the e-mail from May 15 2006.

Deliberately kept it.

Partly because it was funny but also due to its genuine nature – no need to close my eyes to hear him uttering the words.

At the time, John was a team-mate of mine in the amateur football league I’m still involved in. Average player. He has since hung up his boots and we have never kept in touch. Nevertheless, unlike many players who arrive and depart, this enthusiastic right-back stuck in my mind.

His quip was in response to our manager’s request for player availability for an end of season Tuesday evening fixture. Broken glass is broken glass and the M8 is Scotland’s busiest motorway.

For the record, Traffic Scotland were grateful to us in managing to get a proper pitch booked at the last minute.

John adored his football. In the aforementioned message he put the number four in brackets after his name. That was the digit on the shirt he so lovingly fathered.

The seriousness with which he treated his sporting hobby was amusingly echoed in other areas of his behaviour. I believe this next anecdote will aid your mental picture of John, no end.

On leaving from arranged meeting points in cars, I can remember more than one occasion when I saw John’s yellow MG ZR snaking from side to side in my rear view mirror. “I was just warming up my tyres,” would be the sincere retort from Mr Welsh on arrival.

He was just the kind of guy who did stuff like that.

Therefore, in the rare games when John scored, he celebrated. The aeroplane if I remember correctly – and for a good ten seconds too.

When fouled he was like Klinsmann, yet not to get the ‘oppo’ into trouble, but simply to milk all aspects of the contest (he’d have to wait seven days for the next one, for goodness sake).

Fair play, my friend.

So, Carlos, next time half an hour on the Allianz Arena’s carpet doesn’t take your fancy, give a thought to the thousands of onlooking ‘John Welshs’.

A weekend to treasure

Last weekend saw me take a 98.2 mile north-easterly course.

Naturally, the destination was Arbroath. As for the occasion; an annual weekend away with the youth group from the church I attend.

The idea is that the 40 or so young folk, aged between 15 to late 20s, can spend a worthwhile and enjoyable weekend in one another’s company. Time to relax, afternoons to explore the local area, opportunities to get to know people, sessions to consider the relevance of the Bible, junctures to eat good food…… and we managed to squeeze in some sleep too.

On the Saturday we opted for a Tay Bridge traverse towards St Andrews. Our two points of interest there were the renowned Janettas ice cream parlour and the Himalayas putting course, both of which suited the gloriously sunny day down to a tee. For the former, I can recommend a double wafer cone with tablet flavour ice cream. As for the latter, I’d encourage you to, at the very least, play well at Hole 14 where diners at an overlooking restaurant window can’t help but laugh or cry with you.

‘Minute to Win It’ was the game show imitation of choice as we played out our own Saturday night entertainment back in Arbroath. A hilarious boys versus girls battle ensued during challenges whose bizarre titles included Ready Spaghetti, Extreme Hanky Panky, and Tea Party. The girls won so let’s move on.

If you thought putting in St Andrews sounded dangerous, then you better turn away while I briefly recount the Arbroath cliff walk we indulged on when Sunday afternoon arrived. While sauntering ropeless along a man-made, level, metre-wide path, there definitely were moments when I chastised my adrenaline junkie nature. It’s going to land me in a tight spot one of these days.

At three seperate half hour points over the weekend, a 30-something speaker called Mark Fyfe, who works at Abernethy Outdoor Centre, referred to various parts of the Bible as he prompted us to reflect on what our true ‘treasure’ is in life. What do we value most? Money? Career? Image? Relationships? Possessions? We evaluated how much worth each of these ‘treasures’ carries in the grand scheme of things, and looked at why Jesus Christ merits being prioritised ahead of each and every one of them.

I’ll close with a pertinent quote from C.T. Studd: “Only one life, ’twill soon be past, only what’s done for Christ will last.”

My first Firstbus bus card

So what’s better? Firstbus or Scotrail? There was only one way to find out…

Fight? No. I had to try them both.

My opening week as a MA Multimedia Journalism student was compounded with the weighty decision of deciding what means of transport would best cater for my needs over the next year.

On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, I opted for rail travel.

This meant a ten minute walk to Cathcart train station. The stroll was fairly straightforward, granted an awareness was maintained as to the ongoing possibility of pavement-side puddle splashes from buses travelling along the main road. (Please note that any other potential routes to Cathcart station were ruled out instantly on the basis that they were non-newsagent passing)

Rain fell heavily on the Monday morning, and despite being miserably umbrella-less, I tried not to let that cloud my judgement at such an early stage of the decision making process.

Superlatives were not required to describe the station – it doesn’t try to be something it’s not. Clientele were largely standard, although certain individuals in the fairly numerous group of teenage school children waiting on the 8:10am to Queens Park did tend to make a nuisance of themselves – I’m not one for ‘tig’ on the platform, perhaps in days gone by.

The driver did an sterling job of keeping the locomotive on the tracks each day and the ticket officer did not let an uninspiring manner hold her back from checking zone-cards and traversing carriages.

Well cushioned seats made the going ’soft to good’ for newspaper reading.

All in, rail travel had served me well and I would have no problem supplying a reasonably positive reference to someone else in my position.

So then, to Thursday and Friday.

In honesty, bus travel was starting on the front foot in relation to my transport experiment, simply due to a lower ten-week card price than the train. However, there are some public travel factors money can’t buy, so Firstbus would still undergo a rigorous and fair assessment.

Realising I could basically do a three point pivot from flat, to newsagent, to bus stop was a noteworthy observation, as was the fact that on boarding the number 44 bus, I had completed the beneficial metamorphosis of ’splashed’ to ’splasher’.

As would be expected, the going was not so good on the bus, which was securely in the ‘firm’ bracket. Nevertheless, this did not impede on my ability to deal with unreplied texts and absorb part of the i newspaper.

I was keen to see the extent to which the bus filled with passengers as the journey progressed. It transpired that occupation of the top floor of the double decker, where I was, plateaued at approximately 75% capacity. Therefore I reckoned a decent chance of a double seat to myself for the duration should always exist.

Alas, on the basis of the close proximity bus stop and a significantly cheaper ten-week ticket, I was content to part with £80 for my first Firstbus bus card.

The acquisition of this physical bus card has had other unforeseen perks. How refreshing and foolproof a motion it is to quickly show the driver a bus card to gain access to the vehicle, in comparison to trying to explain where you want to go and fiddling about for the correct change.

Also, the bus card does have a touch of the L.A.P.D. police badges about it, and to date I am feeling like I walk the mean streets of Glasgow with slightly enhanced authority.

At least I can focus properly on university now….