A Soccer Mom writes

Fin

2009-05-21T13:06:00.002+01:00

FIN - for a bit

Ever so busy

Thanks for looking in and for kind words

Some kind of service will be resumed when new transmitter is switched on,

Meanwhile

The Test Card

Picture of scarey clown with lecherous look in one eye, and small girl with balloons, surrounded by patterned frame with BBC logo at the bottom.

The scene played out to the sound of a long continous tone or a selection of lift music.

Could've Been a Lady

2009-02-26T13:30:00.002Z

And the dance continued. On and on, our merry band wending its way through the holiday camps and leisure centres of the land. A travelling band of Minstrels paving a scorched path of dance and mystical magic, Two weeks extended into four, Guido and Stephanie delighted at the success of the show and their reintroduction into Showbiz Society. Bob and Jean the only casualties, press ganged at a coastal venue into a return to the Choppy Main and a new challenge demonstrating the Magic of Ballroom to seafarers on the P&O ferry “Pride of Bilbao” while battling the rise and fall of the Bay of Biscay.

After the initial giddiness of running away with a dance circus had diminished I settled down to a steady routine of life on the road. Seven shows a week, each night a new venue. Wake early in wherever we are staying, into the minibus and van and on to the next venue by midday. Set up in the afternoon, quick run through of performance, back to digs for meal and change, back to venue. Perform, glasses of fizz to acknowledge triumph, pack van, sleep. Same again. Monotonous though it may sound, it was all still relatively new to me. Other hoofers had their own ways of dealing with the repetitious days, To Sweaty Pauline, a new day, a new palm. Khan Astrologer of Doom lived the part twenty four seven, doom lay all around. Guido and Stephanie were under the most pressure, onstage for over half of the show and troupe leaders; they are busier than most, but as yet, no cracks showing. The biggest surprise to everyone, performers and audiences alike, has been Ivanka. The cross dressing Cossack has gone down a storm every night, and has displaced Khan as the penultimate act of the show; a move that Khan had predicted a week ago. The two continue to share a room, Khan confident in his prediction that Taurean Ivanka will be usurped amidst fire and thunder, and no good will come of this change in the running order.

Ivanka has grown into her role, and may have had his/her head turned by this elevation in status. Keen to attain the next stage of gender realignment he/she put in a request for an increased performance fee. Guido and Stephanie quietly reminding him/her of visa regulations in the UK and what they do to cross gender Cossacks in the barracks of the Caucasus.

This was the first real incident of creative tension between Troupe leaders and the popular Cossack who held the belief that he was fast becoming the future of Light Entertainment. At that night’s performance the air crackled with creative tension. Khan foreseeing trouble repeated his prediction of Fire and Thunder to the troupe and as I moved into Svetlina mode and climbed the stage I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that all was not well.

Blending Science, Art and Dance, the routine begins with me assuming the position of Vitruvian man behind a large circular screen. I am displayed en silhouette, standing still for thirty seconds before the first Doo Doo Doo of the title music from Tales of the Unexpected strikes up. For the next thirty seconds it is a slow swaying of hips with arms outstretched, the arms are than introduced for two minutes of free style swaying before finishing in the position of Bruce Forsyth’s “The Thinker” As Guido has commented, it is a stunning opening that could only be improved by the addition of a full orchestra.

Returning to the dressing room and slipping out of my Lycra body stocking, the tension remained. Pauline was now on stage after some nifty sword work from Willie Watson. Glistening with palmistry pride she had maintained her run of discovering a Dragon Slayer on every day of the week, a surprise to Pauline who had only ever previously come across them at the weekends.

Next came Khan, keen to regain his place as number two in the line up, he was carrying out on the spot readings for whoever was born under the sign that the Sun currently happened to be in. In Astrological terms death defying stuff, the audience struck dumb by Khan’s reading for the man who had his birthday the next day,predicting the death of his cat in the morning and a particularly nasty and messy event late in the day on the way back from a celebratory evening out.

Ivanka followed on. A staid performance, in which he/she seemed to be holding back, a going through of the Cossack motions, just doing enough in a Russian Steppes kind of way that did not quite match previous performances. Then It was Guido and Stephanie. Freestlye Salsa movements from opposite sides of the stage, each night a new move, electrifying stuff that drew gasps from the audience. A sensual Rhumba to follow and then a super Samba, lost in a dance bubble they carried the audience away on a magic Latin carpet. Completely transfixed no one noticed the subtle change in beat. Ivanka irked by her pay dispute and emboldened by Oestrogen, was in control of the music and had skilfully segwayed the music to a new track, storming the stage with a high and low kicking Cossack routine to Hot Chocolate’s “You Could’ve Been a Lady”

Professional to the last, Guido and Stephanie adjusted to the change in beat and proceeded to dance the ladyboy Cossack from the spotlight, escorting him via a routine of tangoesque rushes to the side of the stage where he/she became wrapped in the stage curtain, eventually pulling the curtain down with a crash along with several lighting units.

“Fire and Thunder I tell you! Fire and Thunder! AAAGGHHH!”

boomed Khan as he dashed across the stage arms outstretched in a diversionary tactic that pleased all the audience bar one, who returned home to check on his cat and cancel his birthday celebrations. Guido and Stephanie took the applause and we all returned for the end of show Hokey Cokey except for Ivanka.

I don’t know where this leaves the tour now, Ivanka is piqued at his/her treatment and failure to achieve top billing. Khan has yet to predict the end of the world but I can feel it coming on, and just how many Dragon Slayers does one need to discover. Stephanie says the show must go on, but I just don’t know. I have spoken to husband several times this week, and the kids came to a performance with Grandma which was fantastic. Secretly I think they are quite proud of my new career, but I can’t leave them for much longer. We have to sort something out soon. We are all suspended in a dance/football limbo and must find a way to move forward.

Time on my Hands

2009-02-08T20:48:00.001Z

Two weeks have flown by. My Svetlina, the dancing shadow? A triumph! Every audience we played to joining in with the title music to “Tales of The Unexpected” A throbbing mass of people waving their arms and singing along. “Doo Doo Doo do do do Doo Doo Doo do do do Do Do. No need to fret about my appearance, I am a dancing shadow, just wiggle and dance, wiggle and dance. I have never been in such good shape.

The kids are ok, I ring them every night. Of course they ask when I will be coming home, to which I can only reply soon. Daughter tells me that Husband has worn out his Bill Withers album, playing “ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone” into the early hours, which induced a pang and a gulp. Son is secretly quite proud of his Mom. Granddad told him that lots of people used to run away with the circus when he was a lad; Grandma had gone off several times during the past few years but never with a circus so it was a first for the family.

Guido and Stephanie are over the moon with the success of the show. Ivanka, formerly Ivan the heavily bearded Transvestite Cossack, has gone down a storm, bar one night when he wore inappropriate underwear during his mini skirted Cossack dance. Bob and Jean, between cruises, have unfortunately fallen out, Jean’s head momentarily turned by the fleet-footed Scottish sword dancer Willie Watson. The two males of the ménage a trios exchanging places, Bob proving to be a rather dangerous sword dancer and Willie providing an unusual interpretation of a Viennese waltz with several leg cross overs and bended knees when a simple point of the toe would have done. There! you see, I am even beginning to sound like a dancer with all this technical talk, anyway Guido and Stephanie were so enamoured by the way the tour was progressing that they added extra dates and extra acts. Chief among them Sweaty Pauline the Palm reader, her favoured sobriquet - Sweet Pauline, suffering from a misplaced vowel in the programme, and “Khan the Astrologer of Doom”, no encouraging forecasts with this one. The two were to fill in between the dance acts. Plucking people from the audience, Pauline builds em up and fills them hope, thirty minutes later Khan knocks then flat with a swish of his cloak and an astrological projection that leaves them wondering if they will make the end of the show. Guido and Stephanie swiftly taking the stage with a fiery Salsa to reassure everyone that all is well and that despite Khan’s forecast, the dance lives on.

I’ve never mixed with mystics before, the closest I’ve come? A roomful of faux wizards and witches at a Harry Potter theme party. With our merry troupe expanding and rooms at a premium I was required to share with Pauline; Khan striking an instant rapport with Ivanka, the pair agreeing to hunker down together until more rooms were available.

I had not shared a room with another person since my student days, Pauline was not that sweaty and neither was she that mystical. She snored and looked a little liverish in the morning and she couldn’t predict what holiday camp we would be staying in the following night. We talked a little, late at night, while battling to dispel the highs of the evening’s performance in an effort to attain sleep. I explained that I was temporarily running away from a life of football, I was missing my family but could not go back to what had gone before. Pauline, glistening with an evening of satisfied customers, turned on the light,

“Show us your hands love”

I sat up on the side of the bed and presented my hands,

“Colour’s Ok, shape wise I’d put you as Spatulate with a hint of fire, your Mercury mount is well developed and Venus mount suitably fleshy.”

And so she went on: this line does this, this line does that, islands on my life line, tridents on my heart line, whorls on my finger tips and an apex on my Luna mount, finally consulting a crumpled chart to declare my best suited role in life to be a Dragon slayer

“It’s an old chart!”

Pauline, declared as she returned to her bed.

“Sorry Pauline, its just…. Oh I don’t know, thanks for the reading it has really helped and I promise to fully appreciate my fleshy Venus mount, but I think I am going to sleep now”

I turned off the light, Pauline snored, and I toyed with the idea of Palmistry in football; coaches picking teams by examining hands rather than assessing fitness and ball skills. Obviously a Goalkeeper must have hands, preferably big ones at that. A line of intuition would be a desirable trait on the palm of the aspiring keeper to predict opposition attacking moves. Any sign of the Girdle of Venus, a marker of sensitivity and inner turmoil, then keeping is not for him, if the ball goes in the net, you have to move on. A definitive moniker for the defender is a high set apex on the Jupiter mount that suggests a stickler for correctness, while prospective midfielders should display a loop of serious intent in the whorls below the middle finger. Strikers should not display a line of fate. The tip of the middle finger should be flexible, denoting a gambler, which is just what you want around the box. Substitutes should have a fork leaving the line of fate around the Luna Mount signifying patience, and the manager should have a Mount of Jupiter to die for.

What have I done? Twenty minutes pontificating about the merits of footballer’s hands when I have pledged my short term existence to the world of dance. Is my life missing a soupcon of the dreaded football?

Whatever

2009-01-22T12:51:00.002Z

After the plumbing disaster of last week, and husband’s indifference at my Saturday morning dance tryst with Guido, I had been left in an emotional limbo. The excitement of the morning, the thrill of the dance left me feeling more alive than I had for weeks, only to be lain flat by husband’s reaction to my plight, Indifference hurts!

Years ago and capable of stirring to great heights of passion, his first reaction would be to rant, rage and sling Guido out on his ear. This would be followed by a prolonged period of dark brooding before making up passionately some hours later. Now his first concern is locating the stopcock and brooding about selling a bloody Iron! Indifference hurts!

He can still stir himself to great heights of passion as long as he is standing on a white line, watching twenty-two boys chase a stupid white ball around. There he will rage against indifference urging the boys to show the same passion that he is displaying, play for the shirt and do of their best. To him this is when Indifference hurts!

To the footballer indifference cannot be tolerated. It is a black and white world with no room for shades of grey. Us against them, all for one and one for all, a legitimate reason to show passion in a game where a shrug of the shoulders and a “whatever” has no place. To the footballer on the field, and the end result for the team Indifference hurts!

Normally in these situations I would come up with an indifferent eleven, a fantasy footballing side, a mental fight back against the footballing machine. First name on the team sheet was Catherine Tate, Am I bovvered? indifference on the edge. A back line of Frenchmen relying heavily on the Gallic Shrug, and a Swiss midfield, neutral to a man backing not one side or the other. The masters of sitting on the fence, Worzel Gummidge. Phil Drabble and Jack Hargreaves, the three man strike force. All playing under the tutelage of a French manager whose main half time mantra is “comme ci comme ca” It was a feeble effort and one riddled with my own indifference to the task. His indifference away from the field of football was catching. Indifference hurts!

Helpless and unable to get him to show passion about anything but football, I have had a Gloria Gaynor moment and “got up and walked” He tried to stop me and briefly displayed feelings that had long been hidden away from the football pitch, but I had to go, walk out the door, don’t turn around now. I was still welcome but I wanted more. Guido and Stephanie keen to resume their dancing careers had put together a small band of hoofers to embark on a two week tour of spectacular dance. A two-hour show where Guido and Stephanie’s’ Latin dance headlines. Bob and Jean, between cruises, do the ballroom. Ivanka (formerly Ivan) a heavily bearded Russian transvestite dances Cossack style in high heels and mini skirt followed by Wee Willie McWatson a small and elderly kilted Scotsman who dances with swords. After my morning session with Guido in the kitchen “en silhouette” drew rave reviews from the villagers passing by, Guido has persuaded me to open the show dancing behind a screen to the opening music from “tales of the unexpected”. Football is no longer on the menu and I am no longer Soccermom, but slinky hipped Svetlina the dancing shadow. Tonight will be our third performance of the two-week tour. We are ensconced in a holiday camp in the depths of winter; the place is shabby and cold. The first two nights were a triumph. After my five minutes of wiggling I get to watch the whole show, returning for the group Hokey Cokey at the end. The dance is fantastic, the days are long but fun. Of course I miss the kids, and I miss him and home, and I think that after the two-week tour I shall go back, but just for the moment, Indifference no longer hurts.

Livin La Vida Loca

2009-01-06T09:34:00.001Z

Christmas come and gone and a return to Football madness in the New Year, with three weeks passing since the last football fiasco, husband and son having kittens at the prospect of pulling on the studs again. I too had reason to be excited about the coming Saturday, I too would be pulling on a stud, Guido having relented to my request for an individual dance class at our spa day had agreed to come around when I was home alone and give further one to one instruction in return for me raising a small discrete group of like minded individuals who were keen to be instructed in all things Latin and Ballroom. Just a small class to get him back on his feet after the furore over his and Stephanie’s unfortunate arrest in the med on a yacht. So with husband and son away on footballing matters Guido was popping around on Saturday morning for a one-hour session. On a need to know basis I decided that this was one that Husband did not need to know about, especially with the pre match tension he would know doubt be enduring that morning.

So with the ready excuse that I would be spending the morning listing many of the Christmas presents that he had bought for me on ebay, namely the Teflon coated corset with Kevlar supports, the eau de toilette titled “fishee” that comes in a goldfish shaped bottle, and the Iron, yes an Iron, purchased, he proudly told me, after a particularly convincing advertising campaign that ran along the lines of:

“Need to impress someone you love? Say it with an Iron”

Must have missed me that one. Anyway husband didn’t seem to mind, thank goodness for ebay, at least I could choose something that I really wanted and all that, he chuntered as he put on his coat and left the house on the coldest morning of the year so far.

Up into the shower, put on the top that revealed eye popping décolletage that I wore to our first lesson, with jeans and heels for luck. Pulled the curtains, moved back the furniture and waited for his Latin loveliness. Brief pangs of guilt at the thought of husband and son wending their way in the cold to some far flung field that were instantly dismissed by the ring of the doorbell. My heart jumped, butterflies fluttered in my stomach, suddenly it all felt rather naughty. I opened the door and with a nervous giggle invited my dancing matador across the threshold,

“Ah……. you are wearing the outfit that you wore when we first danced”

He said, kissing my hand and moving through to the lounge. Speechless I snapped myself back into the room with a note to self,

“Careful, he’s a live one this, just do the dance then show him the door, dance dance dance”

Thoroughly ensconced in the lounge Guido was changing into his dancing shoes, waving his arm he said,

“Cherie this room will not do. We cannot dance on carpet. The floor it must be hard and firm, springy with slide, it must be the kitchen, now come”

He leapt to his feet and pulled me through to the kitchen, where I remained still speechless as he transported the kitchen table and chairs into the lounge.

“It is not much but it will do, now Cherie”

The kitchen looked out across our drive and the road beyond.

“But Guido we will be seen”

“You wish to hide your dancing? You should be proud to dance with Guido”

And with that we began to Salsa, no room for a tango or Cha Cha Cha, just a simple salsa step, back and forth to my daughter’s Now 62 CD. Hip movement? Check. Correct hold? Check. Back straight, chin out? Check. We are dancing, we are flipping well dancing. On to the next song and an introduction to a simple Rumba, Guido encouraging me to be more carefree in my movement, oblivious to the passers by who were transfixed by the shapes I was throwing in silhouette through the window with my dashing dance partner. Some repeatedly walking by just to take in the passionate dance framed by the fridge and the oven.

And then in one of those brief periods of time when a million critical things seem to happen at once, the wheels came off our dance journey. Leaning back gracefully with arm extended waiting for Guido to pull me back to his embrace I felt a drip of water on my head, looking up I could see a huge damp patch on the ceiling.

“Oh bloody hell, I think a pipe has burst, Guido are you any good at……”

Ding Dong the doorbell rang

“Oh get that Guido, I will have to turn the water off”

Bending down on all fours and shoving my head under the sink I heard a familiar trans Atlantic Drawl

“Oh good grief, Brandi what the hell does she want?”

“Guido!!! It is you, I could see you through the window and I thought to myself that’s Guido, that’s Guido, so Honey I just had to……”

“Guido, could you turn the tap on and see if I have turned the water off? I cried from under the sink”

I could feel Guido leaning over me just as the sound of the dripping through the ceiling turned to a torrent, unfortunately at the time Ricky Martin was belting out Living La Vida Loca from the CD player, drawing further squeals from Brandi who on hearing the line

“She’ll make you take her clothes off and go dancing in the rain”

Leapt under the dripping water peeled off her top layer and swinging it around her head.

“Come on Guido whadda ya say ??”

I was still head stuck in cupboard with Guido pressed up against my backside trying to reach the tap when in walks husband.

“Hi Brandi, Guido good to see you, where have you been? What are you doing down there darling?”

He calmly inquired despite the bizarre highly charged scene set out in front of him,

“Game was called off, frozen pitch. Have we a burst pipe? Not surprised in this weather, oh well got all day to fix it. You turn the water off in the garage love.”

And off he went to the garage. Brandi towelled off and put back on her damp layer, and Guido withdrew from his position and put on his going home shoes.

“Good to see you again Guido, have you moved back into the area? Nasty business about that yacht, how is Stephanie? always a pleasure Brandi”

Husband inquired as he escorted Guido and Brandi off the premises, returning with a click as he closed the door behind him. Bracing myself for a row I struck a defensive pose.

“I can’t believe they didn’t have the sense to call the game off earlier, it would have saved us all a drive, the ground is as hard as nails.”

And with that he went off to the garage to mend the pipe. Not a word about Guido, or the position he found us both in when he walked in the door, or mention of a half clothed dripping Brandi swinging her top around her head to the pulsating beat of Ricky Martin. Just the game, the tap and the bloody game, THE BLOODY GAME! I could have been stretched out naked on the kitchen table with Guido tickling my feet with sticks of celery and he still would not have seen beyond the bloody game.

A little chastened and sad I withdrew to our bedroom emerging after a few hours to explain how hurt I was by his indifference. Was he not jealous at finding me alone with another man and an ageing nymphomaniac? Was he not hurt that I had not done as I said I was going to do that morning and had arranged a secret dancing tryst? Did he not feel anything at my apparent deceit?

Looking up from his pipe bending machine he turned to face me, he looked sad, I could see emotion in his eyes, he did have feelings, he did care, he opened his mouth and croakily whispered

“I really thought you’d like that Iron, it was a bloody good bit of kit”

Before bowing his head and returning to his bent pipe

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Private Dancer

2008-12-05T19:44:00.003Z

After a frantic week, in which I became the first person to successfully appeal against an appeal and Grandad became the first person to be voted out of the allotment, I had another Saturday of my touchline ban to serve. The man at the house of the Terminally bewildered that serves the Football authority, bemused at my request for my appeal to be thrown out but eventually succumbing to female charm and wit and reinstating my touchline ban.
Sanctimonious Sid - Husband is still peeved. Tarnished the good name of the club and all that. But hey! I’ve got some seriously steamy treatments booked. Where football is concerned I am full of disrepute and I deserve my ban.

So, it's out the door with the farcical footballers and off to the shops with teenage daughter. Flip Flops, towel, swimsuit and goggles packed and off to the Spa.

Ginny picked me up along with Maya and Georgie and we entered the sanctuary of a football free environment. Off with the clothes and the outside world and on with the flip-flops, robes and our first scented candle of the day…. Heaven I’m in Heaven.

The morning schedule was fairly relaxed, with no treatments booked until the afternoon. Heading for the pool and a swim and a chat, lots of cane furniture, off white cushions and plenty of greenery, magazines to read, and two well-positioned and well-proportioned young members of staff on hand to ensure our safety and tend our every need. If the Olympics ever introduced the combined event of swimming and chatting we would have it in the bag, both individual medals and relay. After a swim it was off to the shed to sit under various coloured bulbs that promise to improve skin tone, well being and wealth, I don’t get this bit and am never quite sure as to whether we have turned the thing on.

Lunch followed, with a nice bit of fish and a glass of white Rioja, before we split up for our individual treatments. Georgie and Maya were having powdered Octopus beak rubbed into their eyelids for that sparkly eyed “I live under the sea” look, Ginny was due to go out to a party that evening so had opted for the complete clams’ liver facial. I was due to be “de knotted “ in the massage room. After the stress of the previous month I had opted for the “rough and ready” option and prepared to be pummelled.

The room was empty when I entered; I removed my robe and lay down on my front on the soft massage table. A little zizzy from lunch I momentarily drifted off, to be awoken by the click of the door as the man with the hands entered. Starting in the middle of my back he worked his magic up and down my spine. Firmly and with some urgency he melted the knots sitting in my upper back gently working his way down over my Gluteus very maximus to my thighs and calves; up and down, round and round, practiced actions to melt the stiffest of sinews.

But there was something about these hands. Hands that I had felt before. The touch, the grip, the easy action. I raised my head and turned to complement my Mark Anthony and…

“Guido!”

We stared for a second before…

“What are you doing? This is not dancing, Stephanie…… wha”

Guido stepped forward and handed me my robe, I swung round onto the side of the table. He and Stephanie had been cleared of the allegations of lewd behaviour on a package tour yacht excursion and had returned home. Unable to restart their dance class after the publicity, they were keeping their heads down and pursuing other interests until the dust settled and they could return to their life long passion – dance. I didn’t remark that they seemed to have a few other sordid life long passions as the image of husband in a Jacuzzi with Brandi and Stephanie popped into my head. But instead assured him that I would love to attend any classes they put on in the future, the dancing had been fantastic.

Over my shock at the identity of my touchy tormentor and with my session still twenty minutes short of closing I suddenly came over all strong and empowered, maybe I was a little too relaxed, maybe the massage a little too good but I beckoned Guido to the table, I was the customer, he was there to serve, tossing back my head, I leaned back on the table..

“So, Mr nimble feet….do you do any extras?”

Guido spluttered,

“I..I…I…I………”

“Not that Numb Nuts, Dance! ………..I want to dance!”

And so we did, an unusual fandango in flip-flops and a restricted space, but dance it was, relaxed, steamy sensual and passionate. I left the room in a state of ecstasy, greeting the girls who unaware of my massage room exertions commented on how well I looked and vowed to book a massage on our next trip. Another hour of reading magazines on chairs that wobble before it was time to go, and so with a whiff of Clam in the air we returned home, the car followed by seagulls for much of the journey home and a reintroduction to life, as we know it.

I'm a Liability get me out of Here

2008-11-13T12:57:00.002Z

Thanks to my two-week touchline ban, a football free Saturday void of footballers and teenage daughter who was encouraged to overnight at her friends’ house. An early departure for the car crash of a football team to an away game near the coast, so a leisurely breakfast with the papers and an episode of Quantum Leap on UK Gold, I could get used to this “bringing the game into disrepute” lark.

But what to do with the rest of the day?.

To Iron or not to Iron?

To Dust or no to dust? …you must be joking.

Today I have some much needed retail therapy to catch up on, and next Saturday a full day session at a spa where I shall be massaged with exotic oils by a toned young man in tight shorts, read magazines in wooden cubicles under different types of lights, swim without the interference of boisterous/drowning children or the latest round of bombathons, dine lightly on food drizzled with the same exotic oils that were rubbed into my body and wash it all down with a large glass of something dry bubbly and white. But that is for next week, this day is for shopping.

After a quick shower the phone rang, it was Ginny. Ginny has no male offspring, only two young girls and Tom, an organic husband who spends most of his time on his allotment where he grows misshapen vegetables that Ginny struggles to peel, subsequently they eat out a lot.
After ten minutes of chat and an agreement to meet in town for lunch Ginny remembered the initial reason for the phone call. Tom had been at the allotment the previous evening and had witnessed a disturbance on Grandad’s patch involving Grandma and a group of boys did I know what it was about?

I didn’t but would check on my way shopping.

Grandma was home alone when I knocked, and after a brief round of pleasantries she came to the reason for the disturbance. During a brief discussion between the two silver scrappers about the current line up for "‘m a Celebrity get me out of here", Grandma had expressed disappointment about the absence of the lovely Jason Donovan, who had done so well in one of the series past and would be her choice of Tarzan should she happen to be stuck in a jungle. Grandad, irked at the thought of being cuckolded by the antipodean Joseph hit the roof. A tirade about the youth of today ensued, the show was filmed in the car park of a hotel, and during his time in Malaya with the army, Witchety grubs were for high days and holidays.
Grandma responded with a challenge to Grandad; if it was so easy why didn’t he go on the show, which led to a lot of harrumphing and snorting and an agreement to start training by living in his shed on the allotment for a period, surviving off his small area of land. Grandma would stay at home, fill in the forms and visit him once in the morning and once in the evening. Unfortunately after last night’s visit which was Grandad’s third night in the jungle/allotment a group of local youths had got wind of what was going on ( no doubt from Grandma) and were issuing Grandad with challenges to consume various plates of creatures dragged out from his compost heap, which he did, with a

“you young buggers don’t know you’re born”

A little concerned at Grandad’s sojourn in the jungle/allotment I agreed to accompany Grandma on that morning’s visit where the local youths or Grandma had daubed his shed with the slogan “I’m a liability get me out of here” Grandma hurried down the path and Grandad emerged from his shed.

“Hi love, you’re doing really well, they have agreed to include your time here as part of this year’s programme. Cameras have been placed in some of the trees around here, and last night everyone voted to keep you in, keep it up, I will be along this evening to tell you if it is your turn to leave the jungle”

Grandma grabbed my elbow and ushered me away,

“Not a word to anyone, if he wants to play silly buggers I’m going to teach him a lesson. He will be home on Sunday.”

Dumbfounded I dropped Grandma off, is this what husband and I had to look forward to in later life? A prolonged battle between the inhabitants of Venus and Mars.

I shopped and lunched with Ginny before returning home, stopping off at Grandad’s allotment on the way. The local youths had slung a rope over a branch of a tree that bordered Grandad’s allotment and were lowering a half eaten bag of chips down to him, stopping with the bag just out of his reach.

“ Yo Grandad Mears, If you want to earn more meals for the camp you’ll have to finish off them snails”

They taunted

Grandad reaching up to try and grab the chips with his hoe.

I chased the youths away, and handed Grandad some sandwiches I had bought from the garage.

“You can’t give me those love, I’ll be off the show, they pick all sorts up on the cameras and microphones.”

As he handed them back to me.I left for home, hoping that Grandma would have him home soon.

I was met at home by a buoyant father and son and a sleeping teenage daughter.

“Hey Mum, Dad copied you and you’re coaching methods and we won one nil”

Husband and son’s team had taken the lead through an own goal late in the first half. At half time son and his mates had suggested to Dad that he speak to Brandi and her Floaters who happened to be at the game. The Floaters had performed at a seventies revival night the previous evening at the nearby holiday camp, Brandi happening along for the ride. Aware of the proximity of today’s game to the previous night’s “gig” the Floaters had agreed to return the favour and come and support Brandi’s cheer leading.
Husband said that he thought this particular coach may be immune to Brandi’s charms but he would ask Randy if he would run the line for the second half, which he did.
The opposition striker straying off side continually, leading to

“Hi, Randy, Aquarius, and I like my football played onside”

accompanied by a side stepping finger clicking routine by the remaining Floaters and a falsetto

“He’s offside…….offside, offside”

“mmmmmMMMMM….see ma flag, its in the air cos you’re offside”

Replied Randy with the red flag.

With no rule in the book about adding time for routines performed by seventies R&B bands, each offside incident took upwards of a minute out of the game. Husband and son’s team triumphing by a goal to nil, and the Floaters selling several tickets for that night’s performance.

“There’s mileage in these distraction tactics I tell you”

said husband opening the mail and reading an official looking letter.

“Fantastic, your appeal has been upheld and your touchline ban rescinded, common sense at last”

"WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Yes Your Honour

2008-11-06T11:35:00.002Z

After the match day madness of the other week, I naturally assumed that my brief time in the glare of football’s spotlight would be over. Alan and 606 had moved on, husband was back at the helm of his floundering ship of football and I had retreated back into the shadows of match days content to ignore the game, chat with friends, listen to my ipod, admire any eye candy that may be refereeing the game and get through the ninety minutes of tedium as best as I can albeit with a hundred percent success rate in football management.

Three weeks passed before one morning I received an official looking envelope by registered delivery. On opening the expensive envelope I discovered that I was to be charged with bringing the game into disrepute;

Result! recognition at last! Somebody on the same wavelength as me with an equal disregard for all things football.

Reading on down the letter, to discover where I was to pick up this award and whether it merited a new outfit it became apparent that this was not some like minded individual but someone who couldn’t be further from my train of thought. I had been in charge of a football team and knowingly fielded more than eleven players on the field at the same time. Despite my well-intentioned motive of “giving everyone a go” the lecherous cove who had been transfixed by Brandi and her gang had reported the team to his local Football Authority who had taken it upon themselves to send me this letter; I was to attend a hearing in two weeks at the county Football Authority headquarters.

Now I found it laughable and was not the slightest bit concerned by the apparent gravitas of the situation. Husband was all of a dither over the future of his club, while son prepared placards for his friends to carry to the hearing. I convinced Captain Ditherspaz that the occasion merited a new outfit and was granted leave from one match day to go and choose an appropriate outfit, which I did along with a selection of matching shoes, accessories and lunch.

On the way home I saw Brandi for the first time since the match in question, she was entering her cottage’s garden, dressed in trademark plastic stilettos, tight t-shirt and short shorts accompanied by a group of four African American gentlemen, who my son would term as “dudes”.

I stopped the car; I had felt a need to make some kind of peace with the ageing high kicker since I had used her charms so mercilessly in my football management career.

“Brandi I just wanted to sa……”

“Squeeeeeellll…….honey you have just come at the right time, these guys are old friends of mine from the seventies, come and meet the Floaters, they had a hit and used to warm up some soccer matches with my girls”

Brandi ushered me towards the quartet in white suits and shades, who had worn very well if they had indeed had a hit in the seventies.

“Hi, Randy, Aquarius, and I like a lady who’s good in the kitchen”

“Float, Float on…”

Sang the other three, while clicking fingers and stepping from one foot to the other

“Hi, Larry, Libra, and I like a lady who knows what she wants“

“Float, float on….”

“Hi Felix, Sagittarius and I like a lady who takes it silky slow”

“mmmmmmmmmMMMMM…….. Take my hand, and come with me to wonder land”

Sang Brandi before dissolving into fits of shrieking laughter,

“You Guys,….. Sorry honey they do that little gag every time, seeya round”

And with that she was off into the house with her Floaters.

Perplexed I drove home and dug out my old Top of the Pops albums to try and find a picture of the Floaters and ascertain if it was they who I had just met. My search briefly terminated by husband’s anguish at discovering the sheaf of receipts in my bags from my day at the shops.
A quick google of “Floaters” revealed an extensive range of self-contained sewage treatment devices so I called off the inquiry, and set about assembling my outfit for the following day’s appearance in “Crown Court”

The next morning Husband was up with the lark, and bringing me breakfast in bed.

“It may be your last meal for a while, not sure what the food is like in prison, although Jeffrey Archer didn’t look bad on it”

He was quickly followed by daughter, who had not seen this time of day since primary school; if I was not coming home could she have my new boots. At the very least she expected me to be wearing some kind of tag around my ankle which would prevent the wearing of said boots, and by the time I was released/untagged the boots would be out of fashion so it would be best for everyone if I just gave her the boots now…..

“NNNNOOOOO……. I will be coming home at the end of the day after we have got through this latest football induced charade and I will be wearing my boots!!!”

Up and dressed for my morning in the dock, and on with the power clothes, not the ones that I had purchased the previous day, they were for casual, social and everyday wear. I already had my outfit for today hung in the wardrobe; pencil skirt with jacket in light charcoal, plain white blouse with top two buttons undone, sheer tights and medium heels, hair up and glasses in pocket, minimal accessories and briefcase rather than handbag, A vision of powerful femininity that screamed, don’t mess with me.

Husband and son accompanied me to the house of the terminally mad and bewildered, which housed the Football court. My briefcase was checked on the way in for weaponry and we were escorted through to a waiting room. We were second up in front of the beak, after a throng of eight year old boys and girls who had received a similar charge as myself, after they discussed some of their recent under eight football matches with their parents when they got home, The Football authorities apparently having banned all reporting of some junior matches lest anyone should find out if they were doing well or not.

Children suitably rebuked and escorted crying from the court we were on, three men behind a desk, all of a similar age and all attired in what must pass for Football authority smart casual. Blue Nylon blazer with gold buttons, white shirt, blue tie with football on, cream staypress action slacks and well polished but reasonably cheap shoes. Bits of paper in front of them, five minutes of drone, with stern and grave looks over glasses before being asked to stand and issue my reply which I did,

“Guilty as charged throw the book at me”

Which they did, and boy did they feel good doing it, not in a misogynistic way but in a “don’t muck around with the boys in blazers, football is a serious game kind of a way”

I rose, thanked them profusely for their time and wise counsel and left the room.

Husband and Son met me outside.

“Your out……….. No fine? no tag?, no punishment?”

“No, no fine, no tag, just a two week touchline ban, I did ask for four weeks but they declined, a football free fortnight….bliss”

It's a game of two halves Alan

2008-10-21T12:44:00.003+01:00

Football management, is not as easy as it would appear. The common misjudgement frequently made by the uninterested observer, reality striking when shoved into the pool on which they have thrown some scorn. Now don’t get me wrong, this is not a “Yes brother I have seen the light, I am healed” moment that would befit some religious satellite channel from across the pond. No, I am happy to concede that football management was harder than I thought it was going to be and that is all the ground that I am prepared to concede.

It started on the morning of the match in which husband and I were due to “take the team”. Unfortunately on the previous night husband, filled with amorous ideas, had made a clumsy pass with some dodgy oysters and a distinctly disturbing Dutch film, the main theme of which seemed to involve a great deal of soft focus naked cycling around tulip fields, culminating in a rather stilted romp among some rosy red round cheeses. Anyway I wouldn’t touch the Oysters and stuck to Liquorice allsorts as Mr & Mrs Humpentulipbang went about their business. Husband scoffed the whole lot of Oysters and subsequently spent the night in the loo throwing up.

Unable to take his place on the touchline I was left in sole charge of Match Day. Son was up with the lark, loading up with carbs and bananas and requesting a programme of warm ups, which I provided with a ten minute work out of picking things up off his bedroom floor and a pile of clean washing to put away. Warm ups complete we packed the car and headed for the ground.

Grandad currently home alone after Grandma’s latest bid for freedom was to meet us at the ground. Grandma had not been seen for over a week after going to Homebase with Sheila to return a carpet cleaner they had hired for the weekend. After a ten minute discussion on the downfalls of living with Grandad they had apparently just “kept on driving” It wasn’t the first time. Two years ago she had gone out to the Ice Cream van full of anti Grandad ire, purchased her 99 mit flake, made old Carllucio an offer he couldn’t refuse and embarked on a two month tour of Europe selling Ice cream all the way to Croatia, eventually ringing Grandad a fortnight later from the nearby service station after hitching her way back to Blighty with a Slovenian trucker. This time Grandad wasn’t too worried, the Rug Doctor Satellite was tracking their every move and had put a crack team on their tail to repatriate the errant carpet cleaner and ageing Thelma and Louise.

Nets were up lines painted, all I had to do was get the balls out of the bag and do the “front of house” bit, touch up the make up before glad handing and meeting and greeting the opposition. The boys came through the gate to be followed by a slightly oily looking coach, who shook my hand firmly made a crass comment about women and balls, winked and slapped my behind as he went on past to the dressing room; What a lech!

Gathering my charges I made them run round in circles as I had seen my husband do on several occasions, got them to do a few flappy things with their arms and some forward rolls before giving them a ball to kick at the goal but without hurting the goalkeeper’s hands. The referee called the boys together,the team assembled a whistle was blown and the game kicked off. Job done, easy this football, the Lecherous coach and his cronies positioned themselves on the far part of the pitch and started issuing what must have been technical advice as they kicked the ball at our keeper who dived and caught the ball,

“What a save from our boy Dave,
He’s a dish and he’s our fave
He’s so cute with those gloves on
Come on Dave lets have some fun! YEEEEEAAAAH!”

Brandi! What the bloody hell is she doing?

And there she was gold shorts, gold trainers, gold vest and gold pom poms with Bingo wings Beryl and a brace of Brandettes by her side, three different sizes and shape of the female form kicking and shaking to varying degrees their way along the touchline.
David, our shy Goalkeeper, couldn’t kick the ball away fast enough.

I tried to match the Lecherous coaches advice with some shouts of Come On, Well Done and Bad Luck but his organising and advice appeared to be making the difference, as they eventually scored a goal.

“Woe is me, and what bad luck,
Now our side is really stuck,
The ball is in the back of the net,
Come on boys there’s still time yet”

Good Grief!

The half time whistle blew and Grandad came with me to gee the boys up and dish out the drinks, which after a few minutes caused the boys to spit and splutter,

“Grandad, what the hell is this? “

Son cried out,

“ Meal in a cup lad…. Pork Dripping Smoothie, made em last Sunday. Just what you need, they’ll all be drinking them soon”

He said proudly,

“Good Grief Grandad, what next? Ships biscuits and hard tack, here boys have some water, and just do your best”

The boys plodding back to their positions with the taste of salted Pork fresh on their lips to continue the game. As the oily opposition coach walked over to make some patronising comments about “doing my best” I had a flash of inspiration. Brandi and her gang had been entertaining the crowd at half time with a corner flag twirling routine in the centre of the pitch. The two self conscious linesman had been encouraged to join in with their flags and the merry band were just marching their way back to our side of the pitch. I hailed Brandi and suggested to her that it would be only fair to spread the Brandi experience amongst the whole crowd and would she consider moving to the other side of the pitch to entertain the opposition crowd.

“Gee Honey, you are so right, it is just give give give with you all the way down the line, come on girls”

And off they went high kicking their way around the pitch to the other side.

Within five minutes the flow of technical advice from the coach had ceased altogether, stuff the football, Brandi was the one who needed the coaching, as the lech of a coach joined in several of their routines, slapping backs, squeezing thighs lost in the haze of a gilded pneumatic middle aged cheerleader. I found three spare players on the sideline who I encouraged to go and join in, our extra numbers making a difference as we scored three goals and won the match, If the Lecherous coach hadn’t been so distracted maybe he would have done the same, the referee didn’t seem to mind, he too was distracted by all things Brandi who rounded off the match with a centre circle victory performance and chant,

“Well done Boys you did the Job
You are definitely Top Knobs.
You won the match with skill and guile
We’ll all remember this one for a while”

I think this was one of Beryl’s,

The opposition left the field bemused at the sight of the Brandettes kicking and twirling their way from the field with their coach as fifth member in only his boxers and vest, using his tracksuit top and bottoms as Pom Poms.

I’m not convinced the distraction ploy will work the next time the team play, but as my husband said from behind the bathroom door,

“Three points is three points, but I’m not sure what Alan will make of your tactics when I ring him later”

“That’s great son you must be delighted, let’s hope she’s learnt her lesson and that football is a serious game not to be taken lightly, thanks for calling 606 with a happy story for once, now its over to Len on line 2 who was at the Spurs game today, Len…… ”

Yes Alan?????

I am Strong, I am Invincible I am Woman!

2008-10-08T22:33:00.002+01:00

After my brief foray into the world of the online auction, all hell has let loose. Husband was recognised by several people during his appearance on 606 that developed into Samaritans at six. He has been overwhelmed with messages of support from the footballing community; I however have now become a figure of hate to several people around the village, and have received several items of unsavoury mail. My husband receiving advice from various quarters, the most bizarre coming via text

“Yo ho man is dissin yo man, smack dat ho up!”

Husband taking it to be an early yuletide greeting.

Husband has actually behaved rather well over the past few days. Taking the view that most people had overreacted to my actions on ebay, All’s well that ends well, and if some striker from a tribe of monopeds is set on the road to soccer stardom, well husband can take satisfaction from the fact that he did it in one of his old boots.
The incident has again been discussed on the midweek 606. Alan Green remains outraged, but then that is his resting state. Several callers questioned a woman’s role on the touchline, seeking a male only environment, where cigars can be smoked and pegs taken without the need for social niceties towards the fairer sex, as it was in the days of Clive of India, When men were men etc etc……... There have been predictable comments about sticking to cooking and staying in the kitchen from the usual dinosaurs although one particularly feisty lady called in to say that fans should be made to sit boy/girl/boy/girl like she had done in school, the atmosphere would be much improved and a little enforced contact between the sexes may actually narrow the divide that exists between them over the game of football. To my surprise husband rang the programme and was put straight through to Alan; after the boost to the ratings following Saturday’s performance, our phone number was marked out as one to watch out for. He agreed with the previous lady’s comments and suggested that the way forward was to increase the involvement of ladies in the game of football to further their understanding of the game and its nuances.
Initial feelings of pride, at husband’s conciliatory tone and peace keeping efforts, were dismissed by the realisation of what he was actually saying, leading me to shout

“ Hey Mr Boutros Boutros Ghali! Put the bloody phone down, its less football I need, not more!”

A shout that was picked up on the programme and broadcast to the nation, leading Alan to resume his agitated state, picking the scab from the scar created by my auctioning off of husbands football gear, and opening new wounds with countrywide accusations about my unabashed unapologetic stance over my actions.

And so, to placate my long list of recently made enemies, and to draw a line under this whole affair, I have agreed to become more involved in husband and son’s football team. For one week only I shall stand on the touchline facing the pitch and fill the role of assistant manager. I will wear a tracksuit, trainers and baseball cap replete with sponsor’s logo. Husband will then ring through to Alan Green in the evening with reports of my epiphany, Alan unable to show any interest in a happy heart warming tale, will then direct his outrage elsewhere, and we will return to where we were three weeks ago.

Initial feelings of admonishment and being taught a lesson were soon dispelled by a few glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. If I am to do this football management thing I will do it my way, stamp my personality on the team for this one game. Show some of these cavemen who have had a one week licence to verbally abuse my very being, that I won’t be cowed.

I am Strong………………………………………strong

I am Invincible…………………………………….invincible

I am Woman………………………………………womaaaaaaaan!

I then went on to pick a team of like-minded women who have railed against a male dominated world over the past few years.

In goal I would select Emily Pankhurst. Suffragette and Derby disrupter, particularly adept at diving at the feet of fast oncoming objects. At right back I would have Pocahontas who kept some sailors from taking over her island while dealing with a particularly loved up John Smith. Left back would be Linda Carter as Wonderwoman, with a brace of broads with balls - Madonna and Grace Jones in the centre of defence. In a four woman midfield I would have the girls from Sex and the City, with Maid of Orleans and hopefully the 18 yard box Joan of Arc, in attack alongside Boudicea – on loan from Norwich. Margaret Thatcher would manage the team, as I doubt she would settle for the post of assistant, with Florence Nightingale as team Physio and Mother Theresa of Calcutta as Director of Football.

Go Girls!

Bid Now

2008-09-25T11:11:00.002+01:00

After the Dubeck debacle in Birmingham, I have resolved to rid this house of all things football, well not everything but most of the football clutter that we have acquired over the past years. Cleansing our living space and inspired by repeats of Cash in the Attic and Dejunk your life can only help free my mind completely of the round ball game and prevent my thoughts being invaded by Football rubbish at vital moments in my life. So while my Dancing career is on hold I have embraced the world of ebay and am quietly putting a whole load of husband’s football memorabilia up for auction. Any money raised going towards our next course of dance classes or a weekend away as far as possible from a football pitch.

Well, let me tell you, this ebay thing is addictive. So far I have new friends in Japan, Finland and Uzbekistan all asking me questions about various bits of rubbish that husband had under the bed in the spare room. I have embellished the description ever so slightly on some items to guarantee a sale; I have had daily contact with a Mr Takaido from Japan who eventually bought my Husband’s England shirt with David Beckham’s name on the back for well over three figures. I got the impression that he thought it may have been a genuine shirt from Golden Balls, and not a replica worn by Wooden Balls to fly the flag on our French Holidays.
Mr Takaido was also keen to purchase other items of Beckham’s clothing much of which was lost in translation, plus a request for scented pants which I can only take to mean a house plant of some sort, possibly an Orchid that I believe they value quite highly in the East. He seemed very pleased with his purchase and sent me a thank you E mail which read as follows:

“HI! Your Pole arrived this morning, that is very wonderful condition!!!!!
I appreciate it very carefully very much.

I will use that for housework carefully
However I say maximum thanks to your honest serious correspondence

And, it is the condition which dealings with ebay cannot be evalauted as.

From your Japanese friend

Sincerely

Mr Takaido “

The universal language of ebay, who said the Internet has made the world a smaller place? He left positive feedback with the comment “High ebayer” which was nice.

This past week I have sold a comedy Alan Sunderland wig to a lady from the Lebanon, and a Paul Gascgoine rubber facemask to a man in New Zealand. There has been great interest in the many football programmes that I have put on the site, and the half a dozen signed replica shirts that I have advertised as “buy it now” items were snapped up for £5 a piece. I have also managed to clear the house of seven pairs of football boots, with, although I may say so myself, a stunning piece of marketing. Advertising the football boots singularly, forces the prospective buyer into looking through the other items you have for sale for the matching boot, thus exposing the prospective buyer to further bidding opportunities and increasing the possibility of sales. The same ruse worked well with a pair of goalkeeping gloves.

On Saturday afternoon I was glued to my computer, tea and cake readily to hand. I had several items coming to their conclusion, a comedy Jimmy Hill vampire outfit going through the roof with some bidders from Eastern Europe and two bidders called Spearson9 and greenhofbros slugging it out over a pair of Rosettes from the 1978 Cup final.
Husband was in a ditherspaz over son’s game the following morning. Even though he only runs up and down the line waving his arms, my husband likes to wear his football boots, to enhance the appearance of genuine football knowledge. He could only find one, and was turning the cupboard out in his efforts to find the missing boot. A sudden thought entered my head and I clicked hastily onto my “items to sell list” There was only one boot left to sell, a click on the item revealed it to be the boot my husband was looking for, I had been thrown by the one legged footballer from Ethiopia who only required a left boot. I had checked the number of boots for sale found it to be even, and forgotten about the African Monopode. My check of an even number of boots for sale had let me down. At that moment husband appeared at my shoulder and saw the boot,

“Why have you got a picture of my boot?” he asked,

“Look it’s a long story that involves a lot of issues and a footballer from a one legged tribe in Africa, the bottom line is that your beloved boot is up for auction it has five minutes remaining, I am not prepared to affect my feedback score so am unable to withdraw it, if you really need it you will have to get some one to bid for you ”
I blurted out

Silence………… then

“My brother”

And he dashed into the kitchen to ring his brother. With a minute remaining the bids for the boot started to come in, I recognised my brother inlaw’s ebay moniker and followed the bidding carnage that followed. The Monopode from Ethiopia was obviously cock of the walk, or cock of the hop, in his new boot and my husband was having to bid frantically to stave off further African interest, finally winning the item with a bid of £43.55 plus postage, which I was happy to waive as he was able to pick up the item in person.
Husband returned to the room, I handed him his boot that I had fetched from my secret ebay stash and he handed me a cheque. He left the room shut the door and I could hear him picking up the phone. Several minutes later my son came charging down the stairs with a radio in his hands

“Mum, Mum Dad is on the radio”

And there he was, on national radio, Five Live’s 606 programme, the evening phone in where disgruntled fans phone in to discuss their team’s travails. This call was different, more like listening to a call to the Samaritans,

Husband: “Alan, its not my team I want to talk about today, I just need someone to talk to”

, And he explained the events of the last half hour

The usually outraged and indignant Alan had softened his tone.

“That’s outrageous son, but thanks for talking, we will always be here for you when you need to talk again”

The remainder of the show was filled with phone calls from downtrodden football fans, all with their own tale to tell and empathising with my husband’s plight. The usual two-hour rant about referees, players and managers had turned into a radio version of Trisha.

I think I may have gone too far this time and have torn up his cheque.

An evening with Anton

2008-09-19T13:28:00.003+01:00

Hallelujah, Match postponed; apparently the opposition could not raise a team (this game is dying a death I tell you) Sergeant Bonkers and his junior assistant have had to seek new areas of entertainment and inspired by all things CERN and scientific are attempting to build their own Hadron Collider in the garden. Some flexible two-inch pipe has been arranged in a circle around the garden with two hair dryers attached to slots cut in the side. A large chart on the wall of our Kitchen indicates that they are to attempt to accelerate two ping-pong balls in opposite directions around the collider by turning the hairdryers to no less than 5. At a critical juncture, over which it seems to me they have no control, they will bump the two ping pong balls into each other and as if by magic a third ping pong ball will be created. If the experiment can be made to work with ping pong balls the whole shebang will be scaled up to provide a ready supply of Footballs for their team.

At the moment they seem to be on some scientific team building exercise which involves Sergeant Bonkers pushing son and heir around in his old baby stroller wearing a Cyberman voice simulator pretending to be Steven Hawking; Looking to me for laughs when husband handed the faux Hawking some leaves from the herb garden and asked him for a brief history of Thyme.

I did laugh, but only because I am escaping Bonkers Central for the night. A few friends and I have tickets to see an “evening with Anton” The Dreamboat Dubeck plus guests in the bright lights of Birmingham. We are staying overnight at the finest Novotel Brum can provide, and will be returning at our leisure the following day, when I will be called upon to clear up the mess made at home from husband and son’s attempts to create a new universe, or at the very least another ping-pong ball.

Ginny picked me up and we set off north, two hours of irreverent chit chat about nothing in particular to some background music provided by Abba. The Novotel was located, thanks to the nice man in the Sat Nav, and we headed to our rooms to prepare ourselves for Anton. I was to share with Ginny who produced a bottle of fizz as a “livener” for the four of us before we hit the town. Fizz consumed we headed for an Italian Restaurant near the hotel, a delicately flavoured dish of pasta, some perky Pinot Grigio and some even perkier Italian/ Brummie waiters were followed by a bucket of Ice Cream and a Taxi to theatre land. On getting out of the taxi a large black car drew up outside the theatre with the number plate DAN53 1, the occupant of the back seat emerged and there he was.

“Its Anton!”

Squealed Ginny,

Resplendent in Cape, Cravat, Cane and Fedora, flashing his smile in our direction at Ginny’s reaction, he shuffled his feet and was away sweeping into the theatre. Weakened at the knees by our encounter with the man of our dreams, we wobbled into the auditorioum and settled down for two hours of dance heaven.
It started with Anton running through a ten minute dance routine with various partners, a little bit of Paso, Rumba and Samba before putting on his jacket for a little tango, mostly Latin dances which is brave in itself as he is known for his expertise in the rise and fall and all things ballroom. A half hour of chat, jokes and questions followed, as he just sat on a stool and sparkled. His early life doing tap, his preference for dance over sport (Yes!), how flattered he was to have become a Gay Icon, denying rumours that Bruce Forsyth was his natural father, and revealing an ambition to become the next James Bond, or at the very least the man in the Milk Tray advert. A short interval and then he was back. A beautiful tuxedo and slicked back hair it was Ballroom time, First a quickstep, and boy was it quick, from the waist up it was all elegance and poise, from the waist down - a blur. Next a Waltz in unison with seven other couples, technically superb and no one got hurt, as they did when we tried it in our dance class.

And then it was just Anton, on his own, walking among the audience, looking for a partner to help him with a foxtrot,

And then he was there,

Right in front of me

Asking me,

Yes me.

OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD (as my daughter would say)

He took my hand led me to the stage and then it was just the two of us, the audience didn’t exist, he had me in his arms, I could smell his honeyed breath, see his chiselled chin, gaze into his sparkling eyes as he led, yes led not hauled, me around the floor, rising and falling, our bodies moving in time in what for me was a life changing moment, until I felt the sudden urge to speak.
With a brain turned to mush from grape juice and the power of Anton’s prescence the only thing I could come up with was

“ Who, who, who who do you support?”

NOOOOOO bloody football has invaded my brain and is making me ask stupid questions.

Anton bought the dance to a close and led me back to my seat whispering from the corner of his mouth to me as we went

“ Look love, we don’t talk when we’re dancing, Tits and Teeth that’s all you had to do, and didn’t you listen earlier in the show when I said I didn’t like sport”

Chastened by my encounter the remainder of the show was a haze, we got back to the hotel where a Giggling Ginny kept stroking my arm and saying that I smelt of Anton, and I climbed into bed reflecting on the fact that Football had penetrated deeper into my psyche than I thought. I could have asked him about shoes, clothes, toothpaste, but in my moment of fuzziness football pushed its way to the front and made me look stupid in front of my soft shoed superstar.
The journey home passed without incident, bar several stops for a hungover Ginny. The house was a tip when I returned, no ping pong balls had been produced or black holes created, my Coldplay CD had been worn out after repeat playing of “The Scientist” and husband and son were settled down in front of the midday match still in their lab coats but all out of scientific theories. Such is the power of football to distract the mind at possible life changing moments. If Einstein had been a Watford fan we would never have had any relativity and if Eddison had been a keen follower of Exeter we would never have had any light bulbs, or was it lighthouses? I don’t know I’m going to bed.

Here I go again

2008-09-11T12:44:00.003+01:00

Summer time has past and gone, and here I go again on my own, going down the only road I’ve ever known, like a victim I was born to walk alone, but I’ve made up my mind, Bloody hell David Coverdale and Whitesnake where did that come from? Husband has some sensational photos of himself in his perm, headband and spandex trousers phase during his late teens, and he wonders why he never even held a girl’s hand until he was nineteen.
Well I can empathise with David’s wise words as I travel down what feels like the only road that I have ever known at this time of the year, the start of the chuffing football season. We only had a couple of weeks away from the dreaded game, but husband and son have renewed vim and vigour for the round ball rubbish that will occupy their every waking thought for the next nine months. Several fantasy teams have been selected, new boots and kit have been purchased, that will need replacing in three months as the superstar who eats us out of house and home grows another foot, (not a third foot but a foot in height) Football will completely dominate the television, eclipsing new series of ER, House and Medium.
Goodness knows why but husband and son’s team have actually managed to attract some new players this season - don’t they know? There should at least be some new mums to chat to.
One unwelcome presence on the touchline will be Brandi who has managed to ingratiate herself with all and sundry (I wonder how) First it was an attempt to start a gun club in the village with a poster in the shop window showing Brandi in Gold bikini, foot up on a style with a shot gun over her shoulder under the title “Come Shoot with Brandi” this aroused great interest amongst the beaters and shooters of the village before the local policeman dissuaded Xena Warrior princess with some guff about appropriate dress and gun ownership going hand in hand in this country.
Not to be deterred she has persuaded a couple of like minded mums to form a cheerleader troupe who have threatened to perform pitchside during selected games. Several boys horrified at the thought of their mothers shaking their thing “States style” left the club, forcing Brandi to recruit from outside the footballing sphere, Bingo Wings Beryl from the over 60s a particular cause for concern to the few who turned up to watch rehearsals.
My own avenue of release from the game has currently been denied me, The Dance classes that we so studiously attended last year have been postponed until further notice, Guido and Stephanie having been detained in Guido’s native Italy after reports of lewd behaviour on a yacht in the Bay of Naples. Apparently the three masted schooner that was taking them and a crowd of fifty or more on a day trip, offered countless opportunities for Stephanie’s pole work, Guido joining in by tearing open the back of Stephanie’s Blouse to improvise some flogging with a cat of nine tails, finishing the display with some spectacular flag work in the rigging that bought the house down. Unfortunately the whole display has since featured on youtube and the Schooner owner, upset at the adverse publicity, pressed charges against the Hornpipe hoofers, so we await their return. I will however need some non footballing activity to get me through the next few weeks so am currently on the look out for anything that will occupy husband and I for one or more nights a week that has nothing to do with sport.

Plage Olympiad

2008-09-08T21:53:00.002+01:00

So here I am again, stuck on my own in France while Husband and son set about their next global sporting challenge. Its not so bad sat here by the sea with something dry and white next to a huge dish rippling with muscles. Not Daniel Craig but a bucket of “Moules al a crème” and half a bottle of Muscadet, succour to a lone female who can quietly contemplate the French life that passes before her while husband and son prepare at their Spartan training camp at the other end of the beach for the final event of their Campsite Olympiad.
I am constantly comparing the French female with my own sisters from the hood back in Blighty. Madame exudes style, is well dressed for all occasions and can walk elegantly in heels on cobbles. Faced with a Saturday morning on the touchline, Madame would glide through the match with sustained indifference, a gallic shrug at defeat, a brief bravo at victory, encourage their young charges to exchange kisses with the opposition then meet up with the opposition coach for an adult afternoon assignation.
Pharmacies are prominent wherever you go in Gaul, all display a flashing green cross outside and are open all hours; no drugs or painkillers of any consequence are available, although an extensive range of expensive skin creams and double strength hair dyes can be obtained in emergencies. Now that may sound a little catty, there are many aspects of the French soccermom that I envy and admire, I just keep a few thoughts in my head to strike back when they look condescendingly at me in last season’s flip flops and my superdrug sunglasses – Vive le difference!

So back to my current plight by the beach with wine and shellfish, this is the last day of our sojourn and we will be lucky to leave this camp site alive. On our first evening in the bar we were treated to the thunderbolt and his Jamaican buddies winning the gold medal in the relay, this made for a convivial atmosphere among the international gathering in the bar. A “blinged up” Russian family particularly ecstatic that the Americans had lost the relay, Brits hooped and hollered, French “bravoed”, Dutch cheered and then fell out, a Belgium family smoked pipes while a German family drank beer from large glasses. Post race my husband and son bonded with like-minded sporting types and drew up a schedule for a Campsite Olympics, Father and son teams competing in various events.
First up was the two man Luge, fastest pair down the swimming pool slide. The Germans were first down setting a competitive time, the Russians followed it up with a quicker time, before my husband and son made their way up to the start. The French pair stepped forward and objected to their attire; baggy short type trunks were not allowed in this pool, they would have to change or concede the event. After much mutterings about “cheap French tricks” a light switched on in husband’s head, asking for five minutes he returned to the athletes village – our mobile home, emerging a minute later with my son, towels wrapped around both their waists.
As they passed me I whispered sternly” you’ll have us deported if you do this naked, please tell me you’ve got something on under there” He assured me he had, before climbing the steps and removing his towel, to reveal a comedy posing pouch with elephant trunk that he always bought on holiday- “just in case”. My son had on some boxer shorts with the bum cheeks cut away, a trickle of blood on my husband’s left buttock suggested that he had also hastily shaved for the occassion. Off they went and as my Husband later explained after taking maximum points for the two man Luge, with the drag coefficient reduced to zero, nobody stood a chance!Velodrome next, a slow bicycle race around the camp site followed by a sprint around the perimeter. Despite the plucky Brits wearing their cycling helmets the wrong way around to increase drag during the slow bicycle race, they were pushed into third behind the Belgians and French. The Dutch won the sprint as they predicted, the senior member having the biggest pair of thighs I have ever seen on a man, and all painted orange for the occasion. Back to the pool where my husbands aerodynamic swimming helmet of conical candle and rubber glove failed to live up to expectation, although some children, poolside, did tick off “narwhal” in their Eye spy book. A late entry by the Swiss took the archery before we moved to the beach for the final event the two-man soccer. The Russians and Germans played off for the Bronze medal, with the French and English competing for Gold. It’s a tiny pitch, a tiny ball and a short game played by tiny minds. Husband has rallied as many Brits as he can to come out and support, the French on home soil have a huge advantage. Watching from a distance I can see that they have scored two goals each, my son, closing in on goal, is felled by the French father. Cries of “Foul” from the travelling supporters, and with a minute remaining my husband has a chance to win the game for Good old Albion. Pushing my son away he strikes the mini ball around the French wall through the goal and hits a Frenchman giving donkey rides on the beach. Husband ecstatic at the Gold medal strike runs away arms aloft cheering, only to be stopped by the French donkey man’s roar. Husband having devoured every book about Wellington’s campaign while lying by the pool (just to stir it up a little) went into infantry mode“ Form a square, form a square” my husband impeached the watching support, “French Cavalry, see how they shape, fine fellows these!” as the puce donkey walker and his asses plodded up the beach. Husband produced a pair of Wellingtons, Cape and Bi Corn hat fashioned from newspaper and began the opening lines of “Waterloo” before the Cavalry Major drew himself up to his full height, delivered a torrent of Gallic vitriol before departing with a loud “Pah!” Husband and son embarking on a lap of honour of the beach, I think it will be Cornwall next year.

Old Chinese Proverb Say

2008-08-13T22:03:00.005+01:00

This year's display of the full gamut of the human form clothed in some of the tightest and lightest fabrics known to man is to be held in China. The Olympic Games, a welcome respite from the round ball game, and one that I look forward to with relish. I have some affinity with China having dabbled in Chinese medicine in my twenties when I undertook acupuncture in order to rid myself of a thirty a day habit that was spiralling out of control.
The whole Chinese philosophy towards not only medicine, but also everyday life, differs greatly from the Western World. From memory, where we in the West will identify a problem, look for a causative agent and then attack that causative agent. Chinese medicine relies on an overview of the condition, not a particular symptom. Your Chi, Blood, Jing, Shen and several other bodily fluids must be in harmony, problems arise when this happy medium goes out of kilter; too much ying and not enough yang. Most problems can be cured through the penetration of needles or a quick dip into a vast encyclopaedia of herbal medicine, follow this up with a brief consultation with a man who lives on a mountain and hey presto! Vim and Vigor restored.
Now call me an old cynic but until the mid seventies the Chinese had not won a Gold Medal, this week alone they have won seventeen. Having accepted Modern medical science and realising that there is no future in Herbs they have upped their performance and shot up the medal table. Nobody rushed off for a mortar and pestle to grind a few leaves when the Chinese Gymnast fell from the pommel horse, and I can’t think that any one will rush on with any needles if the star Chinese hurdler falls at the first; although a Chinese Javelin thrower may have been detailed to throw wildly at him if such an event does occur.
We in the West have our own dalliances with alternative types of medicine, chief among them Homeopathy. Fortunately we were quick to realise that this particular brand of witch-craft had no place in sport. The theory goes that, a low dose of what is giving you grief will make you better. After brief trials where Footballers who had been felled by a tackle were kicked again but not quite as hard, and cricketers who had been felled by a ball to the head where asked to “head” a cricket ball a few times, the experiment with alternative medicine was abandoned.
This year’s games have, so far, been stunning. Once the Birds Nest and Water Cube were Fung Shui-ed into position a breathtaking opening ceremony began, although the questions surrounding the Chinese record on human rights resurfaced with the spectacle of hundreds of scantily clad ladies being required to clap and high kick for a full three hours as the procession of teams entered the stadium.
The first week for those who view the Olympics as merely an Athletic Contest can be a little disappointing. I myself am agog at the adonai afloat in the rowing competition, Greek gods to a man, Six-foot plus, dressed in tight fabric and with a slightly sweaty dishevelled post-event look, it has been a joy to wake up with them every day this week, as the heats of the rowing are screened at breakfast.
This Olympiad, the male swimmers have been a little disappointing the vast majority of them covering up in the latest full length super-fast swimwear, (imagine how many more medals David Wilkie could have won if he’d ditched the moustache and shaved his chest!) although the synchronised divers, in particular the Australians in some sensationally skimpy “budgie smugglers” definitely drew the eye. The Chinese took the synchronised medal, although, with over a billion to choose from it cannot have been too hard to find a pair who look the same and can fall off a board at the same time.
I will be up again early tomorrow with husband and son, lapping up each and every event. Husband and son have not mentioned the dreaded “F word” allweek, concentrating instead on our impending week away at a French camp-site where they will feel duty bound to out compete several other nations in various events. Synchronised Bombing is in the bag, while my husband has developed a new kind of swimming hat inspired by the streamlined cycling helmets worn in the Velodrome, that will enable him to cut through the water and reduce his profile. In reality it is a large rubber glove that fits over his head and a six-inch conical candle that fits flush to his forehead, but to him it is the difference between winning and losing his “Campsite Olympics”I will let you know how they get on.

Transfer Talk

2008-08-07T15:10:00.002+01:00

One week until the Charity Shield of Doom that heralds another season of flipping football. My husband and son’s excitement levels are building slowly towards the weekend. The last few weeks talk around the table has been mainly about weather Ronald will go to Real or Eto will go to Exeter – I think that was what they said. To be honest I have developed what I call my late summer haze, a fixed half smiling expression on my face behind which I can hide emerging to give a “yes dear” or a “ Gosh how exciting” during conversations laden with transfer speculation and football gossip. The sums of money that trip off my son’s tongue are fantasy figures, twenty million pounds, thirty million pounds one hundred and twenty thousand pounds a week. My husband will reply authoritatively that such and such is “worth it” or “they should be paying him more if they want to keep him” To me it seems that this transfer malarkey is all a big scam cooked up by agents who get their slice each time a player moves. I am not sure that I would notice the difference between earning fifty thousand a week and sixty thousand a week, you’re already filling your trolley with the Tesco Finest range and using the softest toilet roll known to man so why the move? Money can no longer be a motivator to the individual player so it must be other factors that drive a player to move. A love of clothes, fashion and shoes then it has to be Milan or Northampton, A fisherman may be attracted by a move to Grimsby or Hull, a keen sailor to Portsmouth or Plymouth. A love of the outdoor life and all things “small holding” may pull a player towards Cardiff, Ipswich or Norwich, while a love of the Hills and a bit of a ramble would draw a player to Carlisle for the Lakes, York for the Dales or Exeter for the Moors. Surf dudes and beach lovers would I am sure look for a move to Scarborough or Southend; Brighton would hold a particular appeal for a few, while the high rollers and glitzy would, I am sure, head for Blackpool or possible Rhyl. I cannot for the life of me comprehend why someone would choose Liverpool, Manchester or Birmingham over the beautifully situated Yeovil or Chesterfield, or the convenience of the shops to Fulham. I believe that Milton Keynes have a newly formed team, well good look to them in finding a bunch of footballers with a fetish for roundabouts.
Of course many of today’s professionals, inspired by Posh and Becks will claim to make a decision after consultation with their partner. Once the fifty thousand a week level is reached there must surely be some consideration by a level headed WAG to the area in which they are to move. I would advise Ashley Cole’s wife to push for somewhere away from the bright lights and temptations of the City, perhaps Gillingham, Peterborough or to really emphasise your point Aberdeen or Inverness. Any WAG looking to update their husbands image and move him on through the mullet/perm phase would do well to push him towards some of the more stylish inner city clubs or for guaranteed results a move abroad preferably to a French, Italian or Spanish club. If Leather is your thing well it has to be German or Austria, a bit of a bookworm? Then push for a move to Hereford. Need some new cutlery? Then try for a short-term loan spell at a Sheffield club. You could sample the delights of the elderly and retirement with a spell at Bournemouth or Torquay, or cruise away while he stays to play with a term at Southampton. There has to be more to consider when changing club than a slight increase in an already astronomical wage or a longer contract. Pretty much the same clubs seem to win the cups and leagues each year so if I were a WAG I’d be in my husband’s ear about the clubs I would like him to move to and the ones that he should discount at all costs, give the subject some serious thought because when the agent comes calling he will have only one thing on his mind and it won’t be the activities of the player’s partner or the quality of the shopping in the nearby area.

Could it be Magic

2008-07-25T13:26:00.003+01:00

I don’t know how, but husband actually talked me into going through with this charade of a performance at God’s waiting Room. I balked at the sequined leotard, Diamonique tiara and Vaudevillian peacock feathers sticking out from my behind. Agreeing to instead wear black trousers white blouse, glittery top hat and occasionally wave my hands in his direction at certain junctures, implement applause when necessary and generally look amazed and agog at the miracles being played out before my very eyes.
Husband had worked his act around several card tricks, a comedy saw and a finale in which a white dove would be produced from under my top hat, the bird would then be placed in a magical “bird box” that husband had recently purchased on Ebay, with its head protruding from the hole. Husband would then chop the bird’s head off with a cheese wire, except it would not really chop its head off and the bird would live to fly another day, or so we hoped.
Much practice over the preceding few days as I and the unfortunate bird acquainted ourselves with the nuances of the act, that the programme promised to Astound, Rouse, Stupefy and Excite, the capital letter of each word aptly picked out in Gold underneath my husband’s magical moniker “The Great Bonzonov”
And so the day dawned, we were to perform at 3.00pm. All of the incumbents of God’s Waiting Room would be awake then and keen to be entertained before Deal or No Deal. After parking the car and struggling into the reception area we were greeted by the last person I would choose to see me shake my thing on stage, Brandi. Dressed in what can only be described as a thigh length white lab coat with not enough buttons, she was arm in arm with a male octogenarian who could not believe his luck.
“Just doin my bit for the old guys”
She exclaimed,
“Actually its just like bein back at Hef’s, randy old dudes in dressing gowns in the afternoon with ideas way beyond their station”
She whispered to us as she dragged the slavering gent into the lounge for his half hour of magic.

After a brief warm up by the Camp Commandant we were on. Husband diving straight into his card and gentle comedy routine that had them rolling in the aisles. Three ladies at the front, who were the Beverly sisters in appearance but the antithesis in mind, disgruntled at the use of cards for trickery when they could have been having a game of Whist or Newmarket. Card tricks complete we moved onto the sawing of off limbs routine. Volunteer number 1 proved to be a bit of handful, husband going for his leg and the sprightly man pulled away saying,
“You don’t need a saw for that one lad, it screws off”
As he lay back against the table, screwed off his prosthetic limb and waved it in the air. The Bad mood Beverleys muttering about the one legged comedian always showing off with his bloody leg.
Volunteer number two couldn’t get her leg up on the Black and Decker Work Mate, so my husband abandoned the comedy saw routine and moved on to the finale. Dave the Dove was in position A under my hat, and after a few alacazams from The Great Bonzonov his whereabouts were revealed. Drawing gasps from the Sour faced sisters at the front,
“Enid………………… that’s Enid that is!”

It became apparent that old friend Enid had died recently and on her descent into the earth a white Dove had landed on Enid’s tombstone and remained for several minutes, the spirit of Enid lived on through this Dove or so the three witches told everyone Dave the Dove who had just been removed from my head and placed on the Great Arse-enov’s arm was proclaimed by the 3 soothsayers to be the spirit of Enid.
Husband was visibly affected by the tortured trio, to him it was Dave the Dove and if the act went wrong bring on Dave II, but now it was personal.
The finale music began,
“Spirit move me, high up on a hillside, whirling like a Cyclone in my mind”
Crikey! Barry Manilow, Could it be Magic, the disco version, this brings back some memories; abandoning my series of magical-assistant poses for some freestyle salsa to distract the crowd from Enid’s possible demise. Hips swaying and arms rocking the eyes that were open were on me; even drawing a “Go Girlfriend” from Brandi perched on the lap of a dozing veteran. Husband was also agog, and I gave him the eyes to keep his mind on the task in hand.
Dave was now in the box with his head protruding from the hole, I upped the ante and threw some Rumba shapes. The Bad Mood Beverleys distressed at Enid’s parlous position clung to each other for comfort. The Cheese wire came down; I completed a few quick Chasses and the Witches screamed!
Enid/Dave was slumped in his box head down, a pool of blood was forming on the magical tablecloth and The Great Bonzonov looked aghast.
“He’s done for Enid……………. that bloody pillock has finished off all we had left of Enid”
Much intense wailing followed for thirty seconds before my husband, obviously distressed held up his thumb,
“I’ve cut me bloody thumb, Eni.. I mean the Dove is not dead!”
Prodding the avian entertainer with his wand.
“See, See………. he’s asleep”
Dave, who obviously had a feel for comedy, opened an eye
“I gave him a pill from a tray at reception, the security man said they were general issue and kept most situations under control around here, I thought it would make him behave while he was under that hat, he’s alright, and he’s not Enid”
The tremulous trio, composure regained, shuffled out of the room, muttering
“That were never Enid, you could never wake her up in the afternoon when she’d had one of her pills”

Abracadabra

2008-07-16T12:36:00.003+01:00

Marriage failure averted/postponed Husband and I thought a short period of intense communication was needed to talk through a few things. So we sat down one evening, just the two of us a bottle of wine and a Barry Manilow CD and actually talked. Husband explained that he got a lot out of his sporting life and appreciated the fact that I supported him and our son in their sporting efforts, although my acerbic comments at inopportune moments were hard to bear at times. I told him that I occasionally enjoyed a day watching football, and was more than happy to go to cricket matches. I would appreciate it if he would make more of an effort with the dance classes, didn’t go round to see Guido and Stephanie at home and kept a bit of distance between himself and Brandi, which he was more than happy to do, with the caveat that he was a man and that as he grew older he had a duty to be more curmudgeonly with each passing year, it is what men do, a form of mid life” enlightenment” not quite an epiphany but a slow realisation that some things in day to day life are a load of rubbish and don’t do what they say on the packet.
Anyway the evening progressed with talk of how we used to be and what we had dreamt of doing. I had always hoped that I would one day read the News at Ten or write a television series. He admitted that he still had dreams of playing professional football although it was now more likely to be in some senior saga league screened on Dave+1 and would involve payment being made in Sanatogen and Ginseng.
He also confessed to an early interest in magic and how he had harboured dreams of being a magician. With a head fugged by cheap South African White Wine I suggested that there was nothing to stop him having a go at magic, it was never too late, I would support him as his assistant if he would let me read the news, thinking that it was something that we could keep to ourselves in the comfort of our own home, why I could even finish the news off with some Angela Rippon high kicks and see where the evening takes us. Emboldened by the prospect of magical high jinks husband retired to his chambers to practice waving his wand.
A hectic week passed without me giving so much as a thought towards our agreement. Husband was a changed man, attentive, chatty and understanding before he dropped his bombshell at the weekend. He had been practicing a few tricks and had put an advert in the local paper:

The Great Bonzonov and his glamorous assistant Kratchia
An hour of dazzling magic and entertainment
No room or audience too large or small
Not suitable for those allergic to pigeons

He had received a booking for next week at the local old peoples home and we needed to work on “our” act. He was still trying to work some news reading into the show, but as an alternative would I consider doing some freestyle Salsa off to one side to distract the audience from his sleight of hand at critical points during the performance.
With disbelief etched deep in my face I blew my top, What the hell had he done this for, he just didn’t get it, and what the hell would a Russian magician and his Siberian assistant be doing Salsa dancing. We would be a laughing stock. To which he replied meekly that he thought it would be something that we could both work towards together, and anyway the oldies were really looking forward to the performance.
I couldn’t believe it and had to resort to my old safety valve of picking a football team consisting of the main point of my anger, magicians.
In goal I would have David Blain hung in a glass box from the cross bar, in the hope that strikers would be tempted to kick balls at him rather than into the goal. Harry Corbett would operate a back four alongside Sooty, Sweep and Sue. Paul Daniels and Debbie Mcghee would trundle up and down the flanks, while Harry Houdini would tie up the midfield alongside Tommy Cooper directing operations in front of the back four. Jonathon Creek solving the problem of who to play up front alongside The Great Soprendo. The entire cast of Harry Potter would provide tricks on the bench under the management of Mohammed Ali, who I believe is a boxer but can also do a few card tricks.

And that’s bloody magic!

Mr & Mrs

2008-07-03T22:17:00.003+01:00

My hedonistic husband’s shed dwelling existence continues, he comes in for meals and is always up and in the house before the kids get up to give the appearance of normality. He has a camp bed, clothes and a water butt for washing in. Ginny popped round this morning and mentioned that she had bumped into husband in the local DIY store, he had been looking at sheds and had asked the assistant if any came with fitted wardrobes and a sky dish. I assured Ginny that he must have been having one of his jolly joshes with the sales assistant who no doubt was particularly young and nubile, to which she replied that it had been one of the older saga assistants who at one point had appeared to be offering words of comfort to him over something, she then moved on to remind me that it was the village fete this weekend and that husband and I were entered in the Mr and Mrs contest along with four other couples. Her money was on husband and I, but the New Age couple in the new build “eco” house seemed particularly well bonded in a humus kind of way, and would no doubt give us a run for our money.
Struck cold by the prospect of having our troubles aired in the middle of the fete, I tried in vain to come up with a plausible excuse that would spare us this fete worse than death, and went out to speak to himself. He was busy cleaning the windows of his larch-lap lair, something he had never done to our house made of brick and mortar. Surprisingly we both agreed that we would fulfil this long standing agreement, any questions asked by the stand in Derek Batey would be met with a straight bat, there would be no public point scoring or airing of our current situation.
This shared goal, brought us closer together in the days preceding the fete. I agreed that the Lawnmower could be moved from the shed into the garage, and he agreed to take down his home made shower, which comprised a watering can hung from a tree, and a very low wind break that preserved very little of his modesty.
On the morning of the fete we were both too busy helping out with the preparations for the day to worry about the competition. The first reminder of the quiz of doom came when a rather eccentric small holder who liked to collect all sorts of odd objects arrived. He was towing a six foot high fibreglass orange on wheels, it had been used for various Orangina promotions, and had been snapped up by our very own Mr Steptoe who had planned to convert it into a horse drawn carriage in the shape of a pumpkin for Mrs Steptoe to ride in; They both enjoyed various types of role-play and this would prove perfect for one of their Cinderella days. Unfortunately Mrs Steptoe had passed away recently during a particularly strenuous few hours running into town in the Flintstones’ car. On seeing a use for his mobile “Orange” Mr Steptoe declared that nothing would have made Mrs Steptoe happier than to make a contribution to a contest that couples could only win by demonstrating the closeness and strength of their relationship, particularly as the Steptoes’ relationship had been such a happy one.

And so the day progressed, A weatherman from one of the shopping channels was produced to declare the day open. Tombolas started turning and red cheeked children charged around eager to win their tenth coconut or purposely stick the tail on the wrong part of the donkey. Husband took his turn on the plant stall while I pushed raffle tickets on anyone who passed by.
At 4pm the call came for contestants to assemble near “The Booth of Love” as was now writ in large letters over the Orangina logo. Each contestant was to be asked 3 questions by the QVC weather man while their partner sat blindfolded in the Orange listening to the “ipod of Love”. The roles were then reversed, with a possible six points on offer, we were to go last.
First up where the oldest couple in the contest who had just appeared in the local paper on their diamond wedding, the longevity of which they attributed entirely to “a bit of give and take”. On scoring zero points of six, Mr Longevity seemed to be all out of “give and take” and was heard to say “Sixty bloody years and you still think I like Garibaldi biscuits”
Next up were Mr and Mrs Mouse, both of whom seemed reluctant to emerge from the Booth, but manage to squeak their way to 3 points out of six.
Rather than listen to “the ipod of love” in the “Booth of Love” Mr and Mrs New Age from the Eco house produced their own panpipes to play, instigating a series of wild throws from the coconut shy, which were only stopped by the Vicar’s hurried intervention.
Fourth up were another elderly couple who struggled to 2 points, and then it was us with 4 to beat. Several years ago the prospect of such competition would have seen the two of us revising and preparing for battle. The competitive streak would have been aired and woe betide any one who came between us and the prize; today it was just a matter of getting through. Climbing into the Booth, which was filling up with smoke from the New Agers dropped Jos Stick, I donned the blindfold, put on the Ipod and settled down to life in a Satsuma with Billy Ray Sirus singing Achy Breaky Heart. After a few minutes I nodded off to be woken up by QVC weatherman banging on the orange asking me to come out, Husband had been handed a can of beer and was led blindfolded and grim faced into the orange. I was then asked to give the answers to the questions that husband had been asked, if they matched up we would get a point. I would then be asked 3 questions about husband, who would then emerge from his citric vault to answer the same questions. An easy game that Mr QVC weather managed to make look very difficult. First question, an easy point: neither of us brought the other a cup of tea in bed in the morning. Second question, another banker: neither of us ran each other a bath after a hard day so had no idea as to the preferred combination of scented candles and bath oil, needless to say the only other couple to score points on this question were Mr and Mrs New Age. Third question, and although the answers had not reflected well on our marriage at least we were still in the hunt for a prize. “We asked your husband if you would remember where you liked to go most often for a night out when you were courting” The Older two couples had plumped for various air raid shelters and dances, Mousy couple the library, and New Age couple the compost heap on the Allotment where they had first met. I racked my brain, it was a toss up between Anfield and a decidedly cheesy night club called “Nico’s” where after several hours of jerky movements on the dance floor I had decided that he was the one for me, he had even proposed that night, although he later said that I had misheard, and that he had said “Will you carry me?” after a drunken fall over the kerb outside the club” Tentatively I replied “Nico’s night club” feeling sure that my husband had plumped for Anfield. The fixed grimace from Mr QVC weather remained unchanged as he congratulated us on a score of 3 out of 3.
Now for the questions about husband: First up “Would he still forego a day at the races/football/snooker for a lunch date with you?” Easy, he never has done, or is ever likely to – guaranteed 4 points, tying for the lead. Fifth question “ You and your husband go out for a day at the beach. You are the first to arrive and after setting up camp several people arrive, settle down next to you and take off their clothes it is a nudist beach and they are Naturists, would he,”

A: Just ignore them, suggest that you stay, but keep your clothes on, you have set up camp and it would take ages to move,

B: Suggest that you both strip off also and give it a go, but put the dogs in the car first.

C: Pack up and move to another beach.

D: another answer.

Last week I would have been confident about plumping for C, neither of us were particularly “body confident” until husband’s “Walk on the Wild side” at Guido and Stephanie’s. Would he now go for B? What message would that send out to the people of the village who were now waiting for my answer? How much did I want to win this competition?

"C" I replied hesitantly.

Above the murmur of the watching crowd, there was a sound coming from the Orange,

“Quittin just aint my stick, Yeah
Not the way I feel about ya,
Girl I just can’t live without ya

Whatever, Whatever girl you got it
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr”

After a beer free week in the shed Husband had developed a low tolerance to alcohol, responding to the can thrust into his hand with some intra-orange Karaoke; Barry White and his Love Unlimited Orchestra’s “Never ever gonna give you up” was obviously on the "ipod of love" One of our favourites from our nights at Nico’s. Unfortunately Husband’s Ray Charles/Stevie Wonder vigorous and sightless rocking from side to side had set the Orange in motion. Picking up momentum and rolling down the field, the crowd parting to allow the blindfolded Walrus of Love in a Citrus fruit on wheels to take out the Cake stall. The “Booth of Love” then crossed the lane bordering the field before sliding into the village pond. Rushing across the field to fish the fool in a fruit from the pond, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of goodwill towards my husband. QVC man was first on the scene, and unbelievably proceeded to fire questions at my husband, the competition needed “closure” and he needed to be away to have his photo taken with a diabetic donkey.
Husband scored a fourth point and followed it up with a fifth when he confirmed that he would leave the beach. I flung my arms around him and carried him home, moved him back into the house and gave Mr Steptoe £50 for his mobile Orange, with a view to turning it into a garden feature with piped Barry White music and a funky place to store a Lawn Mower.

Hubble Bubble

2008-06-27T13:40:00.005+01:00

I just don’t get it. After accepting Stephanie’s offer of some hydrotherapy for my stiff knees, Madam has gone off on one. I have tried to explain that the shoes I am required to dance in have very little cushion in the sole. I feel the impact in my knee joints particularly during the Rumba. As I am not allowed to dance in my Reeboks I have made an attempt to address the problem. Stephanie kindly offered to treat us both one evening to some hydrotherapy, an invitation that Madam has chosen to decline. Fortunately while we were having this discussion Brandi dropped round for her morning coffee, I explained my knee problem and Stephanie’s suggested course of treatment, and she kindly offered to accompany me to Guido’s and Stephanie’s for the evening as she had twinges across her back. Madam rudely remarking behind Brandi’s back that it was down to carrying two silicon footballs around on her chest all day, which set us off again. I explained in hushed tones that Brandi obviously had body issues, and was only being friendly. As my own wife was unwilling to come along for treatment I would take Brandi and introduce her to some more people, she was still a newcomer to the village after all. Madam snorted, and said that Brandi had already introduced herself to a large proportion of the village, and that if I went through with this ridiculous charade of hydrotherapy I would be sleeping in the shed.

I picked Brandi up the following evening at seven; she had obviously been practicing some new cheerleader routine as she had on her gold shorts and t-shirt with some funky plastic high heeled shoes. She explained that she was looking forward to some physio on her back, to which I concurred, explaining that my knees were particularly stiff today, startling me as she gave my knee a gentle squeeze “ Honey I just know this bit of physio is going to get your knees back in swell shape”
Arriving at Guido and Stephanie’s terraced house, Guido met us at the door still in his dancing gear, Stephanie showed us through to the garden where there was a cedar clad hydrotherapy pool. Brandi climbed in hot pants and all; I changed into my trunks and lowered myself into the far corner. The relief was instant, the warm bubbles gently caressed my aching knees, Stephanie appeared in a fetching two-piece swimsuit with a bottle of fizz. Popping the cork she climbed in beside Brandi and I. Brandi was thoroughly relaxed popping up from the bubbles to say “ We’re all friends here, anyone mind if I take a few of my duds off, it is so liberating and helps me deal with body issues” at which she flung her gold shorts and top into the nearest Japonica, a little surprised at this display, I put her behaviour down to her deep state of relaxation. Guido returned and climbed in beside us, Stephanie inquired as to the state of my knees as she topped up my glass. I replied that the hydrotherapy treatment was working a treat, thirty years of football, and two knee operations had turned my cartilage to dust. “Did you know that Guido had been a footballer, he had been on the books at Napoli for two years before being released to a life of dancing” Stephanie remarked. Honoured to be in the same bubbles as someone who had played to such a high level I pressed Guido about his career. He had been at Napoli at the same time as Maradona, and had played chiefly in the reserves featuring ten times in the first team line up before being released from his contract. Fascinated by his story I pressed him further and commented that just because a football career ends it doesn’t mean that you couldn’t find success in another field just look at Gordon Ramsey, at which point Stephanie who had been busy massaging my aching knees remarked “and Rio Ferdinand, I here he’s got a cook book out called Rio’s Sunday Roast, its full of good recipes would anyone like to try one?” I corrected Brandi saying that I was sure it was some other celebrity chef who had a book of the same title, and I was sure that Guido could be more successful in the dance world than he had been on the football field. Stephanie stopped rubbing my knees and turned her attention to Brandi’s back, Guido leapt out of the treatment area, he would love to try one of Rio’s recipes, would I like to see some mementos of his time at Napoli, while he took Stephanie and Brandi upstairs to search for Rio’s cook book. Unable to believe my good fortune and not wanting to press the point about Rio not being an author I sat down at the garden table and leafed through two years worth of a professional footballer’s life at Napoli. Guido, Stephanie and Brandi searched for Rio’s cook book upstairs for over an hour, the banging and crashing as they moved furniture in search of the non existent tome drew cries from the neighbours; the trio returning to the garden a little dishevelled but in good humour after their fruitless search.
Driving home thoroughly relaxed after our hydrotherapy treatment, I remarked to Brandi that I hoped she hadn’t hurt her back again moving furniture at Guido’s and Stephanie’s Brandi assured me that her back had never been better and that she hadn’t had treatment like that since her weekend at Hef’s place, which I can only assume is some Californian physiotherapy clinic. Returning home, I did, as expected spend the night in the shed, a night that passed better than expected after my delve through the life of an ex professional Latin footballer.

They think its all over

2008-06-27T13:40:00.002+01:00

Sorry, bit pre-menstrual so prepare for a rant. No! Why the hell should I apologise, we are slaves to our bloody hormones, something you idle Oestrogen free prehistoric footballing males don’t seem to understand. If we feel a need to let fly every four or five weeks - live with it! And don’t you dare try and be understanding, because that’s just it, you don’t! Understand that is, now what was I going to write about?

For two weeks now we have been bombarded with the group stages of the European Chumpionship. Two games a day, between teams from all parts of Europe bar the British Isles, 3 hours of inane commentary on inconsequential football blasted from our Television and Radio. Of course we have not missed a game. Even when out we have had the car radio tuned in, or Himself has been linked up to his earpiece. While shopping in the Supermarket one evening my “tuned in" husband picked up an unusually shaped courgette with a bulbous end just as Spain, one of the smallest sides in the tournament scored. Leading him to exclaim loudly, “ Yes! Get in there! These little buggers are great at getting round the back of the stoutest defence, they really are a few steps on from stuffed donkeys and sombreros” Aisle cleared we continued to shop, with occasional loud comment from husband startling several shoppers. We arrived at the meat counter, just as Turkey scored a late winner leading husband to cry out “No, not Turkey, not bloody Turkey, that’s just awful” Led from the supermarket we returned to our car, husband putting on the radio for the latest phone in, oblivious to the fact that we were now barred from one of three supermarkets in town, with two weeks of competition remaining it may be prudent to take lessons in self sufficiency.

Now here’s the real pre-menstrual beef, just occasionally some of this tournament football can be nearly exciting; a close finish, extra time in Mediterranean heat. Sweat soaked Latin bodies, the tension of the penalty shoot out, the passion of the winners, the broken men who lose, the damaged men who are sent from the field, the white knight goal scoring champion; all add to the occasion, and provide points of interest for the female viewer. It is at times of such tension that we are treated to the modern day curse of televised football, the inane commentator. TV and Radio both are pretty much the same. If it’s the radio, then its Alan Groanie, an Irishman whose brogue is in desperate need of resoling and reheeling. The man wavers between being on the edge of disaster or completely disinterested in what is going on in front of him, with no middle ground. There may be twenty two footballers out on the pitch trying their best for the country Groanie ignores their efforts and becomes preoccupied with the performance of the man in black. One of my favourite ways to kill an afternoon is to watch Test match cricket on the TV with the radio commentary on. Try this with football and Groanie and it is unclear as to whether he is watching the same match. Alan is always accompanied by an expert summariser; King of them all Chrissy Waddle, a man who spends his whole life living in the past tense. “ He’s came round the back to score” “He’s went and put the ball in the back of the net” He’d be a sure-fire hit on any show dealing with all things past –such as The Antiques Road Show, Time Team, or a DJ on Gold FM.
On the TV we are graced with not only the inane commentary but also the studio panel and presenter, with two channels showing games, each channel trying to outdo the other. On BBC we have the Lounge Lizard Lineker, coupled with Football’s Trinny and Sussanah, Hansen and Lawrenson. Good old British bulldog Alan Shearer, and the intellectual Irishman (Groanie take note) Martin O’Neil. Now this lot I can live with for fifteen minutes of half time, all have nice shirts have dispensed with ties and generally jolly each other along with 19th hole style joshing and chat. Its a mans’ world, that turns a blind eye to Alan Hansen’s extraordinary eye make up and his eye brows that a Brazilian ladyboy would die for; a myth enhanced by the fact that we never see his shoes. Over on the other channel the matters are given far more gravitas. Presenters wear ties and they have desks and pens, the estuarine chat of Andy Townsend “He’s done him early doors” coupled with the Oliver Reed of Football analysis Sam Allardyce, reveal little about the game. The shows creators have even gone as far as to slip Allardyce into Reed’s suit replete with genuine 1983 sambuka stains.
Cricket radio commentary is fantastic and knocks football's efforts at painting a picture for six; rarely is anyone allowed to get too full of themselves and rain or shine the day jollies along. TV commentary used to be the same, dear old Peter West, fresh in from a night out presenting Come Dancing, dozing on the sofa. Tony Lewis and Jim Laker prodding him awake to hand over to Richie Benaud and the scorer whose name bought sniggers to many a young cricket watcher Wendy Winbush. Richie didn’t say a lot, didn’t need to if he couldn’t add to the picture. Oh for the days of Slick Dickie Davis, Gerald Sinstadt, Brian Moore, the wonderfully cheesy ice commentary of Alan Weekes, the simply bonkers Murray Walker, or the all round exotic sporting knowledge of Frank Bough.

And so we dance on

2008-06-13T11:59:00.002+01:00

And so the dance continues, like two turkeys making out in the yard, he wobbling his wattle while I shake my tail feathers. Dances portraying tales of youthful ardour and lust, played out by a couple of middle aged hoofers stomping around the dance floor in their weekly attempt to rekindle a spark to a fire that is in grave danger of being doused.
We are still the oldest and wobbliest couple on the floor, Guido and Stephanie patience personified in their efforts to get us to glide rather than shuffle. But still we return, I for Guido’s firm grip, and he for Stephanie’s flirty manner. Laughing at his weak jokes and listening intently to all he has to stay, warning bells ring out loud to a spouse when ladies like Stephanie are in town. Warning bells that are soon drowned out by the soft whispered Latin instruction from Guido; like a Mediterranean Barry White, his tone like honey drizzled on my eardrum.
To date we have perfected the Paso – Ha! And moved onto the Jive. Lots of bouncing around kicking and flicking with the odd spin and throw. The knees of the forty year old professional footballer in waiting, a little short on spring and bounce, the creaking audible to all on the floor. Of course I am full of spring and bounce, it would take a Kevlar bra to keep these knockers under control, Guido particularly keen for me to practice my alternate flick kicks, while throwing the opposite arm back in turn.
On repatriation with husband we attempted the same manoeuvre to a faster beat, my husband struggling to keep the tempo felled a neighbouring dancer with his flying arm, the unfortunate lady falling to the floor blood pouring from her nose. Guido stopping the music as the stricken dance duo were led from the room for medical attention. Mortified by my husband’s inability to carry a tune, I let fly. Why did he always have to ruin anything I enjoyed doing? Why must he have such ungainly arms? What the hell was he doing with Stephanie in the pasodoble? Guido intervened, waving on the caretaker to mop the blood from the floor, and restarting the music for another attempt at the Jive. Husband and I were separated, he with the vivacious Stephanie I with the understanding Guido. Safely returned to the Latin Octopus, I hastily apologised for me husband’s behaviour, he obviously needed wing mirrors while negotiating the dance steps, he was a footballer not a dancer and was the same around the house. Guido suddenly emboldened with Latin thrust, informed me that he and Stephanie sensed that there were problems at home through the way we danced, the music reveals all, the dance cannot lie. Stephanie held classes on another night if I were interested, teaching the magic of the pole and the lure of the lap. Guido himself was happy to provide further instruction on a “ménage a trios” basis He and Stephanie could do alternate weeks if necessary. Stephanie and he had embraced the idea of an open marriage and were currently involved in something called “The lifestyle” which involved sexual relations in a hall of some sort in front of an audience to swing music? Or at least that’s how it sounded. I explained to Guido that while husband and I may be experiencing some difficulties, it was not something that would be solved by some group community sex project; we may be going through a rocky patch, but it was something that could easily be sorted out with a little more understanding from both sides, a move from the jive to the salsa and a few popped footballs.
Guido handed me back to husband, who full of the joys of the Jive informed me that, blood injuries are quite a common occurrence during the jive and that Stephanie had invited us both around to join her and Guido for an evening in the hot tub, apparently its great for creaky knees and could bring a whole load of bounce and drive back to our dance. With the memory of Guido’s invitation still fresh in my ear, and the vision of what Guido, Stephanie et al, may get up to in their hot tub clear in my mind. I grabbed husband with renewed vigour and verve, jiving his ass off for the rest of the session; a sensational display of dancing that sent a clear message to those who could read it, that there was still a little life left in this relationship for these champions of monogamy,

Eurovision Football Chumpionship

2008-06-05T15:08:00.002+01:00

This year we are again blessed with the biennial early summer football tournament; European Championship alternating with the World cup. Austria and Switzerland this year hosting Europe’s finest national football teams. This does not include any of the teams from these shores, so husband and son are at a loss as to what to do. There is the cricket to follow of course, but deep down in their psyche they will be aware of a fiesta of football going on somewhere in the world to which their team was not invited. I did suggest that as an alternative to their early summer football tournament they could get their Euro fix by joining me and a few of my friends at our annual Eurovision binge. Cheap fizzy wine, a wide selection of snacks, all armed with pads to score each act and come up with a winners for categories such as “most unusual shoes”, “person you would most like to be behind in a conga” and “ the performer who most resembles Carol Vorderman” - Lordi won this category hands down two years ago. Lots of fun and very silly, far too silly for husband who was quite vociferous in his protestations that as a leading European footballing nation it was a travesty that his side were not in the finals, one of my friends commented that she thought they had withdrew from the finals on principle like Italy had from Eurovision which proved to be the last straw for husband, stamping off to the local cricket club nets to throw cricket balls as hard as he can at our son’s head. This little scene introduced a new category to the evening, grabbing the European Championship guide from the day’s newspaper we decided to rate each footballing country’s chances of winning the European Chumpionship on their Eurovision performances to date and on the night.

Group A:

Czech Republic:
Unfancied and never won the competition, happy to participate in Eastern bloc voting scams but always the bridesmaid never the bride, not sure they do much singing in Czech Republic too busy playing football, husband would do well here.

Portugal:
Another team never to win Eurovision, Georgie thinks that they gave up a few years ago. Again, struggle to remember any catchy tunes from Portugal and they are good at football, is there a link? Good Football teams don’t come from Singing countries, take note Chris Waddle and Glenn Hoddle, “Darling I love you whhoooaaaaa”…………… Yes there are more bottles in the fridge.

Switzerland:
Joint hosts of the tournament, purveyors of fine chocolate and cuckoo clocks, makers of nice watches, don’t get too excited or agitated, what’s not to like? Well, their winner in 1988 Celine Dion for a start, but they are the country who gave us Eurovision and won the first one in 1958. Not too hot at Footie apparently so more evidence there then.

Turkey:
An emerging Footballing Nation and a disappearing Eurovision one. Went through a phase in the seventies and eighties of asking ageing ladies in black dress fresh from beating Olive trees with sticks to have a go at a tune. Not a successful ploy so they turned to Sertab Erener, oozing Mediterranean swarth with chest wig and twirly moustache. Coming up trumps with the title,”Everyway that I can” albeit singing in English.

Group B:

Austria:
Footballing co-hosts with the Swiss, a competent Footballing nation matched by their Eurovision pedigree. Their only Eurovision title in 1966, Udo Jurgens belting out “ Mercie Cherie” in leather shorts, backed by an Oompah band. Maya says that Udo went on to manage the Austrian football side, but she often talks bollocks after 9.00pm

Croatia:
Apparently another fine footballing side. They have an unusual checkerboard design on their shorts that unfortunately clashes with the colour of their socks. Conclusive proof that Good footballing nations can’t sing. Struggle in Eurovision but can take some credit for the 1989 Yugoslavian victory that has subsequently been claimed by the Serbs.

Germany:
More proof of the trend, one of the most successful footballing nations has only won Eurovision once, in 1982 on penalties. Germany have finished in second place in Eurovision more than any other country, a thoroughly efficient performance, Vor sprung der Technik as they say in….. Oh good grief it’s the adverts, more Fizz anyone?

Poland:
Never won Eurovision, never won the European championship, Hmmmm, we’ll ignore this one. Ginny says that Krakow is lovely for a weekend break; with no apparent talent for football or Euro-pop I can quite see the attraction.

Group C:

France:
Giants of the game, and possessor of some of the dreamiest footballers. They have won Eurovision title five times although the last time was in 1977. Get Thierry Henry playing his drums and the title will surely be their’s again. Football wise they haven’t got a hope, not if my theory is anything to go by.

Holland:
Fine painters and renowned producers of round cheese, but singers they ain’t. They have won the Eurovision title four times, three times in the sixties, and once in the seventies with a well sung song, by a well hung throng of polder people titled “Ding a Dong” Georgie’s advice? Stick to football. Reasonable success on the football field coinciding with their poor run on the Eurovision stage.

Italy:
Triumphed twice in Eurovision before quitting the scene in a fit of Latin pique at suspect voting patterns; which came as a huge surprise to the rest of Europe who recognised it as a particular Italian trait. Top footballers so I rest my case; although Pavarotti did play in goal.

Romania:
Another emerging Footballing nation, and disappearing Eurovison one. What more can I say? Case closed.... fetch me more snacks.

Group D:

Greece:
The exception that proves the rule. Winning the European Championship in 2004, instigating an influx of “cheap Greeks”to English Football, following up with the Eurovision title in 2005 courtesy of Paparizou. Their only position of any note and due in part to them hosting the Olympics in 2004, position of the stars, clouds on Mount Olympus and high spring tides in the Med, whatever, I’m sticking with my “successful footballing nations don’t win Eurovision theory”.

Russia:
The Great Bear, and newly appointed Eurovision Champions??????. Obviously some Oligarch has flashed his chequebook and bought the Eurovision title, as happened in the premiership for three years (husband is back, wants to have his say. Eurovision not funny, serious stuff……………….stop giggling Georgie)
Right he’s gone, last bottle of fizz? Okay lets toast the new Idol of the East – Russia’s newly crowned Euro king Dima Bilan; dodgy song, sung by a bit of a dish, apparently - Georgie’s got her beer goggles on. Russia average at Footie so the theorem is back on track

Spain:
Hitting a rich vein of Eurovision form in the sixties taking consecutive titles in sixty eight and sixty nine with the seminal “la la la” and “vivo Cantando” Spain followed it up with a string of second places in the seventies eighties and nineties; Perennial under achievers at major football tournaments. I rest my case.

Sweden:
Giants of the Eurovision scene, home of Eurovision royalty the mighty Abba and outright winners of the title four times spread over four decades. For a country whose population have a reputation for a lot of nudity they have produced some of the more tasteful costumes in recent years. Don’t think they play football, lot of ice in Sweden, probably better at Ice-skating, What, they do? thought he’d gone to bed. Apparently they have performed reasonably on the international football stage even getting to a world cup final, sometime in the Middle Ages.

Fizz, snacks and friends all gone; we have conclusively proved that the team who wins the European Championship will have a poor Eurovision pedigree. Ireland the country with seven Eurovision triumphs are already out, as are England with Five. France with five wins must be discounted as a serious footballing threat, along with Sweden and Holland, both four times winners of the Song Comp. Spain, Italy Switzerland, Austria and Germany have all struggled with singing competitively, as have Russia, Greece, Turkey so are in with a chance on the pitch. My tip for success would come from Croatia, Czech Republic and Romania, they obviously struggle to carry a tune, with their own interpretations of musicality and tunefulness. Football is obviously their thing, Come on Croatia!

Barbecue

2008-05-29T13:00:00.002+01:00

The sun shone for five minutes last week so husband declared it to be the barbecue season, inviting family and friends over for blackened burgers and charcoal chicken. His nibs takes charge of turning the meat, a task that instantly turns men into culinary experts. Declaring cooking to be an easy game that women manage to make look difficult, to which I reply that in medieval times the meat turner was a lowly position frequently filled by dwarves, eunuchs or both, so no change there then.

He will site the barbecue at the bottom of the garden and I will be left to fetch and carry from the kitchen food that I have spent several hours preparing; like a good captain he will not leave the bridge even when the ship/barbecue is sinking without trace.

This week it was a barbecue to take his mind off England’s non qualification for the impending European football championship and the Champions league final just past between Satan’s Chelsea and the Dark Lords Manchester United; love idols Liverpool having been eliminated by Beelzebub’s boys in the semis. Husband had come over all Midge Ure for much of the week Ultravox’s Vienna on repeat on his ipod belting out the line, “This means nothing to me, OOOOOOHHH Vienna” with particular gusto.

His mood finally lifted, thoughts turned to spoiling food with charcoal, he rang a few family and friends and invited them over for a barbecue. Just thirty plus people, entertaining and feeding guests is easy when you have got a barbecue, all you have to do is turn meat for an hour. The food will prepare itself, the magic house fairies will clean and tidy the house while the invisible garden nymphs will cut the grass, do the weeding and clean the barbecue up after his last attempt at mass poisoning al fresco.

The day dawned and for once we were blessed with reasonable weather, sporadic sunshine with a steady wind that would ensure we drew our neighbours ire with our wayward smoke.
Adorned in comedy apron, my husband, tongs at the ready, assumed his position by the barbecue and awaited service. As I began to shuttle various types of meat down the garden for execution, our guests began to arrive. First a family who mirror our own with children of the same sex and same age, a sport mad father and a sport weary mother. An elderly couple from up the road. My brother, his wife and two children ????????? Chelsea fans through and through whom my husband pored scorn on whenever their backs were turned (if there was a dodgy sausage going it would be pushed in their direction), Bloody Brandi, The people from the shop, and a quiet young couple who have just moved to the village.

The garden, brim full with guests quickly divided into two camps, ladies chatting idly on the patio, the men migrating to the barbecue to discuss the merits of various types of charcoal and barbecue design. One exception to the male female divide, botox Brandi. She had presented my husband with a Tampa Bay Rowdies baseball cap, which he had coupled with a twenty-year-old New York Mets Basketball shirt he had kept at the bottom of his drawer. My sister in law commenting that she didn’t know that Eminem was doing the cooking, my teenage nephew replying that it was only Uncle Knobhead and how long before they could go home.

Delivering the last plate of meat to its grizzly fate I picked up on a tense atmosphere around the crematorium; A beer fuelled discussion between husband and my brother about the reasons for England’s non qualification to the European championship had developed; there was some dispute about the best position to play Wayne Rooney, and the overall merits of Frank Lampard. To emphasize his point, husband had laid out the sausages in a four four two formation on the barbecue, Wayne Rooney was represented by a chicken drumstick and was required to play in “the hole” The sausage representing Frank Lampard had been fed to the dog. My brother, Chelsea through and through, and keen to defend Lampard’s honour and avenge his canine demise, had responded with an offer to position the Wayne Rooney drumstick in another hole altogether and made the faux pas of trying to move meat on another man’s barbie. Fearing a threat to his masculine meat filled domain, my husband had responded with raised tongs, managing to tweak my brother’s nose as he bore down on the grill of doom and the drumstick called Rooney. My brother cried out in pain, the nephews joining the fray with some street talk about Uncle Knobhead dissing Frank,and his bros hoes moes toes, or something like that before being dragged away by their mortified mother. Brandi leapt to my husband’s defence like a WCW wrestler, throwing plastic chairs from her path before standing between the two barbecue gladiators like Xena Warrior princess hands on hips. Proclamations about land of the free and various constitutions followed, before my husband’s culinary skills came to the rescue taking the wind out of the sails of the main protagonists. The best Generals talk of armies marching and fighting on their on its stomachs, and men having the stomach for battle; when the stomach don’t like it they don’t fight. As the initial effects of ingesting undercooked food began to take effect the fight drained from all involved. My brother the first to respond, forgetting his tweaked proboscis and Lampard’s name being taken in vain to make a dash for the loo. All present in the queue outside the bathroom in common agreement that they would never eat food served from my husband’s barbecue again, despite his explanation that John Terry Rio Ferdinand and Ashley Cole may have been a little underdone but there had been nothing wrong with any of the meat from the midfield, front line or substitutes.

Born in the USA

2008-05-25T21:44:00.001+01:00

So, Brandi came round for “kawfee”, and deep deep joy, she likes football or soccer as she insists on calling it. Apparently she played to quite a high level in the States; goodness knows how, what with all the surgery she has had something must have been in danger of dropping off or slipping substantially when she gunned around the pitch. Husband was enraptured with Brandi’s tales of soccer in the good old Yoo Ess of Aye, couldn’t take his eye off her incredibly well supported chest. I am still not sure about the right nipple, it seems to be in a different position from when I last saw her at the cricket match, maybe once you pass a certain number of pump ups and lifts and the original nipple has become hopelessly disorientated you are awarded with a packet of stick on nipples as substitutes for the original, that is now, like a tiring footballer, hopelessly out of position. Apparently at the age of sixteen Brandi had been a junior cheerleader for the Tampa Bay Rowdies, an American soccer team who snapped up fading footballers from around the globe to come and play in their “world league” that consisted of American teams only. Brandi had first hand experience of Rodney Marsh, and produced a dubious looking photograph of her at sixteen sitting on the knee of the slightly sozzled former England striker. She had also met Pele at a party but had lost the picture, along with a box of matches signed by George Best. Brandi went on to give a demonstration of her teenage Cheerleader routine in the front garden before she left; my husband complimenting her on her suppleness, my mouth gaping at the sight of a forty something pneumatic Yankee cheerleader high kicking her way around our garden in a t-shirt two sizes to small, and tight gold shorts. Throughout the strenuous routine her chest moved not one inch, the closing number of bending over looking through her legs, gilded butt high and proud while shaking two t- towels that were doubling for pom poms drawing audible gasps from the folk leaving the church.
Now if I had performed in such a manner in front of our Christian neighbours my husband would have been in a fine bate, the family name would be scarred and embarrassment and scorn would surely pour down on this household, not to mention the fact that my chest would have been swinging left, right and up and over my shoulders. My son would have dodged inside, and I would be up before the beak to explain my bizarre behaviour.
Brandi’s performance drew applause, an affectionate squeeze from husband and an invitation to pop in any time. Brandi departing down the road with her adolescent chant,

“Hi there y’all we’d like to say howdee
We’re the soccer team called the Tampa Bay Rowdies
You want some action give us a call
We’re demon bitches when given a ball
Run down the right run down the left
One of our dudes will sure find the net
Come on y’ all sing it louder
Two four six eight come on the Rowdies.
Yeah! (Shake pom poms vigorously above head while pushing fake tits out)

“She is such fun”

Said my husband, retrieving the t-towels from the pampas grass and going inside. Quietly seething at this west coast harlot, I came up with a few other surgically enhanced irritants and moulded them into a football team.
First choice goalkeeper Dolly Parton, she would certainly fill the top half of the net but may be vulnerable to shots along the ground. A pair of unusual looking full backs who happen to be siblings, it’s a toss up between the Neville brothers from the North, or two from Michael, La Toya and Janet Jackson. In the centre of defence I would pair a couple of spice girls, LA based soccer mom Victoria Beckham and flame haired Geri Haliwell. The midfield engine room would be filled with the surgically and chemically improved MrTerminator and Rocky, messrs Schwarzinegger and Stallone flanked by Joan Collins and Linda Evans who must have had something done by now. Long John Silver himself – John Wayne Bobbit would provide added inches in attack, alongside John Merrick, who despite a successful career in the circus must be cursing his luck at being born one hundred years too early for the current surgical improvement fad. Sven Goran Errikson would manage (the man is too vain not to have had something tweaked) with Cherie Blair as assistant (when surgery goes bad); Mr DIY - Vincent Van Gogh would provide all round cover from the bench. A phalanx of medicos required to keep the team in one piece, and clear up the puddles of weeping botox and collagen alongside an army of psychotherapists to provide succour when their performance or appearance is not one hundred percent perfect.There that’s got that off my chest, which may not be the pair of perfect grapefruits that someone has stuck on the front of Brandi, but is all my own and am perfectly happy with.

Cricket

2008-05-15T12:54:00.003+01:00

At this time of the year, our family is blessed with the pursuit of dual sports as the death throes of the football season overlap with the genesis of the cricket season. While I don’t get Football and all who sail in her, I do find cricket mildly enthralling. It is played by nicer people who behave nicely, at a nicer pace with nice white summer outfits, which would hang far better if made from Linen. It is one sport where my husband and son can take the field together, leaving me with the day; as long as I look like I am paying attention from some part of the boundary, they will be happy. Questions at the end of the game about a particular passage of play can be awkward, but talked around.

Each year we have a day at the Test match and a few days at our local county ground. Unlike the dreaded football, the players are incredibly accessible, it is possible to watch them warming up for the game from only a few yards away. I can confirm that Andrew Flintoff is a greek god, Shane Warne slightly sleazy, and that Dimitri Mascarenas has the twinkliest of eyes. I have fluttered my eyelids at Mark Ramprakash from only a few feet away, who asked me if I was suffering from hay fever, and brushed against Kevin Pietersen as he moved from the Nursery ground to the pavilion at Lords. Of course all of this close contact with sporting superstars leaves my husband and son starry eyed. My husband particularly conspicuous amongst a group of twelve year olds asking for their mini bats to be autographed. One year at Lords, my husband managed to have a particular impact on the days play. As usual my husband and son had devoured the statistics in the match programme, we had moved to the area where the players move from the nursery ground nets back to the pavilion. England were mid innings overnight and looking to set the opposition a target for later in the day. One particular England batsman was 92 not out overnight and was making his way back to the pavilion after a short time in the nets to prepare to continue his innings at the start of the days play. My husband and son were in position, and as the batsman in question passed by my husband burst out

“Oy ******, no way are you 5ft 10in tall, like it says in the programme, I’m 5ft 9in and you’re shorter than me.”

****** turned on his heel and scuttled off to the dressing room. Emerging half an hour later to bat, in what can only be described as a pair of cricketing Cuban heels, needless to say he was run out in the first over as he struggled to make the crease in his newly improvised footwear; England collapsing and losing the game the next morning.

At the moment my husband and son play for something like the third or fourth team of our local village club. I will happily watch the game all afternoon, sitting in the sun happy with my own company or chatting lazily to wives, girlfriends or people dropping in. I can read a book or a paper. Check out the young buck who has just been asked to field in front of me, and who’s well muscled profile I must look past to dutifully watch my husband’s attempts at the game. There is nowhere to plug an iron or a vacuum cleaner in, and no meals to be cooked, cricket being a civilised game where food is provided at tea.
This week I was sat on a bench among half a dozen of the regular watchers loosely strung out around the boundary, when Brandi an American divorcee, who has just moved into the village, passed the ground, saw me sitting alone and came over to say hello. In her view, as an abandoned woman, (albeit an incredibly well rewarded one) lone girls should stick together and seeing me there on my own she could feel my need for company. My attempts to explain that I was more than happy on my own, fell on very deaf ears; something that I found rather surprising, Brandi being a devotee of the cosmetic surgeons knife had undergone extensive work on many parts of her body, had recently spent a five figure sum on new ears and they didn’t seem to work at all well. She also has a very stretched forehead, Cherie Blair smile, and a nipple showing through her blouse that seemed to be a long way away from where it should be. All of these thoughts I kept to myself as Brandi returned from a brief visit to the pavilion. A cry from the middle as a wicket fell distracting her from resuming her verbal onslaught. As the dismissed batsman came back to the pavilion, Brandi exclaimed loudly,

“ Gee Honey, that guy over there in the shed was talking about a problem with no balls, look at the unit on that guy with the bat, he is packing some meat! what a swell set of balls!”

The elderly major sat on the neighbouring bench, coughed and spluttered, the self conscious batsman scuttling into the pavilion as the girlfriend of the dismissed batsman, who also happened to work in the village butchers, shouted across the field

“Oy Joelene, keep your eyes off. Any meat he packs at the weekend is for me, and me only”

Brandi sat back down, and after I explained that the batsmen wore a form of codpiece while batting, she continued to talk at me for the remainder of the game; mostly about medical issues with the occasional shout of encouragement at inappropriate moments. My peace shattered I was in a fairly foul temper by the close of play, my mood not enhanced by my buoyant husband whose team had won, exclaiming,

“That new girl Brandi is a great laugh isn’t she? I saw you two chatting. She seemed to enjoy the match; she’s popping by tomorrow for coffee so I can explain the game in greater detail. “

Food glorious food

2008-05-06T13:37:00.002+01:00

For years and years, women were bombarded with various diets that promised to slim hips, lift breasts, tighten buttocks, flatten tummies, improve skin, lift your mood and make you’re husband see you in a new light. Low fat and high fat diets, low carbs, low GI, the murderous Dr Atkins, and the vegan way, although with the current concern about the amount of methane produced by man and animals, this must surely soon be discounted.

For years these dietary fads were the domain of the Females of the house. The Males nutritionally unaware, blind to the rigors of calorie counting. Men and boys ate what they wanted when they wanted while we quietly sucked on a Ryveta, insisting that it really was lovely and no they didn’t want any of their chips.

Over the past two decades, professional football teams have started to take their nutrition seriously. This first came to my husband’s attention on FA Cup final day. On this terribly tedious annual event, the build up to the game would begin at ten o’clock in the morning; two camera crews were detailed to follow each team throughout their preparations for the big match. On this occasion, Love idols Liverpool were in the final, my suitably nervous and twitchy husband leaping from his chair, at the sight of the Liverpool team sitting down to lunch, to berate the TV,

“Graeme Souness, eating poncy pasta? …….You need meat man, meat!, we’ve had it, what chance have we got, somebody get him a bloody steak and chips!”

His team went on to win, my husband at first attributing the victory to a fan slipping Souness a cheeky burger, but slowly accepting that there may be something in this nutrition lark. A moment of awakening for my particular hunter gatherer, but
over time more and more men have migrated towards the stove, and I can only attribute this to the increasing number of foreign footballers in the English leagues, particularly French, Italian and Spanish.

Now if some young French thruster took over my kitchen I would listen intently at what he had to say about cooking. If the kitchen interloper were Italian I would also be suitably agog although I would keep half an eye on what he was doing with his hands. If the new chef were Spanish, oil would be drizzled and garlic crushed passionately in the heady ambience that would prevail.

Unfortunately my kitchen intruders are my husband and son. Five minutes of Jamie Oliver and a print off of one of Rafa Benitez’s dietary sheets and they are culinary kings. Any food I prepare is now open to analysis and criticism, with comment on carbohydrate, sugars, fats and the type of protein they have been given, all of which are completely wrong! Just over a year ago, my husband’s newfound interest in nutrition peaked with a week of culinary experimentation. Looking on a web site that showed the nutritional analysis of various types of fish food -yes fish food! He took over the kitchen with a proclamation that we would now be getting our protein from sustainable sources. Sand eels were not a sustainable source of protein and as a result we would now be extracting our protein from feathers, as many fish feed producers were now attempting to do. This involved emptying the contents of a pillow into several saucepans boiling them up for several hours, before using the residue as a base for the most disgusting broth I have ever tasted. I stuck it for two days before reaching breaking point, informing him that I had never cooked him sand eels in all our married life, and coupled with his high-fibre bran and cardboard breakfast regime, the children were beginning to look increasingly egg bound; food should be enjoyed not endured!
Undeterred he continued with his governance of the kitchen zone, dictating the menu for the following few days; Gordon Ramsay had played football and crossed over into the kitchen, so it was definitely going to be an option for him.

The range of food became ever more bizarre, Pre match day, we were treated to what he proclaimed as his “signature dish” –Lasagne. On first inspection it looked reasonably edible, but on tasting proved to have been made with the mincemeat more suited to mince pies than the minced meat used in the classic Italian dish. Unable to find truffle oil in Thorntons or Hotel Chocolate, he instead used melted champagne truffles in at least two pasta dishes, one of which had daffodil bulbs on as substitute for onions. We had an exotic duck dish, where the bird was slowly braised for a day in orange squash, followed by a ten minute discourse on the secrets of making the perfect Apple crumble, the dish itself, a triumph, if the mixed spice or cinnamon stated in the recipe, had not been substituted for Garam Masala. We ate the pudding, my husband insisting, “a spice is a spice, is a spice”, while my daughter and I muttered quietly about fruit fools and counted our blessing that he had not used his “Old Spice aftershave”

Since that week, the process of feeding the family has generally fallen back within my remit. Of course there is much comment about what is served up, it is never completely right, something will be out of balance, or I could have cooked something differently. However, the plates do come back empty, and we are all still alive, something that I would consider a major achievement if my husband were ever to take over in the kitchen again.

Busted!

2008-04-30T13:12:00.003+01:00

So this is what you been up to on your lap top, this is the reason for the inward smile, and the defiant stare, not to mention the finger pointing and sniggering I currently endure on my tours of the Parish. Well Mrs Smarty-Pants Soccermom, I’m gonna be doin a little bit of telling it like it is! First up, for someone so smart, if you want to keep this kind of thing to yourself don’t click the “remember my password” box…......... .........or did you do that on purpose? ...........….Hmmm .........
Stop Stop! There you go again, filling my head up with self-doubt. You’re all the same you ladies, you say one thing but mean the opposite. You tick a box, but should it be ticked or not? Oh good grief what am I saying? Look I haven’t been snooping; I went to close your laptop, moved the mouse and discovered you had not shut down correctly. Your soccermom “thing” was still displayed on the screen and I was drawn in; believe it or not, it’s the truth.

But as I’m here there are a few things that I would like to pick you up on. Firstly Dancing is not a sport, and Football is. It also happens to be very popular with a huge proportion of the Earth’s population and, surprisingly enough, is even played by ladies in some parts, although that does take some getting used to.

My involvement in football is not something that is negotiable. Both our son and I (and you and our daughter if the truth be known) get an awful lot out of playing and watching the game, it may make us come across a little one dimensional at times, but there you go, we are a simple sex, where yes means yes, and no means no.

The vast majority of our actions are well intentioned, any mishaps that may occur entirely due to getting caught up in the moment, or being too tired to think; wearing football boots around the house is a genuine oversight and not some anti female conspiracy cooked up as part of a football fathwa.

It is a simple black and white world for the footballing male, sometimes with your efforts to introduce your “shades of grey” you try and make us into something we are not, or are ever likely to be. Yes, I like a dance, a gentle jig with some waving of hands is fine now and then, but I am never going to be Anton Dubeck. Neither am I ever going to be that Scottish man on Dragons Den that you keep pointing out to me. I don’t have his ambition, ruthlessness or Scottish accent and never will, despite the huge heaps of turnips you pile on my plate, followed by a grilled Mars bar (just because you grill it rather than deep fry it, doesn’t make it a healthier option). I thought we had learnt our lesson from that disastrous six-month attempt to turn me into some Tom Selleck clone. I am what I am, and am determined to stay that way. I like my tea from Yorkshire free from any witchcraft or infusion. My tuna, I like in tins from Tesco, not fresh and cooked on something we used to know as a sandwich toaster plugged by some American ex boxer.
I will always go to bed on a pickled Onion, they do count as one of your “five a day” despite your insitence otherwise, as does a large glass of red wine.

I do take an interest in the garden, one of the chief worries of the forty something male is his lawn, and is a popular topic of conversation during the football close season. I am not the only male who cuts the grass in only his dressing gown, and neither am I the only forty something who goes to the shop in his slippers.

I don’t like American TV comedy, nothing can hold a candle to Porridge , Rising Damp or Ken Dodd, and neither do I see the point of films that make you cry. I do like films that are true stories and feature submarines somewhere in the plot, and "The Guns of Navarone"

I don't need "Healing" mentally or physically by some new age mystic, neither am I "damaged goods" in need of some form of psychobabble from an earnest young man on a sofa.
I am full to the brim spiritually with my weekly dose of "Songs of Praise" and the only inner soul that I feel a need to get in touch with are the odour-eaters that you keep putting in my trainers. I can't talk to trees or give them a hug, I can however, appreciate a well grown Leek.

I will never buy a candle that smells, or order something from a catalogue that I don’t particularly want. I don’t like to talk for the sake of talking, especially during sport shown on the TV, and will not wear shoes that are very shiny, very long and very pointy. I will not pay for a haircut, and am happy to wear clothes that I have had for many years. I am comfortably understated and always will be.

I do like football, I do like Cricket, I do like Gherkins, and pickles in general, but can appreciate the need to moderate my intake. I do like your support when we go to a match, and your inane comments about the game going on in front of you or sometimes behind you. I do like that the fact that you keep trying to get us to do new things and despite obviously finding me very trying continue to try. I don’t like it when you wear my football tops in bed, snuggling up to someone with Gerrard written across their back gives me strange “male dominated” dreams often ending with a nightmare scene in the shower. I much prefer snuggling up to you wearing far less and am willing to try and talk like Anton Dubeck or affect a Scottish accent, but not to go down the Tom Selleck route again.
We are both very different. Sometimes your way is right, sometimes my way is right, it would be very "Howard and Hilda" if we agreed on every single thing

Shall we dance?

2008-04-29T13:28:00.003+01:00

As I mentioned several weeks ago, I have booked myself and himself onto a course of Latin American dance. Held in a college hall of our local town, a small group of us are treated to wise counsel in all things Latin American, by tight trousered Guido, and his “tits and teeth” wife Stephanie. Now I have not been to a dance class since primary school, where I was mentally scarred when asked to portray a dancing light bulb in some bonkers amateurish production dreamt up by the loon of a teacher who happened to be taking the class.
I love to dance, and will willingly dance with anything that moves at parties, sometimes even my husband. Although the period when he is actually able to dance sensibly is all too brief, and is closely linked to the speed at which he is chucking wine down his neck, moving from a sober measured shuffling, to a slightly tipsy gentle shaking; a short five minute period where I think we may be getting somewhere follows, which is quickly overtaken by leery arm waving, an unbuttoning of the shirt and a fixed gaze at the nearest cleavage that happens to be on show. This lasts for roughly an hour before he announces that it is time for us to go home. I reply that I will be over after one more song and direct him to the nearest comfy chair where he will be fast asleep within a minute with his head rested up against one of the DJ’s speakers. I continue to dance well into the night, with whomever I want before carting him home.

It was with some form of marital reconciliation in mind that I had booked us onto this course of lessons; a shared interest, nothing to do with sport, an activity in which we would have to make physical contact with one another, and one that would keep us fit.
Husband was gently informed that trainers and football shirts were not suitable for dance, he must wear shoes that slide, and a shirt slashed partly to the navel. I would be wearing heels, an irksome item for Sir as they make me ever so slightly taller than him, tight black trousers and a flame red frilly open blouse revealing an eye-popping décolletage.

Arriving early, we crossed the road to a pub, where, despite being sited in such a hot bed of the dance world, where thirsty hoofers popping over for a pre dance livener must be a common sight, we drew admiring glances from all at the bar. After preventing my husband from making a getaway through the toilet window we crossed back to the college hall, to find the rest of the class already in place. Guido stunning in shiny black, Stephanie a vision in Fuchsia; the remainder of the class drab in sports gear, and at least ten years younger than ourselves, one way or another we were going to make an impression on this lot.
Today we were to start the Pasodoble, a lot slower than originally intended, but nevertheless a pucker pasodoble. Guido and Stephanie guided us through the steps, and then set us off to music. My husband was getting quite carried away by it all, the technicalities of the dance, the positioning of the feet, hands and back, the careful movement across the floor, it all had something of the dreaded football about it. After a short while Guido and Stephanie, who had been working with each couple, moved in our direction and started to add a little polish to our performance. Guido took me in his arms and began to take me through the next few steps of the piece, holding me close and tight with his leg thrust through my thighs, I could feel my performance reaching a crescendo, when a huge crash behind my head broke my Guido induced trance. All eyes in the room fell upon my husband grappling with Stephanie, as a defender would a striker at a corner, a lighting unit lay smashed on the ground, and my husband, stunned by the focus of attention meekly mouthing “I was never any good at twirling capes” Grabbing my bag and apologising to Guido we hastily left the room to start an argument in the car.
My husband explained that Stephanie had whispered in his ear something about being hung like a bull, and suggested he have a go at some teasing and twirling with the cape. He had backed away to do some solo cape twirling and taken out a lighting rig, all at Stephanie’s suggestion. Of course I didn’t believe him and accused him of not trying, he replied that dancing was for girls and if he wanted to do sport he would stick to football and cricket, and so it went on, finally resorting to a tis, tisn’t debate over whether dancing is a sport or not. As he ranted on, I drifted away at the wheel, fighting back mentally as I selected a football team entirely made up of dancers, who would beat any team he could put out on a football field. In goal I immediately selected Rudolph Nureyev, a man who could leap the width of the goal and tip the ball over with the greatest of elegance. The entire defensive line would be made up by the cast of Riverdance, linked at the arms kicking and flicking at any ball or player that came close to the eighteen-yard box. In central midfield I would couple the experience of Bruce Forsyth with high kicking Rosemary Ford. Babs from Pans People could do her best on the left of midfield and may even cause the opposition trouble with some unexpected moves that no one would see coming. The Christiano Ronaldo role on the right would be filled by the Lord of the Dance himself, and possible Lord of the stepover– Michael Flatley; while the striking partnership of Ricky Gervais in his MC Hammer role and bad boy Brendan Cole, would give any defence problems. Fabio Capello look-alike - Lionel Blair would manage the side, Angela Rippon as assistant, Anton Dubeck would provide emergency back up on the bench, alongside the boogey babies. I would be Chief Executive with Irene Cara as my technical director. Side selected, my husbands rage had moved away from football, and was directed at what he called the smug grin on my face, putting it down to Guido being a little too “hands on” during the Paso.

The Reiki referee

2008-04-22T12:48:00.002+01:00

A few weeks ago, my son’s team were drawn to play a cup game against a team from another league in a distant part of the county. They had never before played against this side, let alone visited the ground. This of course throws up all manner of new obstacles to be surmounted by my son and husband. Endless nights worrying about the colour of the opposition’s strip, what formation they are likely to play and on what standard of pitch. Several hours of searching the internet will throw up a series of past results, these will be printed off, and the two of them will pore over the stats like two old crones reading runes, in an attempt to second guess the quality of the team they are about to face. On the night before the game the standard routine of counting carbs and the correct hours of sleep was undertaken and a detailed plan of how to get to the ground, integrated with contingencies covering everything from road works to meteor strike en route.

Meeting the rest of the team, at the appointed hour before the birds are up, we followed a very straight road half way across the county for twenty five minutes, eventually taking one left turn to arrive at the ground several hours before the opposition.

After an hour or so, the home team began to arrive, and searching the faces for a kindred soul who may share my disinterest in football, I recognised one of the Dads entering the changing rooms, a tall thin man, full head of hair and possibly a little older than me. My thoughts invaded by my anxious husband banging on the car window shouting “I’ve forgotten the bloody cones” Climbing out of the car, I berated my stupid husband, who was by this time doing little hopping movements from foot to foot, and suggested that he would have to use the items in the boot that we were going to recycle on the way home. Realising he had no choice, he set off to warm up his charges in squares and oblongs set out with plastic margarine tubs, various wine bottles and cereal packets; The opposition groundsman, charging across from his shed to give him a lecture on litter and the youth of today.

Eventually the teams lined up for kick off, and I noticed that the man who I had earlier recognised was refereeing the match. And in a flash it came to me, the way he seemed to glide across the ground, the bringing together of his hands after every decision made, the all round peacable air that he bought to the game of football, this man was a Reiki man. Many years ago, during what my husband witheringly terms "my second new age phase rising" , I had attended a Reiki class in a nearby town. This man was the Reiki master - third dan no less, and what an effect he had on this game of football.

Reiki is touted as the simplest form of natural healing, positive energy is transmitted through the hands, and simply by shaking hands with each player and parent before the game he bought every person there into his Reiki bubble. Not one decision was questioned, or hardly a foul commited. He moved among the players, oozing positive universal life energy, spreading his divine wisdom and instilling the virtues of the five principles of Reiki, which from memory are, Don’t get cross, don’t worry, don’t tell lies, count your blessings and be kind to every creature (except spiders and crabs) The game moved serenely through to half time with no goals, hardly a tackle, and very little for any one to take issue with or comment on.

My husband, much to his later embarrassment, had been completely initiated by the referee, and instead of a half time team talk was informing his team of the need for each and everyone of them to find their own unique vibrational tone, by humming loudly, and to put their shorts on inside out to try and bring some balance to their Chakras.

The second half continued in much the same vein as the first. The opposition goalkeeper fell to the ground as he walked into the goal post in a daze, only to be swiftly resurrected after some skilful laying on of hands by the Reiki master. The game progressed with very little action, every tackle was met with the shaking of hands, every shot or save with a pat on the back; the referee reinforcing the harmony with regular clasps of his hands. With two minutes to go, and with neither my husband or his team seemingly bothered about the result, the game took a dramatic turn. Suddenly the opposition were charging up the pitch with the ball, full of intent and aggression. A ball crossed into the box was met by my son, who, with a head full of all things Reiki laid his hands on the ball; The ref who seemed to have lost his ability to glide and also a little of his serenity pointing to the spot. Step up opposition striker to blast the ball past our blissed out keeper and secure a place in the next round of the cup for his team. My son’s side, still deeply relaxed, full of inner peace and keen to please, allowing them to score twice more in the remaining minute.

The Full time whistle blew and by this time my husband had snapped out of his trance and was making his way over to the referee, with accusations ranging from witchcraft to smouldering herbal corner flags. The Reiki master, composure regained, held my husband’s gaze, laid his hands on his shoulders and proceeded to teach him of the importance of the various Chakras. He was a Reiki Master and was able to identify various Chakras that may be out of balance within an individual. On shaking hands at the start of the match it was apparent to him that my husband had two unbalanced Chakras, the first was in his kidney, indicating that he had a lot of pent up anger and frustration, the second was in his buttocks, soft buttocks indicating a tendancy to become powerless in certain situations, he was not sure if this refered to his private life or his football team, but felt that my husband’s team would never get to the cup final if he didn’t sort his Chakras out. My husband at this point boiled over, informing the Reiki master that for a party trick he was able to crack Walnuts in his buttocks, and that if the two teams ever met on a football pitch again, his side would be wearing plastic gloves. Turning on his heel and climbing into the car, pausing on his way out of the car park to tip all our items for recycling through the window of the Reiki Master’s Rolls Royce.

Mama Mia

2008-04-18T13:34:00.008+01:00

One of the definite plus points of having to endure so many boys' football matches, is the chance to catch up with various other mums and friends who share a complete lack of interest in the game being played out in front of them. Often there will be a chatter of six or more of us, ignoring the action and enjoying the safety of numbers when asked the score - one of us is sure to get somewhere close.

On occasion, often when playing away from home, you can find yourself a lone female presence. If the ref is not much to look at I will often lose myself in my mp3, and my old friends Agnetha, Benny, Bjorn and Anni Frid, the mighty Abba. I have been a fan all of my life, have every song they recorded, have seen the musical – Mama Mia many times and have let myself down disgracefully at several “Bjorn Again” concerts over the years. Rumours of a reformation abound, if any of them can’t make it, give me a call. I could fill in for any one of the four.

It was while watching a particularly dull match in some far-flung part of the county, lost once more in my lone Swedish Odyssey, that I began to set out the game being played in front of me to Abba’s music, my own Matcha Mia.

It started with a goal being scored to the sounds of SOS, the goalkeeper left exposed by his defenders just as Agnetha was belting out the line “now you’re gone, how can I even try to go on?” The striker’s celebration played out to the tune of Lay all your love on me
Shortly afterwards, my son’s team almost equalised, the ref singing in his testosterone fuelled baritone Take a chance on me as he turned down the defender’s appeal for offside.

Half time and contrasting team talks from the respective coaches, the home team coach serenading his leading team with I have a dream the away team coach plaintively soothing his side with The Winner takes it all before realising that the softly softly approach was not working, switching to one of the Swedish greats more upbeat numbers Under Attack
The second half resumes with a rendition of Knowing me Knowing you by both teams, before the game/musical builds to a finish. Star opposition striker, strides down the wing with some fancy moves to the sounds of Dancing Queen telegraphs a pass to his fellow player to Ring Ring who is felled by a defender on the edge of the box singing Fernando Lots of pushing and shoving by a melee of players harmonising Does your Mother Know, before the ref steps in with a soothing rendition of When all is said and done and theatrically awards a free kick. Lots of debate as to who should take the free kick by a trio of players singing Gimme Gimme Gimme before the keeper saves the free kick while singing a Castrato version of Super Trouper.

The drama moves to the touchline and takes a dramatic twist. One of the parents, angry at the ineptitude of the olive skinned boy who conceded the free kick, questions the boy’s parentage, berating his Ginger haired Father while singing The day before you came. The flame haired father replying with Knowing me knowing you, before revealing that he may be the father of the irate father’s Dancing Queen son, following a dalliance with the man’s wife who works at the local school; instigating a moving solo of When I kiss the teacher. Both men coming together for a show stopping touchline version of One of us, before the ref calls time on the game and brings the house down with a storming version of That’s the name of the Game.

Lots of clapping, an encore by whole cast/ teams who come out to perform a boogie version of Honey Honey, with lots of wiggling and wriggling; followed up with a barnstorming version of Thank you for the music

I then come on to further applause to receive flowers from suitably tanned, toned and muscled males in swimwear, and give my own special version of Eagle …….….

What! What! “I can’t hear you with these ear plugs in”

“You won? That’s great”

“You scored? That’s great”

“We can go home? That’s great”

Vive le France

2008-04-13T21:05:00.001+01:00

The Easter break, no boys football arranged, the cricket season not yet begun, so as we have done for the past few years it is off to France for our “summer” holiday. Not for us the decadence of a day by the pool, sangria in hand, flicking through a magazine while gazing idly through shaded eyes at any passing Greek god. No, wellies must be packed, anoraks ironed, and bodies braced for a week’s fishing in some remote part of the continent. Days of driving to some far-flung outpost, where Madame evolution has only recently dished out the thumbs. Paris, Bordeaux, Biarritz or St Tropez, all have bits of water that he could sit beside as he attempts to redefine his hunter gatherer role as supposed head of the family, but we have to end up in some godforsaken mud puddle light years from civilisation.

One blessing is the football free environment that presides for the best part of a week. After four to five days we are usually back on speaking terms and there is an essence of a spark about to be rekindled, which is normally safely extinguished by the six hundred mile drive home.

This year, despite rigorous planning, disaster struck. The second leg of the chumpions league game between his love idols Liverpool and Satan’s Chelsea fell during our week away. All avenues of viewing the game where explored, including a preposterous attempt to fix the sky dish to his fishing umbrella, before it became apparent that his only method of keeping in touch with the progress of his team was via mobile phone.

The day of the match dawned, the signal to his mobile disappearing when I accidentally dropped the phone in the lake, and suggested we could perhaps spend the evening at home together, instigating panic and mayhem not seen since the opening of Primark in Oxford Street.

Under a black cloud we stopped at the small local supermarket on our way back from the lake. A rage developed over the absence of marmite from the shelves, leading him to call into question the French and their opinions about food, finally haranguing the lady at the checkout in staccato English, as to the location of a local bar with the Canal sports channel on which he could see his match. The lady in question smiling, and scribbling on the back of the receipt a small map with directions to what look liked an out of town bar.

Placated by the hope of seeing the game, my husband’s mood lightened, leaving the shop with a cheery “bonjour” we headed for home to don his football shirt and lucky shoes. Full of Bon homme he waxed lyrical about the entente de cordial, as I drove us to the bar. The directions were superb, my husband insisting that the bar was near an ICI plant, until I assured him that it was the French word ici and that the bar was in fact a truck stop in the middle of nowhere.

We entered the bar, and I was surprised and delighted to find a beautiful room, with dance floor, glitter ball and superb quality soft furnishings. Most of the inhabitants were male, well turned out, as most French men seem to be, and indulging in polite conversation with the occasional display of affection. My husband sought out a seat in front of the television, while I headed to the bar to get drinks. The bar man was a dish! manicured hands, tight shirt, jeans and thick wavy hair, not at all like the florid faced French fishermen I had been stuck with all week. As he complimented me on my hair, I swooned and struck up an instant rapport, only to be forced away from our conversation by my impatient husband seeking out his beer. He was a little concerned that the Canal Sports channel was not on the television yet, especially as kick off was only five minutes away. He was receiving attention from several of the men, who, he assumed were also interested in seeing the game but also kept asking him questions in French about Lorraine Kelly. The darling barman informed my husband that the match would not be shown tonight, instigating a resumption of his earlier supermarket assessment of the French character, peaking with a tirade against French football: they who were not fit to lick the boots of legendary Liverpudlians such as Fernando Torres, Sammy Hypia and Pepe Reina (when your every room has a poster of the entire squad you tend to remember a few names).

The barman informed us that this was not a sports bar, apologised for our wasted journey, and suggested that when we had asked for directions to a bar with Canal Sports, the lady had not heard him pronounce the letter C; my husband red faced and gasping, charged out to the car.

Unwilling to insult our charming hosts I stayed on for a few turns around the dance floor, choosing to leave when the shapes the chaps were throwing became decidedly less non-contact. Returning to the car after a thoroughly French night out, to find my husband asleep, mumbling about marmite, gay trucker bars and Lorraine Kelly.

40

2008-03-26T21:21:00.006Z

This past week, both I, and my hapless husband have turned forty. We had known it was coming for some while. Since his mid thirties my husband has shown periods of despair over the passing of time. Players on the television aged thirty and above are often described as veterans and as coming to the end of their careers, allowances are made for their tired legs, and the counter argument of experience being a vital component of every successful side fades when another puffed out thirty plusser has to leave the field prematurely; my husband shrinking further into his chair as another “glass half empty” mood develops. In a brief moment of reconciliation and understanding I reassure him that it’s never to late, and there is a team out there on the lookout for someone of his size, shape, speed and skill level. Realistically its never going to happen, and the sooner he grows out of this ridiculous idea that someone is going to pay him to play football the better.
Myself? I have been coming to terms with this “advancing years” thing since my late twenties. An ever increasing need to seek support for various parts of my body. A chest of drawers full of various bits of underwear that promise higher buttocks and breasts, pants to flatten the tummy, trousers to trim the thighs, tops to shorten your neck and various bits of big sparkly jewellery to draw the eye to an ever lengthening cleavage and away from the landslides that have occurred in other areas of my personage.
While all of this support can give the impression of youth, I am convinced that it is in the mind you must try and remain young; try new experiences, use your active brain, and take on new challenges, all help to stave off the feeling of impending doom. Mention of this to my husband a few years ago, and it would have instigated cries of “there is still time”,” if your good enough you’re young enough”, “you can’t buy experience like mine” and “some of these youngsters would kill for a left foot like mine” Lately, as he as approached forty, his mood has mellowed, with brief periods of acceptance that there may not be a career in football for him. On several occasions he has suggested that as the children were getting older we should look for something that we could do together. Hiding my horror and stalling for time, I agreed, and said I would give it some thought, as long as it mean’t keeping our clothes on, and it wouldn’t create any conflict with my TV schedule.
Unfortunately my plan of stalling in the hope that reality would dawn on my husband’s ambitions to be a footballer backfired. A friend of ours generously arranged a surprise drinks party at her house overlooking a river. Many of our family and friends were there, and a good time was being had by all. Early in the party, a guest spotted through the window an Osprey in a tree, and flying above it a Red Kite. As we watched from the window, the Osprey dropped from the tree and took a trout in its talons from the river, apparently, a rare sight in this part of the world and one that drew sighs of wonder from the watching party goers. My husband stood silent, transfixed, and then turned to me and said in a whisper:

“It’s a sign, on such an auspicious day we have been given a sign!” Stanley Mathews played until he was fifty three, and so did Puskas, I still have my dream, I shall play on!”

“Good grief” I exclaimed

“It’s a fish-eating bird, eating a fish, how can that be a sign of anything? It’s not like its using chopsticks or cutlery is it?, more like the Vultures gathering if you ask me!"

And so we are back to where we were five years ago. Emboldened by his new found vim, vigour and virility, he explained at length to several friends at the party, that in some cultures this would be a significant event. If, for example, he were a North American Indian, his next job would be to add a Kite and an Osprey to his totem pole, and start looking for a football team with a bird Motif. After convincing him that it was only an Osprey, not a bloody Liver Bird, I persuaded him to wait for Liverpool to ring him rather than he ringing them, then we went home.

Since then I have gone down my “trying new things route”, and have secretly booked a course of dancing lessons for two starting in a few weeks time, if he hasn’t returned to his senses by then I shall be straight on the phone to Anton Dubeck with an offer he simply cannot refuse. Two hours a week tripping the light fantastic with Anton? Now that would keep me young!

Fantasy Football

2008-03-25T21:07:00.003Z

Towards the end of last summer, my husband and my son were swept up on a tide of excitement at the impending football season. New boots were purchased, whistles were polished, flags ironed and lots of cones put down on the lawn in various geometric patterns and then picked up again. As a “family” activity, one in which we could all participate and perhaps hold my daughter’s and mine attention to something near football, my husband suggested we all enter our own teams in the newspaper’s Fantasy Football league, we would also have our own little competition between ourselves with a first prize of £20.
With a double billing of “What not to wear” followed by “A place in the sun” imminent, and to avoid discussion, I hastily agreed; my husband and son retiring to the kitchen table to thrash out a two hour conference on the merits of various midfielders.
Refreshed by my daily dose of make do and mend, and houses by the beach I came up with the following side.
In goal I would have somebody who has worn the number one shirt in my heart, for much of my life, Thomas Magnum PI, Tom Selleck in the flesh. He has the height and muscular build to play in goal, I can’t imagine him ever swearing or getting cross at his fellow player or official, and his Hawaiian shirts would be colourful enough for a keeper. I once persuaded my husband to grow a moustache, just to see if we could recreate just a little of Tom’s sparkle. After six months he had something vaguely resembling a moustache that sometimes had small bits of food hidden within. Bedtime was more a mixture of Joseph Stalin or Freddie Mercury depending upon the occasion. So it was off with the tache and a welcome return to the hairless little peachfish that he is today
At left back I would have more tached tottie solving crime, Shoestring actor Trevor Eve. A cricketing centre back partnership of cheeky Phil Tufnell, and West Indian Michael Holding, a man with a voice like the deepest darkest chocolate, that would turn the stoutest legs to jelly. Completing the back line I would have more moustachioed muscle in Canadian snooker player Cliff Thorburn, there is something about a well turned out snooker player, in his tight evening wear, with a smooth cue action that leaves balls bulging in the pockets, that makes the heart flutter.
Moving to midfield where I am told I must play another four players. On the left I would have George Clooney in his batman costume, alongside a freshly showered David Ginola, (who, I am told has actually played football) lightly oiled and in a small white towel. Alongside David I would have my first crush, and another solver of crime, Fred from Scooby Doo, and on the right Rhino from TV’s Gladiators.
Strikers, I believe, must be up front and out there, so I going to pair the sexiest Dr Who to travel through time David Tennant, alongside Mr Sauce - Ainsley Harriot.
On the subs bench I would have Buzz Lightyear as cover for George Clooney, Take That as multi functional players, Mark Ramprakash for an injection of hip thrusting action, and Des Lynam - a poor man’s Tom Selleck, as goalkeeping cover. Peter Kaye would manage the side and I would do all of the physiotherapy and massage.
Of course my attempts at fantasy football were met with howls of derision and accusations of infantile behaviour from my husband and son, “why couldn’t I take it seriously?” “How on earth could I leave out Steven Gerrard?” So with Hotel Babylon about to start, I picked eleven players at random and forgot about them. My Husband and son spend hours each week poring over possible transfers that would lift them a few places from ten thousand and fifty fifth in the UK, and fourth and third in the family competition to some level of respectability.My unchanged eleven are in the top one hundred of a national paper, the team name to look out for? Momsmagnificentmagnumandfriends

Scouting for boys

2008-03-16T20:24:00.001Z

It is two days before match day and already the tension is building, my husband has heard through his place on the League Committee (Yawn yawn! he feels I should show him a bit more respect for this hugely important position that he holds) that there will be scouts from a Championship team in the area this weekend. My response, that I thought it a little cold to be out camping, and shouldn’t they be doing some form of indoor whittling, was met with another withering look. So,it is lots of practice, kicking balls all over the garden when it’s dry and around the living room when it’s wet. The correct food will have to be produced at the correct time; carbs must be loaded at the appropriate hour. The amount of sleep gained over the next two nights will be measured to the nearest nano second, indoor humidity and air temperature will be closely monitored, along with any sign that would signify bad luck. We must all sit in the same places while watching the TV, as we did the night before they last won a game. All family members must wear the same pants, socks and vest. Our black cat will not know which way to turn, as my husband and son keep walking in front of her, and any shoes placed anywhere near the table top will attract cries of anguish from my husband and son, who will instantly start juggling Voodoo Stones and Juju Wood, in an attempt to break the curse that may cause them to lose a game of football that Baden Powel’s grandson may happen along to watch!
To be perfectly honest I fail to see what can be gleaned from watching a group of eight year olds charging around en-masse in their efforts to kick a ball. I am told, by “his committeeness” that all the best players stand out when they are young, and that the clubs like to get their hands on them as early as possible. Apparently if you haven’t made it by the age of ten, you are over the hill.
Myself, I think a quiet word with the mum or carer of the player in question would prove to be far more enlightening than watching them chug around in the mud. Revealing questions like, “what is he like in the bathroom?” speak volumes. My husband’s exhortations while taking our young son to the toilet come to mind: “ Oh come on lets hit the target!” he would shout as number one son gaily sprinkled all over his suede loafers. Several damp areas around the loo over the following weeks confirmed to me that this boy was never going to make a striker. My husband continues to encourage him to “hit the target” and play up front on the football field despite this early indication of wayward shooting.
A close friend of ours had a dear little boy who unfortunately had a vague and vacant expression on his face for much of the day and consistently dropped anything you gave him. He currently plays in goal for an under ten team that is in danger of conceding over a hundred goals in a season, his father convinced that somewhere inside his son lurks a goalkeeper on the basis that he has big hands.
Another friend also has a relatively unsuccessful junior goalkeeper in the family. From memory, I recall that as a toddler, when excited, he would run round in circles clapping his hands; behaviour he still exhibits on match day when faced with an opposition corner.
A quiet word in the ear of the mum would prove to be far more revealing than standing in the rain watching a clumsy kickabout, or engaging in prolonged conversation with an over ambitious Dad.
Mums could be encouraged to look out for particular signs.
For the aspiring striker, the aforementioned bathroom trick of wee-ing in the toilet and not on the floor is a good start. Holding onto things that they are given, and a reasonable level of concentration, good signs for a future goalkeeper. Children who show a propensity to hold hands and walk well in lines, would obviously cope well in defence with the off side trap, and the child who refuses to leave his friend’s side for hours on end would cope well with the man marking role. Children who endlessly run around in large circles were born for a role in midfield, while the lad who mixes sitting down a lot with brief periods of intense activity is obviously born to be substitute. To the female eye, the signs are apparent from the infant years. An awful lot of standing around in the rain assessing the merits of a particular boy could be avoided if the mum was consulted at the earliest opportunity.

Smells like Teen spirit

2008-03-11T09:14:00.001Z

Well, after my last pre-menstrual rant, I decided to take back control of my emotions with the aid of a few scented candles and a dimly lit bathroom. Lying in my warm water cocoon my mind drifted to thoughts of aromatherapy and it’s possible place in the game of football. Recently I have not only had to endure boys’ football matches, but have been dragged along as “support crew” to some of the senior matches. Now I have to confess, that for fifteen minutes I was held captive by what was laid out before me. Look beyond the odd portly fading footballer, and there are some pretty shapely forms running around on a football pitch, with the occasional Adonis mixed in amongst them. Toned thighs, shapely calves, primeval grunts with the occasional moment of high wit, Oh yes, I was beginning to “get” football, when all of a sudden they fell out; petulance of the highest order from the players, and raging and gesturing from the spectators. My husband informed me that this was a little early in the game for this to occur. Normally they all start the game the best of friends, get increasingly niggly as the game progresses, then, after around seventy five minutes, tiredness kicks in, and they all fall out and start fighting. In my view the obvious solution would be for them only to play for sixty minutes, or at least reduce the length of the game, as they got older. For example, ninety minutes up to the age of twenty five, seventy five minutes for the twenty five to thirty age group, and no more than an hour for the over thirties, at least then everyone goes home on the best of terms having had a good day out in the fresh air; a suggestion that drew withering looks from my husband. It was with this withering look in mind that I came up with the idea of an aromatherapist on the touchline working alongside the physiotherapist. At the first sign of a flare up, or disagreement at a contentious decision, on comes the aromatherapist with the scented candles, wafting the calming oils under the noses of the main protagonists. The aromatherapist’s title could be “sexed up” to suit the masculine environment; something like, “The pacifier” or “The fella with the smeller”
All games could be played in the evening, grounds that have a roof could close it, and the game played out under dimly lit floodlights, with soothing panpipe music before and after the game. Large cauldrons of suitable oils could be heated beneath the stands, the soothing vapours finding their way through vents to all parts of the crowd. Instead of a pie and a pint at half time, supporters could be encouraged to take a peppermint infusion and a ylang ylang biscuit. My husband retorts that it would be like playing football in a craft shop, and that part of the essence of competitive football is the drama and tension of one side trying to defeat the other, hence the primeval grunts and the spartacus thighs. I however feel that a lot of the tension could be removed from the game if the sides came together before kick off for some kind of Ayurvedic massage, and chanting. Talked about the impending game, agreed on the outcome and who was to play what role. Shared some herbal infusion provided by the home team, played the game as previously agreed and parted on the best of terms. Instead of swapping shirts at the end of the game, a gift of a scented candle or potpourri could be made, the scent chosen reflecting that particular player’s performance during the season to date. The teams parting on good terms after a supreme sensory experience.

In an English Country Garden

2008-03-05T20:47:00.008Z

Little bit pre-menstrual at the moment so I’m gonna tell it like it is!
Spring is in the air, and while most creatures’ thoughts turn to procreation and uncontrollable carnal duties, mine turn to gardening. I love my garden, spending hours tenderly nurturing fragile plants, labouring hard to create new features. Producing plant life from my countless packets of seeds to create a vision of horticultural brilliance from April through to October. Carefully planning which plants complement each other, experimenting with colour schemes, relishing the challenge of providing colour from spring to Autumn, painstakingly planning which flowers will bloom when, to provide a succession of changing hues. It is quite an operation, and one completely unappreciated by my husband and son who regularly flatten my horticultural creation with their bloody footballs! It is not enough that they have a football pitch in the village and a makeshift goal in the nearby field, no, these two will dash outside for a quick kickabout during the ads, or during half time of the televised match they happen to be watching. Five minutes of football on the nearest bit of grass from the settee, laying waste to all flora within ten yards of the lawn; returning to their weeping mother in the lounge, and insensitively assuming that the sad advert about a dog needing a home had been on again.
Last year I had managed to propagate some particularly difficult seeds in my greenhouse, They had been pricked out and were in “position A” – top spot in the greenhouse, signifying their status as very important plants indeed. One morning during the school holidays I was settled down in front of Jeremy Kyle, fully equipped with Jaffa cakes and tea, when I heard a crash from the garden. I rushed out to find that the Greenhouse had been breached and Position A had been wiped out by an invading football. My son and his mate had been practicing bicycle kicks, they hadn’t quite got the hang of it but felt sure that they were getting there. Had I not had to withdraw to sign for a delivered package, Jeremy Kyle’s next series may well have featured an item entitled – “my mum attacked me with a garden rake then cooked my football and made me eat it”
I am sure that I am not alone in having this problem, maybe I should count my blessings that they are not into stock car racing or throwing the hammer because that would really make a mess of the borders. Maybe it is entirely attributable to PMT and the time of the month, but currently, each time my garden is trashed, my mind quickly turns to payback, nothing as destructive as rotovating the pitch and planting a few beans, or campaigning to turn the pitch over to public allotments. Just fixing a few hanging baskets to the goal posts of my son’s team. Replacing the corner flags with obelisks covered in sweet peas, and encouraging every gardener who’s life is blighted by someone who can’t kick a ball straight, to go out this autumn and plant a conker on the centre spot and penalty spots of their local football pitch. It may grow, it may not, but at least you will feel that you are not powerless and can fight back in your own small way against the nemesis of every keen gardener – the bloody football!
Normal service will be resumed in around 7 – 10 days time.

Grandad woz ere!

2008-03-05T20:47:00.006Z

Grandad is staying with us at the moment, I left him alone for half an hour, and he has had a go on the computer. I really didn’t think he knew what it was, the kids told him it was a new kind of “etch a sketch” and that he wouldn’t like it. He has written this, and when he wakes up he will want to show it to me, so, to humour him, I will leave it on until he goes home at the weekend or passes away peacefully, whichever comes first.

She’s left this computer on and she doesn’t think I know what I’m doing, just because I’m old. I've got medals in silver surfing, learnt to type and drive a lorry in the army, If she didn’t hide the knives and screwdrivers I could have this machine in bits in seconds then we’d really make it fly!
Well here goes, football as we used to know it, played by men who ate steak before a game, shook hands after scoring a goal and wouldn’t know how to dive if it didn’t involve snorkel and flippers; learning their game with a can in the street, the training ground for a world cup winning side.
When I were a lad, football were different, we had no computers or TV, very few books, and sweets were a treat. We’d come home from school and someone would shout “Lets go kick a ball around and head it till it bursts” and we did, head, head head, kick kick kick till we’d popped the b……r, Couldn’t play enough of the game, pitch marked out with jumpers, every game was a cup final; Mathews, Mortenson and Finney - I was all three in most games. And the Cup final was the game to watch, no champions league then, the big game of the season was at Wembley, over 100,000 people all stood up, every man jack of em with a hat on and smoking their heads off, and a handful of police to keep them in line, stewards in yellow jackets hadn’t been thought of then. One year a keeper called Bert Trautman broke his neck in the final, didn’t stop him finishing the game. Nowadays if a bloke breaks wind the game stops for an inquiry.
The ball they used was nothing like the floaty thing you use today, it were made of leather. Not the soft leather you might make a coat from, but leather from a cow with a thick skin across his arse. It got wet and soaked up water and ended up twice as heavy. Heading it pushed your head down between your shoulders, and if you were lucky it popped back up again. Kicking a wet ball, gave you legs like tree trunks and calves of steel. We had big heavy leather boots, not the light plastic slippers of today, I used the same boots for flying up the wing as I did for chopping wood and killing a chicken, Aye blood on yer laces that’s what you need and good thick leather with sharp metal studs.
We never saw a game live, only on the news at the pictures but it was enough to wet your appetite. No replica kits but we would have had one if they were available; proper long shorts and shirts with cuffs, and their legs moved quicker.
Footballers had proper names like Clyde’s Harry Haddock, and Eddie Clamp from Wolves, nobody argued with the ref, and occasionally you would see the linesman with both a flag and a fag.
Every Christmas I’d get in me stocking an orange, a wooden spoon to hit a saucepan with and Charles Buchan’s soccer annual – a bible for the young footballer in my day. All the pictures showed smart young men with good family values, not like some of the spoilt kids you get playing the game nowadays.I once wenZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

The right shirt for the real you

2008-03-02T20:17:00.005Z

The right shirt for the real you

Christmas has come and gone and once again my loving husband has given me a gift that he would quite like himself. Several years ago I was fortunate enough to be given a very expensive fishing rod and reel in my stocking, his face drained of all colour when I said that I had been thinking about taking up fishing and how it would be a hobby that we could both do together; I am still waiting for a fishing invite, although the fishing rod does now appear to have been extensively used. Of course I could retaliate by buying him something completely inappropriate like hair straighteners or an Iron, but I’m just not that petty. No, as expected I received a Liverpool football shirt, which I accepted with good grace and promised faithfully to wear whenever they play. I am sure I won’t be the only person in this predicament so I have come up with a few ideas on what to wear with what shirt.

In an ideal world we ladies would get to pick which team we would like to support, choosing a team with a strip that suits our individual shape, complexion and hair, rather than the rather unimaginative practice of supporting the team closest to your home.

Starting with Liverpool and the many other teams who play in red. Red can be a tricky colour to wear, if you have the slightest hint of fake tan, prone to flushes or blotches, Red can bring out the lobster in you. A common mistake when wearing red is to pair it with white or black, Red and Black can come across as tarty so be wary of Manchester United shirts. Big blocks of red can effectively be broken up by wearing see through patterned material such as lace or a string vest, over the top; If you are one of the few people who can wear red, then wear it, loud and proud and on its own.

Blue can be a problem colour for many, the darker shades like Rangers can give a washed out or pasty complexion. Avoid shirts from Chelsea, Everton, Rangers and Birmingham, plumping for a paler baby blue like Manchester City. The Man City shirt is the perfect top if you have blue eyes and blond hair and can be teamed with a variety of colours from white, pale green or yellow.

Barton Stacey green is a tricky one, and is a colour that many of us avoid for fear of getting it wrong. Always remember Blue and Green should never be seen, which is fortunate as Barton Stacey’s shorts are black. Many worry that green can come across as a little “county”, teamed with wellies and a Labrador this is definitely the case. Accessorise green shirts with strong patterns on a scarf or waistcoat, an unusually shaped pair of glasses or a hat with feathers.

Burgundy shirts like Aston Villa and West Ham on an olive skinned person can be absolutely stunning, although on the wrong skin tone it can be very ageing. Burgundy is a great alternative to black, don’t over accessorise and wear brown shoes if relaxing, black if you are out to get something done.

Orange is another tricky colour, much favoured by the Dutch. It should be avoided if you are sunburnt or have a puce complexion, however if you have a natural tan or are olive skinned with highlights in your hair, go for it. Team it with pink or brown and wear throughout the year. For a great effect, sit with hundreds of others in a similar shade of orange.

The yellow of Norwich and Watford is another tricky one ,but should always be considered. Like Orange it suits the darker skin and is a great one for coordinating with darker hair shades and skin tones. One of my favourite shirts is the Gold and black of Wolverhampton Wanderers, a warm rich shirt that suits most complexions.

White is a tricky one, Tottenham, Bolton, Fulham and Real Madrid have a huge following and all play in different shades of white. Some whites can leave you washed out, a look much favoured by Yvette Fielding while seeking out spooks with Derek Acora, other whites can give you a fresh look with a natural reflection to your face. Whites are best accessorised with another colour, and not cigars, shades and a barrow full of bling a la P Diddy. During my many hours on the touchline I have often thought that if some teams had opted for an off white or cream, it would have made the shirt far more wearable. Grey-white should be avoided at all costs, it just looks like you can’t work your washing machine.

Teams to avoid supporting are Celtic and Queens Park Rangers, not the shirt for the girl with the big bust. Wide horizontal stripes leave a big bust looking like a book shelf. If stripes are your thing stick to Sheffield Wednesday (blue and white) Both Milan teams, Inter’s blue and black for the day, AC’s red and black for the bedroom. Newcastle Utd (black and white) give that “bar code” look while Sunderland (red and white) suggest an impending hazard or highway maintenance and are best avoided. Squares of Blackburn Rovers, are best avoided at all costs.

Finally, if for some strange reason your man buys you a referees shirt be afraid, he is up to know good with ideas far beyond his station, no one in their right mind would wear a referees shirt in public, best kept for the bedroom where the red card definitely comes in handy and he won’t be paying too much attention to your skin tone or hair colour anyway,
So there you go, I believe that there is a shirt for most ladies out there, it may just take a little gentle female persuasion to get your man to change to the team that suits you.

The Future of Football

2008-02-28T11:01:00.001Z

A Soccer Mom writes

Well here goes, a little bit of female enlightenment and common sense about all things football. It’s been a long time coming and I am just brim full of ideas to help match day go a little more quickly. Here are a few of the things I will be covering when my opinion is sought.

What’s hot and what’s not on the touchline this season, make up and beauty tips on how to cope with the driving rain and still look good.
Accessorising those different football kits, which replica kit is right for you? The club to follow if you’re a redhead, the club not to follow if you’re a brunette.
Startling views on how star sign could make all the difference to which position you play on the pitch, why Virgos should never go in goal, and how two Pisceans in the centre of defence is asking for trouble.
The ideal shorts for the man in your life, and tips for the debutant Wag asked to attend a football match for the first time.
This is all to come in the future months when it is my turn to contribute.

This week I shall be concentrating on the pitch. Most teams seem to have one, all the coaches and Dads worry about them, gazing wistfully at their feet prior to kick off, brushing the grass tenderly with a touch reminiscent of the first flowering of love, pushing at sods with the balls of their feet, jumping up and down on a particular lump. It’s a worry for them, and can often feature in the post match analysis on how the game panned out. It’s all superficial and is what you would expect from the male of the species when faced with the tension of match day. Sometimes a detached view from a disinterested party, preferably of the female persuasion, can provide a deeper insight into what is right or wrong with a particular pitch on most match days. Here is just one way of improving your pitch and results.

To have any success in football the ancient Chinese art of Feng Shui should be considered. The ancient Chinese practitioners of Feng Shui knew that Good Feng Shui would produce bountiful harvest, healthy livestock, abundant life and hopefully a few goals. Bad Feng Shui would produce harsh winds and violent storms that would tear down their houses, villages and quite possibly leave the pitch unplayable. The first consideration when assessing the Feng Shui of your pitch is to obtain a Luopan compass. The essential tool of the Feng Shui man, it will determine the alignment of your pitch; for best results in cup and league, mark it out on a North South axis. It is of paramount importance when assessing the axis to use Magnetic North; True North could result in a late slide down the table or possibly relegation.
Once the axis has been determined, with a North goal and a South goal (both of which are magnetic) attention should be paid to the actual shape of the pitch, and its place in the local surroundings.
Pitch shape is not an exact science, some sites may suit a square pitch, some an octagon. Pitch Shape should be determined by the The Feng Shui man who, with a swish of his Loupan Compass will indicate what shape pitch a particular site is comfortable with. Sites that are deemed suitable for a circular pitch pose a problem with corner flags that is easily overcome by placing them in a random line off to one side.
A common myth when considering the Feng Shui index of your site is that the pitch surface should consist of neatly raked gravel in swirly patterns. As a medium for football pitches, grass scores well in the Feng Shui stakes, as do white lines.
The final area to consider are the surroundings, Feng Shui states that for best results the site should sit comfortably in its surroundings, a hill or waterfall in the wrong place could quite easily affect results. If moving a hill or redirecting a river is not viable, a small pond with Koi Carp behind each goal can help the balance. So there you go, if you need to avoid relegation, or just need a little help in the cup, get yourself a Luopan compass and get Feng shui ing - it’s the future of Football!