Jamie's tinkering signals the onset of old age

There are certain signs that you know you’re getting older. You start fancying your mate’s mum, you can’t get up and down the touchline like you once could, getting up in the morning takes that extra 10 seconds longer sitting on the edge of the bed.
I can still hop out of bed ok, I’m actually a better runner now that I ever was and, at my age, the notion of fancying any of my friends’ mothers isn’t just wrong, it’s plain weird.
Still, my youthful step was brought to a shuddering halt this week when, driving around the wilds of Cheshire on doorknocks, Jamie Cullum came on Radio 5.
Now I’ll be honest here. I’ve always regarded Cullum as an annoying little squirt, the pint-sized twerp prancing around and jumping off pianos. He’s annoying and his music’s rubbish. I like rock. I like pop. I can’t stand this self-indulgent type of pseudo pop-jazz.
So I was minded to turn the radio off but couldn’t be bothered. It was a nice day, the view of the High Peaks was beautiful and besides, Simon Mayo, regardless of the quality of guest on his show, is relentlessly brilliant.
So it was with a growing mix of pleasure and self-disgust that I not only stuck with Cullum, but starting enjoying him. He was refreshingly self-deprecating and fun.
And then they played a couple of excerpts from his new album, including a song he co-wrote with one of my teenage heroes, Ricky Ross. And it sounded good.
This meant I was enjoying listening to Jamie Cullum and his music. The panic really started to set in once I realised I was thinking ‘why don’t I buy the album?’. Go on, the little devil on my shoulder teased, give it a go.
I stopped myself there, thankfully. Not because the album’s no good, I’m sure it’s extremely good.
But handing over that £7.99 to iTunes would represent a seminal moment in my life. That moment of passing when you know that once done, things will never been the same, that a slice of your youth has been forever lost.
These are things you should not let go lightly. Thought and effort should be exerted before signing your life away.
So, clinging on desperately, I won’t buy the album.
This isn’t fair on Cullum, who is clearly hugely talented, and I'm sure he won't really mind, but I just can’t admit to myself the truth.
If I do, where will it all stop? What next? Katherine bloody Jenkins?
No, the cork must go in and a line drawn in the sand.
And if that means a fiver less in Jamie’s bank account, then I’m a sorrier, but far happier man.

pic: yahama.com

Balls, balloons and bolts – odd ways to win a football match

The beach ball incident at Sunderland recently, when Darren Bent’s shot was deflected into the Liverpool goal by an inflatable thrown onto the pitch by a Liverpool fan, wasn’t the first case of outside intervention swaying the result of a football match.
The bizarre, and only, goal of that game brought to mind many an odd incident which, one way or another, has affected the outcome of a match.
Joe Hart, then of Manchester City, suffered a similar inflatable embarrassment last year when a ball into his penalty area hit a couple of balloons, bamboozling his defenders and presenting Sheffield United’s Luke Shelton with an open goal. Bang went City’s hopes in the FA Cup – they lost 2-1 – along with the balloons Hart spent the rest of the afternoon popping in his six yard box.
One celebrated occurrence of course came here at Pride Park in 2004 during the 4-2 dismantling of Forest. As Barry Roche prepared to clear a back pass, the ball hit a coffee cup that had blown onto the pitch and popped up onto Roche’s swinging shin. It ballooned into the air and landed at the feet of a surprised Paul Peschisolido, who gratefully stuck it into an empty net. (The pic above, from dcfc.co.uk, is of the Pesch "reliving" his glory moment)
It’s typically English for a beach ball to wreck a team’s chance of winning the league, but across the world there have been more sinister powers at work.
In 1998, 11 players were injured during a match between Jomo Cosmos and Moroka Swallows in South Africa, when a bolt of lightning struck the ground, leaving players from both sides writhing around in agony.
And locals blamed witchcraft for a similar incident in Congo when the entire home side was hospitalised after a lightning strike.
It was the supporters themselves responsible for halting at game in Argentina between San Lorenzo and Velez Sarsfield in 1990, and not for the usual reasons. The referee was forced to abandon proceedings because every time the ball went out the crowd refused to give it back. When San Lorenzo ran out of balls, the match ended.
And if you’ve ever dreamed of scoring a vital goal for your team, the dream came true for one ball boy in 2006 during a cup tie in Brazil between Santacruzense and Atletico Sorocaba. In the final minute and with the away side 1-0 down, a Santacruzense shot flashed wide and went to the ballboy who duly delivered it onto the pitch and into the goal. The referee, who wasn’t paying attention, only saw the keeper fetch the ball from the net and so awarded a goal. Stuart Atwell, eat your heart out.

Vladimir Lenin died of syphilis, new reseach claims

Vladimir Lenin, the Russian revolutionary and architect of the Soviet Union, died from syphilis caught from a Parisian prostitute and not from a stroke as has always been believed, new research has claimed.
Helen Rappaport, an acclaimed historian and author, said that books, papers and journals charting Lenin’s last years show that he contracted the sexually transmitted disease and that it ultimately claimed his life.
She said Lenin showed many symptoms of syphilis and that many among the Soviet hierarchy believed he had it. (Even lying dead, he looks like he's scatching his balls!)

Unsurprisingly, they were banned from speaking in public and threatened with death because of the embarrassment it would cause.
Instead, official documents show that his death was attributed to declining health following three stokes and an assassination attempt in 1918.
Central to Miss Rappaport’s case was a report written by the celebrated scientist Ivan Pavlov – famous for his Pavlov’s Dog’s theory – which claimed that the "revolution was made by a madman with syphilis of the brain."
While public criticism of Lenin was banned and anyone found guilty of doing so would be often be killed, Pavlov was free to be so scathing because Lenin had granted him immunity in order to trade on his pre-eminence in the world’s scientific community.
Lenin, the leader of the Bolsheviks, the vanguards of communism, led the 1917 October revolution, part of the Russian revolution which overthrew the Government and installed the Soviets. He became the first Head of State of the Soviet Union and remains one of the strongest political influences of the 20th Century.
He died in January 1924, aged 53, after suffering three stokes in the previous two years. By the end he was paralysed and dumb.
Blaming the strokes for his death, the Soviets made huge attempts to cover up whatever lay behind Lenin's erratic, manic behaviour, his bouts of rage and his untimely death.
Miss Rappaport, an expert on Russian history and a member of several societies, including the Society of Authors and the Oxford Writers’ Group, said evidence showed Lenin probably caught syphilis from a prostitute in Paris in about 1902.
She makes her claim in a new book "Conspirator: Lenin in Exile".
She said: "It was the unspoken belief of many top Kremlin doctors and scientists that Lenin died of syphilis, but a decades-long conspiracy of silence was forced on them by the authorities.
“But through it all, none was more vocal in his assertion than Prof Pavlov.”
Miss Rappaport said that proof of Pavlov’s assertion are in a documented conversation, held at Columbia University New York, he had with a fellow doctor, Mikhail Zernov, in Paris in 1928.
She said: "Pavlov maintained to Zernov that Lenin had suffered from syphilis and that during his time as Soviet leader he had manifested all the classic signs of someone sick with progressive paralysis brought on by the disease.
"Pavlov knew the eminent scientists who had been called in to examine Lenin's brain after his death in 1924 and they all concurred in this diagnosis. It was an open secret among them, but of course none stated it publicly and there are no official Soviet records documenting it.”
Lenin would not be the first leader to be struck down with syphilis. Other documented cases include Henry VIII, Ivan the Terrible, Adolf Hitler and Napoleon Bonaparte.

Watching a game simply isn't enough anymore

The Internet streaming of the England game was an important breakthrough in the way we watch live sport, and it won’t be too much longer before we can view a game on our mobile phones whilst relaxing on the beach or sitting on a bus, not that squinting into a tiny screen holds much attraction.
Far better to wait for the next wave of technology, when a special headset will beam the game right into your brain, and you can choose where in the ground to sit and at what angle to watch.
Better still will be the day when, like playing on a Wii, you can plug yourself into a live match, take part and fulfil all those boyhood dreams by nicking the winner in injury time.

Fergie rant signals the end of Respect

The continuing spat between Sir Alex Ferguson and the nation’s referees is certain to dissipate any goodwill officials had left for the Old Trafford outfit.
Ferguson’s rants, first against Alan Wiley and then widened to take in all referees, were as ridiculous as his attempts to dig himself out of a hole by pretending he was trying to raise a serious issue.
Furious that his team had failed to beat Sunderland, he took it out on Wiley, questioning his fitness – a claim totally discounted by the Prozone stats which showed Wiley ran further than all but seven players out of the 22.
In typical style, Old Trafford sources then tried to claim that there was a media and referee’s vendetta against Ferguson – again total nonsense.
If, as he claimed, he made his comments to raise an issue that should be investigated through the proper channels, then he should have raised them through the proper channels, not in a post-match tirade to the media that smacked of sour grapes.
Wiley, one of the game’s most experienced referees, was in charge for United’s recent 2-2 draw with Sunderland, during which United equalised in injury time.
Seeking a scapegoat for his own team’s failures, Ferguson claimed Wiley should have played longer and questioned his fitness, even going so far as to suggest the referee only booked players because he needed 30 seconds rest.
His attempt at an apology then only widened the net to cast aspersions over all officials.
His accusations are highly damaging. It is one thing criticising a referee’s decision-making – God knows, everyone does it all the time and it’s all highly subjective - but attacking something as fundamental as his fitness is another matter entirely.
If managers are banned for criticising missed penalties and offsides, then Ferguson deserves a lot more for such a personal insult.
The referee’s body, the Professional Game Match Officials Ltd, is now threatening legal action against Ferguson and good on them for not taking it on the chin – as so often they have been forced to – and standing up to such bully boy tactics.
We all know what a fantastic manager Ferguson is and how important he is to football. But that doesn’t make him above the law.
Now the referees need the FA, which this week charged Ferguson with improper conduct, to stand strong and throw the book at him.
If they don’t, not only will it shatter the morale of referees, but will also kill its own Respect campaign, set up to protect officials from exactly this kind of abuse, stone dead.

Size does matter - if you're a footballer

It appears that size really does matter, for a footballer at least. Research conducted at Wolverhampton University shows that tall, lean players are more successful than others.
It’s not just the fact that if you’re eight foot tall you’re always going to be able to win a header against a 5ft 2in opponent, and there is more of your body to get in the way when making a block or save is required, there’s a science to it all too.
Experts said that tall, thin people can disperse heat quicker than smaller, stockier types, allowing them to carry on running longer.
The odd thing is that it seems that reality is reflecting the science because a big frontman is suddenly the must-have accessory for football managers.
When Tottenham meet Wolves, the two tallest strikers in the country will come head to head, albeit with both of them in the clouds. Stefan Maierhofer is 6ft 7.5in, meaning that for the only time in his life, Peter Crouch, at 6ft 6in, will feel relatively dwarfish.
Elsewhere the return of the big man up front continues with the likes of Bendtner, Carew, Adebayor and Chris Samba, who is sometimes used as a striker to good effect despite being a centre half, all important parts of their manager’s plans.
Having a towering centre forward can work for and against though. Real world class requires them to have a superb turn of speed and be as good on the ground as they are in the air, but for every Emmanuel Adebayor there is a Kevin Francis, for each Peter Crouch there is, somewhere (normally league 2), an Ian Ormondroyd.
Testing player statistics from specific periods in the 70s, 80s, 90s and 2003-4, and taking into consideration the teams they were playing for and when they played, the investigation showed that among the most successful player were Thierry Henry, Arsenal (2003-04) forward, 1.85m, 77kg, Peter Crouch, Aston Villa (2003-04) forward, 2.01m, 75kg and Ruud Van Nistelrooy, Manchester United (2003-04) forward, 1.88m, 82kg.
Professor Alan Nevill, who conducted the research, said: “These results suggest that football coaches and talent scouts should pay attention to the body shape when selecting potential players for their squads.”
So there you go, managers, your not-so-secret weapon is unveiled. I’m sure that Jermain Defoe or Michael Owen would argue with it all. They might even claim they could match the likes of Crouch in the air. And I’m sure they could. But only if one stood on the other’s shoulders.

Battle of Bosworth is "on wrong spot", claim archaeologists

One of the most celebrated battle sites in British history is situated on the wrong spot, archaeologists now believe.
For hundreds of years history followers have visited Ambion Hill in Leicestershire, believing it to be the site of the Battle of Bosworth, which marked the end of the War of the Roses and the beginning of the reign of the Tudors.
It was also the last time a British king was killed on a battlefield and immortalised by Shakespeare’s Richard III’s famous offer of his kingdom for a horse.
However, after an extensive three-year archaeological survey, experts now believe that the proper site was a mile away.
The revelation could prove an embarrassment for Leicestershire County Council, which built an award-winning interactive visitor centre at Ambion Hill, near the village of Market Bosworth.
It attracts thousands of visitors each year and the council has always believed marks the spot where Richard III lost his life and his crown to Henry Tudor. It signalled the end of the Plantagenet dynasty and Henry VI took the throne.
However, Richard Knox, curator of Bosworth Battlefield, said it was now likely that the proper site was on low-lying ground between the villages of Shenton, Stoke Golding and Dadlington, first proposed by the historian Peter Foss in 1990.
The key to the mystery is likely to be finding the former marshland that Henry is said to have used to his advantage to attack the vastly larger army of his enemy from the flanks.
Investigations there have found ancient names given to the area such as Fenn Hole and Fenn Meadow, and a team is currently scouring the area with metal detectors.
Mr Knox said: “We feel that Peter Foss’s argument is the most likely site.
“We have found ridges and furrows where there could have been a marsh.”
He said tests had ruled out that the battle had taken place on Ambion Hill itself, and also that the stone memorial erected to Richard III half a mile away, on the spot he supposedly fell, is situated on the wrong spot.
He added: “We won’t move it because it has become a landmark in its own right. But when we do decide on the correct spot we can put up another memorial provided it is practical and has public access.”





Controversy over the site has raged for several years. Apart from the perceived site and Mr Foss’s theory, a third premise puts the battle around eight miles away in Atherstone, where documents show Henry’s army might have camped prior to battle.
Tests are ongoing there after documents showed that Henry paid money to locals for damage to their crops “at our late victorious field”.
The Council was awarded a £1 million Lottery Heritage grant to carry out the survey, the most comprehensive ever carried out on a British battlefield.
The results were due to be released this summer but have been put back until next year following the wet summer of 2007, which made much of the research impossible to carry out.
Mr Knox said: “There is still a lot of work to do and we are not in a position to officially say yes or no to anything at the moment.”
Mr Foss said that he never doubted his original theory about where the correct site is.
He said: “I have a great knowledge of the area and it all made sense. When I carried out my research they had none of the technology they have today but my work was very, very sound and I am delighted if it is now recognised as being right.”
The official results of the survey will be announced early next year.

Save the planet. Move to Milton Keynes.

I had a crisis of conscience the other day that saw me arm-deep in plate scrapings, filthy nappies and the contents of my Dyson.
My crime was to accidentally throw away a plastic bottle. Now I know I’m meant to put it in the blue bin, not the black one, and if that single bottle was to find its way to a landfill site the entire planet would spontaneously combust, but I must admit I thought ‘sod it’, and walked away.
By the time I had reached the back door (approx 15 steps) I could no longer live with myself and went back to rescue the poor little Fruit Shoot.
There was, of course, also the threat of a council jobsworth diving out from under the bushes and hitting me with a £1,000,000 fine for putting the wrong type of plastic in the wrong type of plastic bin.
He would know this because he had an infrared bluetooth link-up with the pea-sized camera that had been injected into the bin lid to record everything that was chucked in, as well as my movements, which could then be cross referenced with the CCTV camera probably hidden in the lamppost outside my two-year-old’s bedroom window, which can probably see into my office and therefore can see exactly what I’m writing right now.
I can assure them they don’t need to. I know how to spell snoop, so there’s no need to check up on me.
Anyhow, an hour later I read that the University of Phoenix are building a 29,000-seater stadium, complete with roof, that can be entirely air conditioned so the Yanks don’t get hot when they’re running around.
It reaches 100 degrees for the months in Pheonix, so rather than move the football season to suit the cooler weather and inconvenience themselves, they decide to screw everyone else who is trying to save the planet.
I figured I’d have to not recycle around 20 million Fruit Shoot’s before I even came close to wreaking wasting the kind of energy one hour’s of football would use up, so there doesn’t seem much point really, other than doing my bit and, more satisfyingly, sticking two fingers up at the little man from the council hiding in my bushes.
Still we must try. Or so we are told. Because, yes, the planet is dying.
How do we know? Because the white rhino is apparently close to extinction, making the environmentalists, or just mentalists as they are, all weepy.
Poachers are still chasing what little white rhinos are left but the do-gooders have come up with a novel scheme to save them – move them to Milton Keynes. Last month two of the beasts took a plane away from the land of deserts to a zoo in the land of roundabouts.
Given the choice, I think if I was a rhino I’d rather stay and take my chance.

Fans should learn to take what they dish out

I’m fast coming to the conclusion that being a footballer must be a rubbish job. It’s no fun anymore. You go out, leg it around for 90 minutes and invariably end up being booed, belittled or banned.
Emmanuel Adebayor should be applauded, not castigated, for running half the length of the pitch, sliding on his knees and giving the Arsenal fans a mean stare (above, from The Guardian) as a way of ramming the incessant, racist abuse they had taunted him with from the very first whistle.
Instead, he finds himself facing the sort of disciplinary action once reserved for common assault.
When Chris Morgan almost took Iain Hume’s head off with a shameful elbow last year, the FA’s response was the referee had seen it, booked Morgan, and therefore it could not override his decision. This was despite Hume being left in hospital with a fractured skull.
Fast forward 10 months, and we have the same FA charging Adebayor with improper conduct and threatening to ban him for a goal celebration.
So let’s get this straight. In the FA’s book, a celebratory glare is worse than a life-threatening elbow.
Or indded a badge kiss. Gary Neville, who bears the brunt of the Liverpool fans’ hatred, was fined £5,000 in 2006 for planting a smacker on his Manchester United badge after a late winner.
I’m sick of whingeing supporters thinking that by paying their money they are given carte blanche to verbally abuse players in every conceivable fashion.
Racist and vulgar language, paedophile chants, insulting their families; it’s an old cliche but it’s the kind of thing you’d be arrested for if you did it anywhere else outside a football ground. Yet the minute they get some back they accuse the player of incitement.
So the players have to simply sit there and take it. The only way they can respond is by doing what they should be doing anyway, namely going a bit mental when celebrating a goal.
But they can’t even do that these days.
It’s about time supporters learned that if you give it you should take it. If you want to chant that kind of stuff, don’t go whingeing when the player rams it right down your throat when the ball hits the back of the net.

Football. Referees. Glasses.

The most relieved man in football right now must be Stuart Attwell. Yes, he who gave a goal to Reading that didn’t exist and then ruled out one for Derby that did, must have enjoyed watching last weekend’s highlights of the Championship.
The reason for his joy was Rob Shoebridge. He was probably enjoying the summer sunshine at Ashton Gate last Saturday when Freddie Shears, the on-loan Palace striker, barged through the Bristol City defence and smashed the ball in.
Shears and his teammates celebrated, the crowd was silenced and the City defence looked crestfallen and started the trudge back towards the half way line. It was 1-0.
Until, that is, Shoebridge decided neither he nor his linesman had actually seen the ball go in. So he decided not to bother giving Palace their goal and waved play on. Cue pandemonium.
Shears’ mistake was to kick the ball so hard it hit the back of the goal and bounced back out, but even to the naked eye it was clear what had happened.
Which is just as well, because as blatantly obvious as it makes the call for video technology to be introduced, Fifa aren’t interested. They would rather see four refs, bigger goals and kick-ins instead of throw-ins than actually introduce something that might improve the game.
At least the Professional Game Match Officials have learnt from Attwell’s blunders last season. Shoebridge and his linesmen were suspended immediately and an apology issued to Neil Warnock, the Palace manager, which went down as well as you imagine it would have done, especially as Palace lost 1-0 to an 89th minute goal.
How these things can still happen is beyond me. 16,403 supporters saw it. 22 players saw it and two managers plus benches saw it. Yet the people that matter somehow didn’t but, according to the game’s rule makers, that’s okay. It would take seconds to check – less than the time it takes for players to stop haranguing the referee.
Like the Reading players who acted dumb last year, the City players are due no credit for their part, taking the old adage of playing to the whistle way too far. Any hope that comes with a new season that football might show an ounce of self respect disappeared there and then.
Harry Redknapp summed it up perfectly. “Fifa won’t let us have cameras on the goal line, so what’s to stop a fourth official from looking at his monitor for 20 seconds?
“It’s the 21st Century, how long since we had a man on the moon?”
Right now, that’s probably where Shoebridge wishes he was.

Fab Fabio shows English isn't necessary for the English

England’s impressive march towards the World Cup finals in South Africa next year has almost been taken for granted in the latter games of the qualifying campaign.
Think back to November 2007. The Wally with The Brolly. The shambles on the pitch. England down and out, failing to qualify for the European Championships.
Steve McClaren wasn’t solely to blame, but he was appointed to the job amid the hysterical furore for it to be given to an Englishman in the wake of Sven Goran Eriksson’s unexciting reign.
It was a foolish mistake, as history has proven, and one which thankfully the FA had no intention of repeating when they appointed Fabio Capello.
Around world football, like in no other sport, there remains a nationalistic hankering for the international manager’s job to be given to a son of the nation, regardless of whether he is the right man for the job.
It is further proof that although football is a multi-billion pound business, it is rarely run like a business.
In other industries, the man who gets the top job does so because he is the best man for the job, not because his most important reference is his birth certificate.
Argentina boss Diego Maradona was a populist but bizarre choice for a country that wants to win the World Cup. Legend he may be, but he is also troubled and lacks the coaching experience to take on one of the world’s most high profile teams.
Few were surprised when Argentina were so comprehensively outplayed by Brazil in their recent World Cup qualifier, and Argentina’s presence in Africa is now, unthinkably, severely in doubt.
In 2008, when Scotland appointed George Burley, he was on a shortlist of five, all of whom were Scots. After the disastrous Berti Vogts experiment, continuing failure appears to sit easier and criticism less ferocious when a Scots messes it up.
When the FA looked to replace McClaren, they found themselves in a similar situation to Scotland.
There was the usual amount of nationalistic jingoism underlined by the uneasy knowledge that there wasn’t an national really up to the job of winning the game’s greatest prize.
They took a brave decision and have never looked back. England haven’t won the World Cup yet, but look better placed to give it a go than they have for a long time.
For others more concerned about patriotism than football, it is a lesson they should take on board.

Burkini: A threat to our civilisation (or just a bit of a joke)

Who would have thought that the latest threat to our civil liberties would come from a comedy swimming costume that appeared inspired by a spoof film character?
Yet the Burkini is very real. It is a cross between a bather and a burka – something that allows Muslim women to go for a dip or a paddle at the seaside without the risk of upsetting their husbands or community elders and so getting ostracised or their heads chopped off.
It sounds like the mankini (below) – of Borat fame – but is the very antithesis in that unlike the foul pouch-thing sported by comedian Sacha Baran Cohen, its intention is to cover up as much of the body as possible, leaving only the face and feet visible. I don’t think we’ll be seeing Rebecca Addlington in one any time soon.
The Burkini in itself of course isn’t really a threat to anyone, and there’s nothing wrong with anyone wanting to wear one, but the danger comes when it is seen as the embodiment of a creeping sense of the invasion of Muslim society into British culture, those little stories that pop up here and there about Sharia law now being imposed in communities in Britain, about school pupils allowed to flout the dress code rules because it suits their religion.
And because with the burkini comes Muslim swimming sessions at leisure centres across the country. Everyone has to adhere to a strict code (T-shirts and shorts/leggings that cover below the knee) or they will be booted out.
Imagine the uproar that would be caused by Christian-only sessions? Yet through the left-dominated thought process that has blighted common sense in recent years everyone is now far too terrified of being branded racist should they dare complain about any aspect of Islam.



The Burkini (banned in France by the way on hygiene grounds) also puts other women in a difficult position. Not all Brits enjoy ripping off their clothes and plunging in – it takes a lot for some to don a costume or bikini and show off their bits and pieces they’d rather be kept under wraps.
If you are of fragile mind on such issues, seeing someone appear with one of these absurd contraptions will only undermine your self-confidence further. It screams ‘look at me looking down at you in your nakedness’.
While it and everything else is being done in the name of inclusiveness, it appears to be having, thank goodness, the opposite effect. Ian Cawsey, the Labour MP for the North Lincolnshire constituency of Brigg and Goole, said: "I don't think that in a local authority pool I should have to wear a particular type of clothes for the benefit of someone else. That's not integration or cohesion."
Another Labour MP, Anne Cryer, said: "Unfortunately this kind of thing has a negative impact on community relations.
"It's seen as yet another demand for special treatment. I can't see why special clothing is needed for what is a single-sex session."
If you’re talking inclusivity then why not let everyone in at the same time and let them wear what they want (within sensible reason)? Pandering to the religious demands of the minority will only lead to community division.

Then of course we have Jim Fitzpatrick, the Labour MP who walked out of a Muslim wedding recently because he and his wife would be segregated and forced to sit apart. Fitzpatrick received the predictable backlash by those who accuse him of being insensitive to Islamic needs and that old favourite, “playing the race card”, but no-one took his needs into consideration.
A custom in Britain has always been to sit with your wife at a wedding, so when he is prevented from doing so why is he wrong to feel so uncomfortable?
Is complaining about it playing the race card, or enforcing it in the first place playing the race card?
The comments by Sir Iqbal Sacranie, former head of the Muslim Council of Britain, sum it up nicely. “It shows a lack of interest...to engage with people of different backgrounds.”
Nothing there about showing a lack of interest in your guests’ backgrounds, just the usual one-way street of “our way or you’re wrong”.
Finally we now learn that under Islamic law, (which elements in our society, including the Archbishop of Canterbury, want to see incorporated into British law) new legislation in Afghanistan will allow husbands to starve their wives if they refuse sex, and to keep on starving them until they relent.
Aside from the obvious jokes, how long before there are mutterings over here about Muslim communities installing such a regulation?
Then again, there is a simple solution for Muslim women wanting to avoid sex – just dress up in a Burkini. They’re so ugly it would put your husband off sex for life, and leave you in peace to enjoy your dinner.

Clough v Ferguson: Generation 2

As the new football season swings into action this weekend, the most interesting clash on Saturday afternoon may well come off the pitch.
Derby County entertain Peterborough United in the Championship. It’s not a match to have the television executives slavering but then the occasion is not just about the football.



The pre-match handshake will bring together the younger generation of two football legends. In the black and white corner is Nigel Clough, the Derby manager and son of Brian; wearing blue is Darren Ferguson, son of Sir Alex, the Manchester United boss and most successful English league manager ever.
Both are young, modest, gifted and have benefitted from some handy genes.
Yet both have reached the moment their paths will cross in very different ways.
Clough junior had 10 years as a non-league manager at Burton Albion before leaving in January with the Brewers poised for promotion to take over at Derby, the club his father took from nowhere to a league title and European Cup semi-final in the early 1970s.
He enjoyed a football career playing at the highest level with England (winning 14 caps), Nottingham Forest, Manchester City and Liverpool. His successful grounding as a manager saw him rebut several approaches before the lure of Derby, his home town club and the one which remained strongest in the heart of his father, proved too strong in the end.



Ferguson, who is six years Clough’s junior, failed to hit the heights his potential promised, despite him being able to boast a Premier League winners’ medal with Manchester United.
It might not have been so; at United he was a regular until injury forced him out for two months. When he returned, he found his spot in the side had been filled by a certain Frenchman called Cantona.
He spent the rest of his career in the lower leagues at Wolves and Wrexham before, like Clough, turning to management at an early age.
Unlike the Rams’ boss, however, who has placed great emphasis on building slowly, Ferguson’s career in the hot seat has been short and explosive.
Taking his first job at Peterborough two and a half years ago, he has led them to immediate and back to back promotions playing the kind of football steeped in the Manchester United way.
Less than three years after wallowing in the lower reaches of League 2, he has got the Posh one season away from playing in the Premiership.
On the face of it, the clubs are worlds apart. Peterborough’s average gate last season was 7,000, as opposed to Derby, who regularly sold out at over 30,000.
London Road holds none of the playing allure of Pride Park.
While Peterborough are entering unchartered territory at Championship level, they are on a role and will enter the new season brimming with confidence; whereas Derby, after that catastrophic Premiership season, battled the spectre of relegation last year and are still desperately seeking a way forward.
What both managers share is their fathers’ ethos of, to paraphrase Brian Clough, playing the game the way it should be – namely passing it around on the ground, so it ought to be pleasing on the eye.
In front of 33,000 spectators there should be little to separate the teams on Saturday afternoon and the battle of wits between two of the game’s brightest young minds will be crucial.
Ferguson v Clough: Generation 2 should prove a fascinating encounter.

Two Great Victories. Two Very Different Heroes

IT was one of sport’s greatest hoodoos. For 75 years England had failed to beat their greatest enemy at the home of cricket.
Yesterday’s 115-run Ashes win over Australia lay to rest that ghost and was as wildly celebrated as the famous day in June 1934.
The heroes though could hardly have been more different.
Hedley Verity captained England that day, taking an extraordinary 15 wickets to see off an Australia team featuring the great Don Bradman. Verity was a modest, scholarly man, a left arm spinner who went on to be a war hero, dying at the hands of the Germans.





By stark contrast England have rarely had such a rumbustious talisman than Flintoff; the embodiment of charisma and a man known as much for his off-field troubles as his ability to tear apart test teams with bat and ball.
Derek Hodgson, 79, a cricket historian and former president of the Cricket Writers’ Club, said that Flintoff had yet to achieve Verity’s greatness.
He said: “I could not imagine Freddie becoming a captain in the armed forces. A sergeant maybe, but nothing higher as his sympathies would always have been with the rank and file soldiers. Verity was always the officer type.
“Verity was well-liked, but he was schoolmastery. You could almost imagine him as a university professor if he had survived the war. He may have had a couple of drinks after a match but you never heard of him getting up to anything with pedalos.”
Lauded from the day he made his debut for Lancashire in 1997, aged 17, Flintoff’s natural talent was undermined by issues of weight, motivation and his joie de vivre.
But in 2005 he led England to glory in the Ashes, scoring 402 runs and taking 24 wickets in five Tests, catapulting him to global superstardom.
Destructive on the pitch, he has been equally self-destructive off it. In 2007 he was sacked as England vice-captain during the World Cup after a long drinking session in the wake of defeat against New Zealand saw him falling of a pedalo in the early hours and having to be rescued from the water.




Only three weeks ago he was disciplined for failing to show up for a team-building coach trip to the World War One trenches at Ypres ahead of the Ashes. Speculation was rife that he had missed the bus after drinking too much at the team dinner the night before.
It is behaviour Verity would never have countenanced, on or off the pitch. Not for him the grandstanding, revelling in the glory of a wicket. A handshake would have sufficed.
“I doubt that the MCC members would even have risen to their feet for him,” said Mr Hodgson. “It would take something like a Bradman triple-century to warrant a standing ovation.”
Verity would prepare himself for an Ashes Test with an extra bowl of strawberries. By contrast, on winning the Ashes in 2005, Flintoff went on the razzle. When asked the following morning whether he had eaten anything he replied: “Yes. A cigar.”
Verity, who played for Lancashire’s great rivals, Yorkshire, waited until he was 25 to make his debut for his county, but his arrival in the game sparked a similar furore to Flintoff’s.
He played 40 Test matches for England between 1931 and 1939. In the Lord’s game he took 15 for 104, including 14 wickets in one day.
On 1 September, 1939, the last day of county cricket before World War II, he took seven wickets for nine runs as Yorkshire thrashed Sussex at Hove.
Upon the outbreak of war, Verity joined the army and in 1943, having been promoted to the rank of captain, he was wounded during the Eighth Army's advance on Catania and taken prisoner by the Germans.
After being transferred into Italian hands, he died at Caserta a few days later from his wounds, aged 38.
He still holds the best first-class figures in history, 10 for 10 against Nottinghamshire in 1932.
Alan Hill, who wrote Verity’s biography, said both men were great patriots but lived very different lifestyles.
He said: “Hedley was from a church going family. His father once won a bottle of wine in a raffle but his mother took it immediately and poured it down the drain.
"He was devout in his cricket and devout in his quest to make himself a soldier. I think the Christian ethic was definitely in his blood."
In 2007, 66 years after he died, Verity became the 7th cricketer to be elected into Yorkshire County Cricket Club's 'Hall of Fame'.
Across the Pennines, Flintoff will hope he doesn’t have to wait as long for similar recognition.

Swinging From Beyond The Grave

IT was no surprise to see Michael Jackson top this week’s charts – after all, the old music maxim is you become more successful when you’re dead.
But it’s not just Jacko who might be enjoying a second career after he’s passed on.
My father David died very recently (see below) and while researching info for his eulogy, my brother and I came across an extremely odd story.
In the late 1960s, and without telling any members of his family it would seem, he and a colleague formed a record company, Davjon Records, and produced a hugely bizarre LP (to the younger ones among you, they’re those black, vinyl things sometimes called records), consisting of popular hymns given a distinctly psychedelic touch of jazz.



Called Hymns A’ Swinging, it includes thing like All Things Bright and Beautiful set to a heavy Latin beat and, well, you listen to the rest here . There’s nothing a thousand words could say that two seconds’ listen doesn’t reveal!
It is undoubtedly the kind of thing you could only enjoy having had, shall we say, a dose of something ‘60s to put you in the mood.
Anyway, it quickly became apparent that taking two unfashionable 1960s topics – jazz and God – and sticking them together might not have been the brightest business plan.
The record didn’t exactly take off; my dad and his partner went their separate ways and that was that. Or so you’d think.
Because fast forward almost 30years to the day and, unbelievably, Hymns A’ Swinging has just been released on CD.
It turns out that during all these years the record has gained cult underground status and has been much sought after at car boot sales across the land, a kind of “car boot classic”.
It was picked up by Jonny Trunk, owner of Trunk Records, who first made some of it available to download and then, under pressure from punters, decided in April to release it on CD.
He told me that vinyl versions have regularly changed hands for up to £100, primarily because of a track containing some jamming by the celebrated British jazz saxophonist Tubby Hayes.
Jonny, who calls the record “a unique piece of British culture” and “an oddity”, said he would have done it earlier had someone not bootlegged the original a few years ago and illegally produced more vinyl copies, no doubt flooding car boots everywhere and reducing the album’s value.
So, it transpires that my father’s attempts to pre-emulate Stock, Aitken and Waterman were not as unsuccessful as they first seemed, although Hymns A’ Swinging was never likely to make him a millionaire or get him a date with Kylie.
It is undoubtedly a strange tale, but it goes to show several things.
Firstly, it’s never too late, and even if you think you’ve failed, you might yet succeed.
And secondly, Jacko had better hang onto his hat if he wants number 1 again next week.

Sad times

To those of you who were kind enough to ask why I had apparently and suddenly stopped this blog, it's really only because for the last few weeks my attention has been very much elsewhere.
My father, David, who some of you knew, was ill for a few months but at the beginning of May was taken into hospital. Sadly, he never made it home again and died on June 12th. The funeral was last week and he would have been proud of the send-off. The church was packed. 120 bottles of wine were bought and 120 bottles of wine were drunk. He was a great man. I put together a few words on behalf of the family which were handed out as people left the service, which are reproduced below.
To those of you who sent such kind words, cards, calls, love and prayers, I can't thank you enough.


A tribute to David
WERE David able to see us today he would no doubt be thrilled that so many of his friends had come along to say farewell.
In the difficult days since he left us we have been so touched by the cards, messages, letters, visitors and telephone calls. It has served to prove, if proof were ever needed, how much he touched the lives of everyone he met.
He would light up a room just by walking into it, with his charm, quick-fire wit, exhaustive enthusiasm and infectious personality. That often masked his sensitive side, a genuineness and generosity of spirit. He couldn’t say no to anyone or anything, even if he knew he should have. Once you were his friend, you stayed his friend.
A true Englishman, his home was his castle, and anyone who called to visit, day or night, was made welcome, normally with a glass or two.
Most of all though he was a family man. That he welcomed friends of his sons and daughters as if they were his made 34 Heathhurst Road such a happy home. A house of laughter and joy.
You will all have your own memories: a friend, neighbour, drinking buddy, joker, piano player. Or just someone who gave of himself to whatever you needed.
For a man who so loved life, the last nine months were so hard for him to comprehend, but he bore his illness with dignity and strength; he never lost his spirit, his fight, or even his sense of humour. He would, in those final days, smile with his eyes. And smile he did, right to the end.
David may not be with us anymore, but he lives on among us. Through his children and grandchildren; through his wife; through his many friends.
Through those who have been touched by his extensive charity work. Many will not know his name, or know his face, yet they will benefit from his work and kindness long into the future. His being will echo down the years.
David lived a wonderful life to the full, and we thank you for sharing it. His departure will leave a chasm in our lives that can never be filled.
He loved, and was dearly loved. He will be sorely, sorely missed.
With our love, Tricia, Chris, Nick, Tori and Robbie
David Britten. 25.07.39 – 12.06.09

A Tale of Two Titties

AS the country wonders how Gordon Brown will use the swine flu outbreak as an excuse to put up taxes, Italy’s leader Silvio Berlusconi has other pre-occupations. Blonde, big breasted pre-occupations.
Brown is in the news for a) messing up the economy b) messing up the country.
Berlusconi is in the news for a) going to a blonde’s 18th birthday b)being fascinated by young women, as his wife, Veronica Lario, rather touchingly put it in an email to Italy's national news agency, Ansa. Which then found its way onto the front pages of most of Italy’s nationals a couple of days ago.
Ms Lario said old Silvio, who is more gaffe-prone than Prince Philip but always good value with it, was damaging the credibility of all Italian women with his wandering eye.
Which got me thinking, which would I rather have as a leader: a charmless, miserable Scot who breeds doom and gloom every time he opens his mouth, or a man who employs a former topless model as his equal opportunities minister (Mara Carfagna, pictured here)? (Let's face it, it doesn't make him a bad man).
It’s not a hard choice. As the world economy goes down the tubes and we’re all going to die of pig flu anyway, we might as well have a laugh while we can.

Victims of dog poo should cry foul

I have fallen victim to the menace of modern suburbia. Not burglary, car theft or the intense competition of making sure your lawn’s as neat and tidy as next door’s. But dog poo.
There’s loads of it. Everywhere. You can’t walk down the road without having to swerve your bike/feet/pushchair to avoid getting covered in the stuff.
There were 7.3 million dogs in Britain last year and the worrying this is the number is growing day by day. They crap, apparently, an estimated 1,000 tonnes of mess a day.
I am writing to my local councillors about it. But they’re liberal democrats so I won’t hold my breath (which is more than I can say when stepping out on to the street). They probably won’t want to offend the cuddly pooches. But I do. With a syringe and a nice bed time story.
The owners of these offending beasts are supposed to get an instant fine for not clearing up their beloved’s public mess but I’ll be staggered if anyone has actually ever been caught.
Let’s face it, it’s impossible to police because all the owner has to do, even in the face if an eye witness, is deny responsiblity for said turd and presto, we’re into expensive court hearings, solicitors etc which no authority has the desire, or spare cash, to persue.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve not seen a council poo inspector round my way and now the pavements are laden with the stuff.
There is a vaguely serious point here. If young kids pick up and eat dog faces they could die or go blind. There’s a thing called toxocariasis. It’s foul.
But that’s not important enough for self-regarding dog owners who have such scant regard for anyone else’s health or happiness they can’t bothered carrying a plastic bag around with them, is it?
Councils are doing their best. They have at least banned dogs from the local play areas and such and can’t be blamed for people’s abdication of responsibility.
But it's time for those who suffer in silence to make themselves heard and hit back.
I have, in my more wilder dreams, hatched a plan.
For the woman who walks around our way blindly letting her dogs do their business wherever they want without a pooper scooper in sight, I follow her home. And shit on her front door step.
I suggest those of you who are fed up being knee deep in dog mess do the same.
We may be fined. We may end up with a crimimal record.
But we’ll feel a whole lot better, in more ways than one.

To write or not to write: Experts doubt whether William Shakespeare actually wrote his plays

EVERYONE knows who wrote Hamlet, The Tempest and Twelfth Night, right? Well, it turns out we might all be wrong.
Exactly 393 years after his death, leading Shakespeare experts are calling for a definitive investigation to prove once and for all whether the Bard wrote his works.
Mark Rylance, the former artistic director of Shakespeare’s Globe, and the actor Sir Derek Jacobi, are among 1,535 people who have so far signed a “Declaration of Reasonable Doubt” saying they believe others may have been responsible for penning Shakespeare’s most famous plays – potentially sending hundreds of years of literature teaching up in smoke and sending shockwaves through established academia.
Academics are split over the real authors of the plays, particularly Titus Andronicus, Henry VIII and Henry VI. Leading candidates include Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe and Edward De Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford.
Those arguing against Shakespeare say that his lack of education and worldly experience would make it impossible for him to have the knowledge and vocabulary required for such extensive and detailed works.
Conspiracy theories as to whether Shakespeare wrote his most famous works are nothing new and have been rumbling around for centuries. Past doubters include Charlie Chaplin and Charles Dickens.
Now though attempts are now being made to clarify exactly who wrote what.
Mr Rylance, chairman of the Shakespeare Authorship Trust, voiced his doubts at a debate at Brunel University in London on Wednesday.
He said: “The simple way to put this is that I think you can be born with a genius in a certain area, be that writing, or music or painting, but you can't be born with the book learning or the life experience, you can't be born having travelled to Italy, or read books in all of the classical languages.
"You leave a trail in your life from where and how you pick these things up.
"With the man from Stratford we don't know how he gathered the life experience and book learning that's very, very apparent in the work attributed to him."
Mr Rylance and others who have signed the declaration are basing their evidence on testimony in the First Folio, a collection published in 1623 containing 36 of Shakespeare’s plays. It included previously unpublished works such as The Tempest, Twelfth Night and Macbeth.
“I subscribe to the group theory. I don't think anybody could do it on their own," Sir Derek Jacobi, who recently won a Laurence Olivier Award for his performance as Malvolio in Twelfth Night, said.
The Shakespeare Authorship Coalition, home of the Declaration of Reasonable Doubt, said the point of it was the “legitimize the issue in academia so students, teachers and professors can feel free to pursue” what is widely viwed in academia as a taboo subject.
Dr William Leahy, head who runs the world’s only MA in Shakespeare authorship studies at Brunel, told me that academics were becoming ever more sceptical about the authenticity of Stratford-Upon-Avon’s favourite son.
He said: “Mainstream academics are constantly chipping away at the edifice that one man could have written all those plays.”
Shakespeare’s works have been run through sophisticated databases checking phraseology and word sequence and there is plenty there that doesn’t match up, he said, adding the caveat: “It doesn’t prove anything other than making a case to be sceptical.
“If one person wrote all those plays they would have to be familiar with five different languages and a detailed knowledge of the classics. Given his background it is unlikely Shakespeare was in that position.
“He had a limited education and didn’t go to university so it’s all very unlikely.”
After all these years it would be extraordinary if Britain's most beloved playwright turned out to be a fraud.

Own goal by Burnham puts Hillsborough inquiry into the spotlight

IT was hard to know whether to laugh or cry as Andy Burnham took to the Anfield stage at the 20th anniversary of Hillsborough disaster on Wednesday.
A thoroughly moving occasion until then, the arrival of the Culture and Sport Secretary saw the mood switch from tearful remembrance to bitterness and anger.
If Burnham thought he would be welcomed with open arms just because he’s a Scouser and Everton fan then he was sorely mistaken.
A greater misjudgement was to think that he could hijack the occasion with politics; that Liverpool, being a safe Labour area, would be on side.
How it backfired. The first platitude on behalf of Prime Minister Gordon Brown sparked murmurings of discontent, which led like a fast approaching storm to 30,000 on their feet chanting at him “Justice for the 96.”



This was in reference to the families of the 96 victims for a full, frank and open inquiry into their loved ones’ deaths.
Despite a plethora of reports, investigations and an inquest, no-one has ever been held responsible for the catastrophic decisions made by the police on that sunny April day in 1989.

The Taylor report into the tragedy laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of the South Yorkshire force, which faced with thousands of late arrivals causing a crush outside the stadium, not only opened the exit gate, allowing thousands of Liverpool fans to flood in, but then compounded their catastrophic error by channelling the human tidal wave straight into two pens of terracing that were already full to bursting.
The result: hundreds crushed, maimed and killed.
A single inquest on behalf of all victims returned a verdict of accidental death rather than unlawful killing, thus blocking attempts by the families to carry out a private prosecution.
A coroner’s hotly contested ruling that all the victims were dead by 3.15pm meant that no evidence after that time could be heard, meaning the police’s response to the unfolding disaster could not be fully investigated.
For 20 years the families had worked tirelessly in the face of Government opposition for a full inquiry into the day’s events.
They want answers. Why was the exit gate opened? Why were supporters channelled into pens already full rather than empty ones at each side? Did the police cover up evidence of their errors by altering their statements? Why were the 40 or so ambulances on stand-by outside not allowed in? What about a multitude of evidence suggesting many of the dead were still alive up to an hour after the game was stopped?
They want someone to be held responsible.

So when Burnham pitched up – when there was no reason for him to do so - there was only one thing he could say, which was to announce an inquiry; a proclamation that would have raised the roof.
There was a heightened sense that something might be said because he wasn’t even on the list to speak, but was a “last minute addition” to proceedings.
But he said nothing other than to dish out some bland niceties which meant nothing to anybody – and he was duly rounded on.
It wasn’t a personal attack on Burnham per se – successive Tory and Labour governments have refused to budge on the issue – but if he wasn’t there to make that announcement then what was he there for?
Ironically he has achieved exactly what he didn’t want to, and has done all his detractors a huge favour.
By sparking the barracking and protest (which wouldn’t have happened to anyone else), it bought sharply into focus the desire for an inquiry that his Government doesn’t want to hold.
He opened his mouth, the jeers started and the next days’ headlines were written.
As own goals go, it was a mighty fine effort.

Still standing: 20 years after Hillsborough the debate rages on

WITH the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster fast approaching, standing in making a comeback to an English football league ground for the first time since that horrendous day on April 15th 1989.
The news that Morecambe football club is to incorporate safe standing areas into their new stadium, ready for the 2010/11 season, will delight campaigners across the country fighting for the re-introduction of standing areas at all grounds.
The danger is that it will encourage more people to stand as a way of making their point to their own club’s owners.
Currently the law states that football grounds in the top two flights must be all seater but some supporters, particularly when travelling but increasingly at home too, are happy to ignore that despite the cost to fellow fans.
Those who want to sit often have no choice but to spend 90 minutes on their feet because everyone in front of them is standing. Views are ruined and tempers frayed because people cannot be considerate or bothered to observe the rules.
Clubs are either unable or unwilling to do anything about it. Stewards are outnumbered and powerless in the face of selectively deaf and often aggressive spectators and promises by clubs to crack down by penalising fellow clubs or indeed their own supporters are rarely, if ever, kept.
It seems that if people are determined to stand, there is nothing to stop them.



Groups such as the Football Supporters' Federation feel that there is a growing momentum to their campaign for standing areas to be re-introduced.
An early may motion introduced into Parliament in 2007 to bring back standing areas currently has the support of 107 MPs yet there seems little appetite from the regulatory authorities, the police or the clubs themselves to move the issue forward or even address it decisively.
The Independent Football Commission (before it changed its name last year) said it could find nothing to suggest that standing areas were inherently unsafe and with modern monitoring techniques and modern stadia, there seems little reason not to allow a section of supporters to stand if they so wish.
Greater safety at grounds and better crowd control would ensure there could never be a repeat of Hillsborough. Fences have gone and even if standing were brought back there would never be enough people allowed in to re-create the crushes experienced at grounds across the country in years gone by.
However, until that happens, the law says supports have to sit.
And for the good of everyone involved, that’s exactly what they should do.

Red Dog bitten by Sir Alan?

Bad week for the Red Dogs down the road. Not only did Notts Forest lose yet again last Saturday, slipping back into the relegation zone, but "star" striker Rob Earnshaw got kicked out of The Apprentice at the first hurdle.
At least now we know what Earnshaw, the club's top scorer with a measly nine goals, has been doing while spending so much time on the treatment table in the last couple of years.



Earnshaw will of course claim that it was Anita Shah, a qualified lawyer and business strategist, and not he.
But ask yourself this - ever seen the two in the same room?

Goody's gone, but where does it leave the rest of us?

AS the Jade Goody circus staggers out of town, its star turn is still clinging on to the final curtain, even from beyond the grave.
Goody’s very public death was a horrible thing to behold for a variety of reasons; none more so than the way the mawkish, voyeuristic public so enthusiastically lapped it up.
Newspapers, television, internet sites, pub discussions have been dominated by Goody in recent weeks. The Prime Minister’s been talking about it. Michael Jackson phoned the hospital.
Yet whatever the whole miserable shebang said about its protagonist, what it revealed about the British public was considerably worse.
Since the death of Princess Diana 12 years ago, Britain has turned into a nation of professional mourners.
We love wrapping ourselves in the cloak of someone else’s misery. No longer is anyone allowed to die privately, it seems.
And the age of digital media interaction has given us the perfect way of doing so.
No death can pass these days without memorial websites springing up, filled with illegible trash written by people who should spend less time “grieving” and more time learning to spell.
Phone and text-ins are jammed with those so emotionally bereft they feel pouring out crocodile tears for someone they don’t even know will somehow make them be a better person.
The mother of a lad who was killed recently in Nottingham was on Facebook within minutes, updating her status. To what? Fairly miserable? A little peeved?
I have received emails and text messages from people who should know better canonising Goody as a saint just because she did her best to look after her children by striking huge financial deals to sell her death to the highest bidder.
I’ve no problem with that if that’s what she wanted to do, but as a mother a natural desire to protect your children should be a given, not something that awards you hero status. And when you’re dying and someone comes along waving cheques worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, it’s not a hard decision to make.
Cancer campaigners say Goody has helped those women who might otherwise not have bothered to have smear tests, or those who, like Goody herself, stupidly ignored results which showed abnormalities (had she had acted, she might even have been alive today) to come forward.
How damning is that? What does it say about people that it takes a semi-literate reality television star to tell them they should have regular smear tests or ought to see a doctor if there’s a chance they might have cancer? Are people really that stupid?
I have no issue with Goody. She got lucky and made a mint. Then her luck ran out. I feel sorry for her because she’s a young mother who died and her children will grow up without a mum.
But I won’t mourn her because I didn’t know her and she played no part in my life.
My fear is that I might just be alone.

Clough Be Damned

Amassing free publicity akin to U2 on the BBC, the new film about Brian Clough’s ill-fated spell in charge of Leeds United has spawned huge amounts of column inches.
Brian Clough remains one of football’s biggest draws, five years after he died.
Witness the publicity when his son Nigel took over at Derby County, the club his father turned from provincial club to England’s championship winners.
He is already two months into his reign at Pride Park and outwardly very unlike his father, yet still barely a match report goes by without mentioning Clough snr.
The Damned United has polarised public opinion. Written by David Peace and published in 2006, some view it is a literary masterpiece of early 70s social commentary, some suggesting it’s the greatest ever book about sport.
Others feel you cannot inject such a degree of fiction into what is essentially a work of non-fiction, while the Clough family abhorred it, saying it failed hands-down to reflect Brian Clough’s nature. Perhaps because Clough was cast as a man eaten by bitterness, perhaps because Martin Sheen, who plays him in the film, swears constantly, something the Cloughs said Brian never did.
The press has used the film’s release as an excuse to partake in one of its favourite pastimes – reliving Clough the man. Pages and pages have been given over to favourite anecdotes and tales.
Mine has always been what he said about handling players who disagreed with him: “I'd have him into my office; he'd have his say, I'd have mine, we'd talk about it for 20 minutes before deciding I was right.”
There are some great new ones. Peter Shilton has recalled how Clough made him practise for the 1980 European Cup final on a roundabout because it was the only piece of grass they could find neat their hotel.
Stuart Pearce, a Forest stalwart who played under Clough at the City Ground (but also wore the back and white of the Rams. Only once, but he wore it – and kissed the badge!), has another. “Brian Clough was funny about Liverpool. His opinion was that they were the sort of club who put things in your tea. He used to tell us ‘don’t drink the tea. The cheating bastards have probably put something in it.’ At Liverpool he wouldn’t drink anything that wasn’t sealed.”
The film, like the book (which incidentally covers much of his turbulent latter days at Derby), will be ignored by the Clough family but promises to be a big deal here in the Midlands when it comes out later this month.
No-one loves Clough like the Derby and Forest fans and if it is deemed Peace and Peter Morgan, the film’s producer, have got him wrong, they won’t hold back in saying so.
Morgan has produced the film after tackling character such as Idi Amin and Richard Nixon. It will be interesting to see whether with Brian Clough he has met his match.

Bono, Brian and the BBC

IT'S only been five years since their last album, but U2’s latest offering No Line On The Horizon, has been greeted like the Second Coming.
The BBC – the same BBC who would not run a charity appeal for Gaza because it might impinge on its impartiality – gave the band a week of free publicity across all platforms.
Turn on the TV, radio, internet, and there they were, sadly more often than not with the distinctly dodgy new single, Get On Your Boots, which on early listens is the worst song on the album.
So what gives down at the “impartial” BBC that allows blatant favouritism to the biggest band in the world? Has Bono, bored of playing with world leaders, taken over at Broadcasting House (from where he and the gang did a little live gig to the Regent St shoppers. Aired on the BBC, by the way)?
He hasn’t. But Lesley Douglas has become Director of Programming and Business Development at Universal Records, which U2 are signed to.
That’s the same Lesley Douglas who was controller of Radio 2 and 6Music who left the BBC in the wake of the Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand scandal.
Beeb aside, music critics have been falling over themselves to label it the band’s best album ever. Probably because Bono has told them it’s their best album ever. But then he always says that.
Some of the reviews have, in typical muso style, been unreadable and bamboozling, describing not a set of songs but just printing a whole load of long and waffling words they’ve nicked out of the dictionary that look good but mean little.
They talk about new horizons (pun intended), experimentation, breaking new boundaries, Bono’s brave new world etc etc.
As a lifelong and committed U2 saddo, and therefore feeling well placed to judge, I don’t agree with any of it. In fact my wife probably summed it up best when she walked into the room, stood for 30 seconds, said: “Hmmmm, that sounds like U2,” and walked out again.
Which it does. In many ways it’s a compilation album. Not of songs, but of ideas. It’s peppered with riffs, bass lines and themes nicked from the whole U2 back catalogue.
Which means, to any U2 fan, it’s a great record. There are some belting tracks. It will work on the road. It may go down as their best ever, but I doubt it and I can’t se Bono changing the world with it.
As Brian’s mother said in the Monty Python classic: “He’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy”.

Slumdog has little bark

Am I the only person to think that Slumdog Millionaire is not a great film? True, its pulsating, exhausting and brilliantly shot. As well as being laden with Oscars, Globes and the haughty thanks of the British nation for helping those poor Indian kids (that we ignore the rest of the time).
Yet its greatest asset is also its greatest curse. To produce a film reflecting life in modern-day Mumbai results in a vivid pastiche of colours, sound and a constant visual battering.
But too often director Danny Boyle allows his excitement to get the better of him and the end result is indeed exactly what Mumbai is: noisy, messy and confusing.
It clumsily flits around from present to past without any effort at continuity, reasoning or explanation. When questioning the implausibility of the plot threads, we are asked far too often to simply take Boyle’s word for it.
The greatest inconsistency of the film is its central thread, as our hero Jamal Malik answers his way to winning a cool 20 million rupees on India’s version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire.
The film opens at its end. Jamal Malik, the slumdog in question, has improbably got to within one question of hitting the jackpot and the opening sequences show evil cops electrocute him as they try to force a confession of how he cheated.
The inflexible formula of each question awakening a childhood memory supplying the answer soon becomes tired and unnecessary, while the sudden turning of the main police officer from a torturer to, without explanation, a sympathetic listener of Jamal’s tortured soul is utterly implausible.
Growing up, Jamal and his brother Samir, who without warning turns from nurturer to psychopath and then, at the end, inexplicably back again, disappear and pop up here, there and everywhere. Seeing them thrown off the top of a train and landing by chance at the foot of the Taj Mahal it was almost impossible not to scoff out loud.
We are expected to believe the central love story fits around two people who see each other three times in 20 years and that Jamal, every time he goes looking for her, finds her quite easily amongst the 1.7 million inhabitants of Mumbai. There is a chase and they are separated. They reunite, there is a chase and they are separated again. And so it goes.
Another problem is the lack of suspense. Without wishing to spoil it, everyone knows the end as they take their seats at the beginning. We know he wins the money, he’s obviously going to get the girl and the twist in the tail is; well, there isn’t one. It just finishes.
Slumdog isn’t a bad film at all. It’s adventurous and quite breathtakingly shot, and set to a pulsating soundtrack. There are some touching scenes, mostly involving Samir and Jamal as little boys. As they grow, it is difficult to keep sympathy with them as Samir turns nasty and Jamal constantly aloof.
Like any Boyle film, it doesn’t dare to shield us from the gruesome and brutal realities of life in the Mumbai shanty towns, but it has the feel of a film that takes in thriller, romance, Bollywood, action but is left not quite knowing what its meant to be.
It has been showered with awards and glory but underneath, like Mumbai itself, little of it makes sense.