I do like to de-stress after a hectic Tuesday morning spinning class with the Desperate Housewives; a cup of coffee and a good old chin wag with Marvin the bearded, buxom, cross-dressing trainer are the perfect wind-down.
We get most of our topics from the excellent Flog, Hang and Deport ‘Em pull-out section of the Daily Mail.
Now, it is fair to say that the paper is somewhat right-leaning – often making UKIP’s manifesto seem like The Beano – but entertaining nonetheless, unless that is you are Romanian or Bulgarian or live on Benefits Street.
However, this week there was another example of pathetic political correctness coming just ahead of the start of one of sport’s remaining tournaments for real men – the Six Nations rugby.
Believe it or not, in Surrey they have introduced a ruling for kids’ rugby that decrees that teams must be of “mixed ability” – presumably because they have already been sorted into teams of mixed race, gender, religious and sexual tendnecies.
All this for young kids aged 6 to 11 simply wanting to blow off some steam on a rugby pitch, smack someone on the nose and go home feeling good.
In a stroke they have done away with any notion of A and B teams thereby killing ambition, aspiration and meritocracy.
And all of this in the stockbroker belt as well, where you know you will have to shit on your neighbour at some point to get that plum job in the City.
Additionally, if one team is getting a stuffing they have decreed that the other should now be weakened during the game so that “everyone’s a winner folks!” Can’t have Little Johnny feeling low can we?
It’s unbelievable that in the little bit of junior sport that remains we have utter morons making up rules like these. Sport is competitive as is life and there are winners and losers; to value and fully understand both you have to experience both.
Sport teaches us that there may be cruel days ahead yet the highs we occasionally savour mean even more when we achieve them.
How ironic that kids can sit at home and blow up Afghanistan on their X-Box – in the process saving the Western world without needing so much as a Band Aid – yet cannot go tackle an opponent on a muddy rugby field.
Some days I’m just glad I’m past it.
Quote Me Happy?
For years I lived in a gilded land where, every two or three years, my employer would send me a brand new car and all I had to do was put petrol in it – which they paid for – and drive it…sometimes to work.
And then I had a frontal lobotomy which caused me to flee Never Never Land necessitating buying my own car – reality bit I can tell you.
Nobody tells you how hard it is to do simple things like insure a car; Mr Gove you need to put this on the school curriculum.
Anyway, whilst trying to dodge the meerkats and renew my policy I was given some bizarre advice. Apparently, if you put someone else on your insurance it spreads the risk and lowers the premium.
They suggested my dad – eighty and half-blind – as a starter…surely not? Then they asked if I had a “partner”. I told them I was definitely not gay but I had a new bird (she will kick your arse for this…Ed).
I omitted to tell them she drives like my dad only three times as quick; no matter she would do. All of a sudden I felt Aviva had branched into dating as the young lad enquired as to her “prospects”.
Anyway, here’s a quiz. Is putting the current Mrs W either or all of the following:
1 – an act of madness.
2 – austerity driven…anything to save a few quid.
3 – pragmatism…bound to need a chauffeur in the cricket season and, if she is driving, better to be blind-drunk.
4 – a sign of undying commitment?
Answers on a postcard. I shall sift through them next week as, being newly single, I will have time on my hands.
I’m Spinning Around
Kylie is back on our screens as a judge on BBC’s The Voice and even if you are utter crap you still get a consoling hug from the little Aussie minx before being booted back to the working mens club circuit to dodge empty flying bottles.
Looking better than ever, if there was an incentive to pick up the spatula one last time and hit the high notes over the hob this is it. Time to practice my dodgy dance moves again.
Gardening Column
I’ve discovered a free and abundant supply of shit…chicken shit to be precise…which I am told is great for the vegetable plot if not for neighbourly relations.
The source of my new supply meets me at the gym after she has parked her blacked-out station wagon in a far corner. This has led to some strange conversations and confused looks from those in earshot.
“Have you got the shit?” I whisper in hushed and conspiratorial tones.
“It’s in the boot all bagged up” she whispers “how much can you take?”
“Is it good shit?” I ask.
“The best…pure as shit can be.”
“You’re not shittin’ me are you?”
“I’m telling you it’s da best”
“Right, right! I’ll take the lot”
They Call It The Streak
The Villas’ Veterans entry to the 2014 Grey Fox Trophy – a tournament for over 50’s – has again been made committing a group of old boys to a few more games of cricket, purchases of Ibuprofen and elastic bandages all in pursuit of former glories.
Falling last summer at the semi-final stage in the surreal surroundings of the international venue Headingley Carnegie Stadium, can we go one better and win more than just the best dressed and most drunken spectator awards?
We had a confession from one of the team this week – no names to prevent a call from Social Services – who admitted that his lifelong ambition had been to streak across Headingley.
As most of the team made their way to the bar, our man had got down to his boxers in the tunnel, handed his camera to his bewildered young daughter with the instructions to get a clean shot as he scampered over the turf.
Fortunately, at the last minute nerves got the better of our man and sense prevailed meaning his daughter would not have to go to university with her old man incarcerated for public indecency.
For those old enough to remember the classic Ray Stevens song, picture a bony white arse being chased by several groundsmen across the lush turf; it may yet happen.
Oh, yes, they call him the Streak, Look at that, look at that
Fastest thing on two feet, Look at that, look at that
He’s just as proud as he can be, Of his anatomy
He goin’ give us a peek
More Balls From Ed
My favourite politician has been spouting off again with a populist call to flog the rich with the reintroduction of a 50p tax rate. His idea has been panned by far brighter people than me but is this really the best he can come up with?
Guaranteed to whip up the mob, his proposal ignores the reality that in the context of the overall annual deficit and ever-increasing national debt, this would raise chicken shit; even he cannot put a figure on it.
Best estimates – and that’s all they can be – is that it might raise £100m a year but everybody knows that when taxes are hiked those able to can find ways to mitigate the impact.
From one that cow-towed to the City and pissed it against the wall whilst in power its all a bit rich and smacks of desperate politics so far ahead of next year.
But it also has a chance at winning votes because the great unwashed love it. A far better idea would be to tax passports and airline tickets because if Fatty Balls makes it to No 11 there may be an exodus.
More Good News For Suppliers of the X-Box
There is a current e-petition calling for the Premier League to commit more funding to attempt to save grass-roots football.
As clubs up and down the country face increases in the costs of hiring local facilities that threaten their existence, the riches at the top table grow beyond comprehension.
Cash-strapped councils – run by ideas-strapped councillors – seem to find recreation a soft target when trying to generate additional funds. As with Mr Balls though this is small beer in the bigger picture but this times hits those who cannot fight back.
Premier League global broadcasting rights could bring in as much as £5bn over the next three seasons. So are they doing enough to keep the game alive for the kids.
The counter argument made by the league is that over the next three seasons they will redistribute over £850m to football below the top tier.
Payments to support the 72 clubs in the Football League and the 68 clubs in the three divisions of the Football Conference are, in part, ring-fenced to support these clubs’ work in the community.
It is claimed that £168 million will be spent solely on grassroots football which does sound an awful lot of money and makes you wonder how much of it eventually drips down to the kids.
RBS
More billions down the pan and still the mighty seek their 200% bonuses despite the owner of the “shop” – us – howling in protest. Where else could this happen?
Had I performed the same way when I was Mr Patel’s star delivery boy – and dumped the papers in a bin on many a freezing and wet morning – would I still have got my annual bonus (a broken Toblerone) – I don’t think so.
It’s time for a few public floggings…pants down RBS boys.
Pete Seegers 1919 – 2014
I had never heard of Pete Seegers until Bruce Springsteen brought out a wonderful collection of old songs called We Shall Overcome – The Seeger Sessions inspired by the work of Seegers.
Waking up to hear of his passing I heard him speaking on the radio, almost prophetically, from several decades back.
Asked why he was still fighting the system as a successful and prosperous musician he offered the feeling that the “rich were getting richer and the poor getting poorer”.
Why was he bothered as one that was doing so well?
Simply that he wanted a better world for his kids and their kids and that this continuation of these huge inequalities would not deliver this.
Many years on who would argue but don’t bank on Ed Balls to deliver a cure-all.
The Current Mrs Willy says
Now what are my favourite flowers? oh yes orchids….and my favourite restaurant …mmm Martha and Vincents ..they have a wonderful Champagne list too. Ooh ..you might need some knee pads too honey…x x x x x
Gas man says
aaaaaaaaaah your dancing skills, saw you once dancing with a girl in a long white dress, reminded me of a bloke moving a fridge.