It has been an interesting season for Sheffield United, to say the very least. And in typical Blades fashion, we’ve added another twist in to the tale.
Having shown the tenacity and skill to get to second spot in League One and maintain that for a good portion of the season, for it to then falter near the end to gift our neighbours automatic promotion is a bitter pill to swallow. However, finishing third is certainly not something to be sniffed at.
We can point the finger at a number of things. The key one that most will point to is the loss of Ched Evans. To an extent, I would agree, although probably not for the same reasons as others. I don’t think it’s necessarily his missed goal scoring that has proved our undoing. The fact is we had a system that worked with Ched. Past managers had not been able to unlock the potential he had. His loss forced us in to changing the setup. Unfortunately, happening so late in the season, we had little time to adapt to change.
Goals have come from numerous places on the pitch because of well controlled link up play between all parties on the field. It just happens Ched got on the end of a lot of great play from the rest of the team. I’ve always found the concept of the ‘one man team’ label laughable. If you buy a striker, isn’t the intention for them to score goals? It is their job, isn’t it?
Anyway, Ched is gone, and he’s out of contract anyway. Do we really believe he would have stayed at United? I think there’s a fair chance a bigger club would have swooped for him. But I guess we’ll never know.
Am I disappointed at coming up short of automatic promotion? Of course. Am I disappointed in our season? Absolutely not. If you’d offered me third spot and free flowing fluid football at the beginning of the season I would have snapped your hand off, and I think many other Blades fans would say the same. Danny Wilson has been a breath of fresh air to the club. I had reservations about his appointment, but you can’t deny what he has managed to achieve is nothing short of remarkable.
The team have been closer to a group than what I’ve seen for a number of years. Kevin McDonald has commanded centre field, and Lee Williamson alongside has emerged as a great talent moving forward, bagging a number of goals. In defence, Matt Lowton and Harry Maguire have shown maturity. And as for Neill Collins, his season has been an absolute U-turn from the last campaign. He’s gone from the proverbial ‘zero to hero’.
So, once again United head in to the playoffs. A process that has, shall we say, not been ideal for the team on previous occasions. But, what’s history have to do with anything? I’ve never been one to look back over history and get daunted by the fact this teams not beat this team over so many years or whatever. Because it means nothing as far as I’m concerned. Teams are constantly changing and evolving, it only takes one moment of skill to change things, so there’s no point dwelling on past matters.
On Friday, the Blades will head to Stevenage to begin their playoff adventure. Finishing sixth in the table, they have proved to be an accomplished team. This was evident from the last home game of the season at Bramall Lane. When Stevenage took a 2-0 lead, and were pegged back to 2-2. The Blades onslaught late on in the game showed just how gritty their defence was and they came away with a deserved point.
Back in November, the Blades travelled to Stevenage and came away empty handed after a 2-1 defeat. Together with the point at Bramall Lane, it shows they are a team to be reckoned with when the playoffs begin.
If, and I stress the word ‘if’, United can successfully beat Stevenage, we would be heading to Wembley to face either MK Dons or Huddersfield Town. Either way, it would be an exceptionally tough game. Huddersfield have been excellent, in part due to the prolific scoring of striker Jordan Rhodes. The previous meetings with United saw the away teams come away victorious on both occasions. Huddersfield with a 3-0 win at Bramall Lane and the Blades bagging a 1-0 win away at the Galpharm. A winner takes all showdown away down south under the big arch, perhaps?
As for MK, when United met them in the league, it was the home teams that won on both occasions. They’ve been a very good all round team who are difficult to break down. If I had to choose between the two of who I’d rather face in the final though, I would fancy United’s chances more against MK than Huddersfield.
But, before we can ever consider booking trains, hotels or anything else for London. We must beat Stevenage. Our past meetings show they deserve respect, and I hope Danny Wilson reminds them of this and keeps their feet on the floor. If we play to our strengths, and show what we are capable of like we did in the latter stages of our last meeting, hopefully we shall prevail.
Wembley is a long way away. It is effectively 3 cup finals to achieve promotion. The road will be long, and it will be tough. As a United fan, you learn to take the rough with the smooth. Pessimism is in our veins. But should it be?
Yeah, we’ve been downhearted before. The Blades have a habit of putting the fans on a never ending rollercoaster of emotions. It’s the Blades way. But one thing is for certain, I wouldn’t change them for the world.
At around 4:30pm on Friday afternoon, many Blades fans like myself were glued to Twitter. Constantly refreshing the page as Sheffield United striker, Ched Evans, awaited the verdict in his case of allegedly raping a 19-year-old woman at a Premier Inn hotel in Rhyl, Wales.
Shortly before this, fellow professional player and friend of Evans, Clayton McDonald, had just been cleared of charges relating to the same incident. After a brief adjournment due to celebration from friends and family inside the court following the announcement, the fate of Ched was about to be learned. I refreshed my Twitter and saw three words…
“Ched Evans guilty”
To say I was disappointed was an understatement. On many levels. Having watched Clayton be cleared it seemed this whole sordid affair might not have taken place after all. But sadly, it seems it had. Sat at work I was in despair. Anger, upset, rage, mystified… all emotions I experienced at one point or another.
Reactions from fellow Twitter users mostly involved shock with the odd swear word thrown in, which is understandable. Here we watched someone many idolised at the club go down for perpetrating a horrendous act. How could he do such a thing? He had so much going for him. Establishing himself as one of the best players in the league, and bound to go on to bigger clubs. He has a beautiful partner, what would possess you to do this?
I left it a couple of hours before I commented on the verdict. Allowing myself to digest it and not make any rash comments. I made five statements on Twitter and that was the end of the issue for me;
1) I can see why the verdict has been given. Turning up late to the room/leaving via fire exit doesn’t portray a positive situation for Ched.
2) Heartfelt sympathies go out to the woman in the middle of all this. I hope she can recover from this event and rebuild her life.
3) Whilst I thank Ched for his goals for us, what he has done is indefensible. He deserves the punishment as much as anyone else should.
4) Contrary to what others say, we are not a one man team. One man is never bigger than the club. We shall move forward.
5) I hope this is a lesson to any young player (or anyone for that matter), that actions have consequences. It isn’t worth it in the end.
I tried to put the situation out of my mind. If he committed the act, I don’t want him anywhere near my club. I just tried to focus on Sheff Utd’s football. But with our next match kicking off within 24 hours of the verdict, it was bound to affect the team somehow. And indeed it did. I don’t think you can blame Utd’s 1-0 loss to MK Dons entirely on Ched’s absence. They’re a good team and if anything we were missing the workrate of frontman Richard Cresswell. But mentally I’m sure it had drained the players. The club was under the spotlight for unwanted reasons.
On Saturday night, I was expecting contemplation on our current league status on Twitter. We were still in second, and still with automatic promotion in our grasp. I was expecting disappointment and reflection on the team’s performance that afternoon. If that didn’t seem bad enough, what was to follow was to be one of the worst things I have ever witnessed on the social networking site in my 2 years on it.
After a tweet from what was said to be the victim was spotted, its contents provoked such a vitriol reaction that I couldn’t believe it. These said tweets from the victim, in my eyes, proved nothing either way. And so I was both shocked and disturbed by the reaction of some supporters following this, believing somehow this guaranteed Ched was innocent.
After the victim had been shamefully named, the abuse directed at them was nothing short of disgraceful. Shouts of ‘whore’, ‘slag’, ‘money grabber’ made numerous appearances. What on earth were people trying to achieve? Ched might not have been DEFINITELY guilty, verdicts have been wrong before. But, he also might DEFINITELY not be innocent either. And so this poor woman would have been subjected to humiliation twice. And for what? Nothing good could come from it.
The amount of vile and disgusting comments I saw crawl across my timeline was repugnant. I lost faith in people. I’m not going to lay everything on the door of Sheff Utd fans either, there were plenty of people from different clubs making their views known. It was sickening, spreading like a disease. I was ashamed by what I saw. We live in a society where freedom of speech is a gift to be thankful for. What has been said in relation to this is not freedom of speech, it is lawlessness, plain and simple. The right of anonymity protects that victim by law, you have absolutely no right to take the law in to your own hand, so to speak.
Even before the trial had started, I’d read stupid things been uttered by both sides of the Steel City. Some Wednesday fans were positively hoping for Ched to get sent down purely for footballing reasons, rather than actually having any sympathy for the victim involved. And some United fans made utter pricks out of themselves with comments such as “He’ll shag who he wants”. Whenever I saw this on Twitter, part of my love of my fellow fans died, and it caused me to hover my finger over the unfollow button numerous times.
Ched might not be guilty. We simply don’t know. But he well may be. The fact is he was judged to have been and that’s it. We were not in the court. We did not see the evidence. We are not in a position to say if the verdict was right or wrong.
I have absolutely nothing against anybody who truly believes Ched to be innocent. We are all welcome to an opinion. In the end, it is the opinion of a jury that makes the decision in the first place. What I do have a problem is with those who cannot channel their thoughts in to logical reasoning. Simply choosing to create uproar spewing inane drivel.
Before the case came to court he was ‘innocent until proven guilty’. Well now that has happened, we should now consider him ‘guilty until proven innocent’. Why are people finding this concept so hard to grasp? If he’s innocent, I’m sure his legal team will collate everything they can to try to prove it in an appeal. If he is indeed guilty, I hope he rots like any other rapist should.
Back to footballing matters. What this has done is give an excuse for everyone to beat Sheffield United with a stick. I love my club, I want people to like us. From what I hear, Blades fans have even been arguing about the matter in the stands. What is that all about? We’ve come too far in this season to let this derail everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve just when it matters. We’ve enjoyed the best season for a number of years and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some squirts who can’t control themselves ruin what me and other hard-working, honest and law-abiding fans have been enjoying this season.
Everyone needs to shut up about Ched, now. It is out of our hands. We are called Sheffield United for a reason. Because United we stand. I want this back. And I want it now.
The social networking site Twitter is a fantastic tool for breaking news stories and comic output, amongst other things. It is also a great way to engage with other sports fans. It has allowed people to communicate more than ever before.
I am an avid supporter of Sheffield United FC. I follow and talk to nearly 100 other Blades fans I’ve come across on the site. But, I don’t only follow Blades, so in the midst of messages flying around, it is easy to miss certain tweets from them. This is why hashtags were created, to collectively show tweets about a given subject. This led to the invention of a hashtag for us Blades fans, deemed #twitterblades (populated by @sufcmcburnie).
Last night, whilst I was chatting, a twit friend jokingly suggested the #twitterblades should have their own TV show to rival the likes of idiotic programmes like ‘The Only Way is Essex’ and ‘Geordie Shore’.
This prompted my daft brain to suggest we could have a whole channel of programming. The following is the result of our comedy discussions about what shows would be on the channel. And this is a typical days scheduling…
09:00 Groundsman Day
An insight in to the life of Bramall Lane’s groundsman. Problems arise when it is discovered gophers have invaded the pitch. With a big match only 2 days away, can they get rid of the vermin in time?
10:00 Currie’s Currys
Episode 1: Blades legend Tony Currie tours the UK’s curry restaurants giving his verdict on mouth-watering dishes.
11:00 Songs of Blades
Series following fans from H Block as they write and rehearse chants for upcoming matches. Today, Jeff gets tongue-tied over the lyrics to their new chant about defender Lecsinel Jean-Francois.
12:00 The Greasy Chip Butty
Sitcom starring Sean Bean as a fast food van owner outside Bramall Lane.
Episode 1: Sean is accused of ‘interfering’ with an away supporters butty.
12:30 Superstore Sweep
Game show where Blades fans are invited to go wild in the aisles of the Blades superstore to earn money by collecting large inflatable bananas that really shouldn’t be in there. Hosted by Captain Blade.
13:00 Twitterblades: Rise of a Hashtag
Documentary following #twitterblades founder Claire McBurnie as she explains the concept and philosophy around the movement that has taken Twitter by storm.
13:45 Slew’s Stews
Cookery show with Jordan Slew as he ‘stews up’ a feast for the team before their big match. Today, pie and mash.
14:15 Shoreham Street
Soap opera set on the infamous street. David ends his relationship with Barbara after she drunkenly sleeps with Trevor, a Wednesday fan.
14:45 The Magic Sponge
Series following the Blades medical staff. Today, a steward falls over an advertisement hoarding and striker Ched Evans traps his genitals in the dressing room door.
15:30 The Greasy Chip Butty
Episode 2: Sean falls for new blonde programme seller Kelly, and invites her to the pub. But Sean is met with trouble at the bar…
16:00 This Sheffield Life
A cosmopolitan Canadian is transported to Sheffield to gain understanding of a real football team. In this episode, Marion attends her first match at the Lane and experiences her first greasy chip butty.
17:00 Currie’s Currys
Episode 2: Tony Currie searches for bargains in Britain’s high street electrical retailers.
18:00 Blades Coach Trip
The gang are off to Yeovil. Coach 2 suffers a flat tyre and coach 3 must decide who to leave at the motorway service station for not singing enough.
18:30 Around the Lane in 80 Ways
Intrepid traveller and Blades fan Michael Palin gives viewers a guided tour of beautiful downtown Bramall Lane. In this episode, Michael manages to accidentally lock himself in the directors box.
19:15 The Greasy Chip Butty
Episode 3: Sean is thrown in to a panic when he runs out of chips on matchday. Prompting him to find a replacement, with amusing consequences…
19:45 Stephen Quinn: Medicine Woman
Young Stephen trains as a cross-dressing doctor and helps out in a small hick town. His first day on the job sees him travel to Barnsley.
20:30 Man v Man Fryday
Blades fan Lee Doane continues his quest to consume the entire menu of Shoreham Street’s fish & chip shop.
21:00 The Deano Show
Brian Deane takes a comical look at the weeks football. His guest today is Keith Edwards.
22:00 Jags and Morgans
Phil Jagielka and Chris Morgan restore and learn about classic cars. Today, Phil gets excited when he gets to drive an E-Type Jaguar. However, things go awry when Chris is allowed to take the wheel…
23:00 The Greasy Chip Butty
Episode 4: Sean has his food serving licence revoked. Could this spell the end for the Greasy Chip Butty?
23:30 Bladestation
Chat and flirt with attractive ladies in Blades kits. Calls and texts charged at extortionate rates.
Many thanks to @8LAD35, @hollowspy and @CyberMercy for their contributions. You can follow them and myself, @markbatham, along with the rest of the #twitterblades and we’ll welcome you with open arms. (We do talk about other stuff too, promise.)
Following on from his first two side-scrolling platform games, top FI5H operative James Pond took a rather obscure change of direction when he appeared in the sports themed release, ‘The Aquatic Games’. Or to give it it’s full title, ‘The Aquatic Games starring James Pond and the Aquabats’.
Developed by Millennium Interactive and published by Electronic Arts in 1992, ‘The Aquatic Games’ was available for the Mega Drive, Atari ST, Amiga and Super Nintendo. It was a parody of the Olympic Games, and an alternative to other athletics based games such as Konami’s ‘Track & Field’.
The game took every opportunity to include some sea-based punnery. And this was even the case in the included instruction manual. All game manuals include a really boring and stupidly obvious description of how to put the game in to your machine, but ‘The Aquatic Games’ took a comical attitude with these instructions on page 5.
1) Wipe away any seaweed, ocean debris and dead marine animals from your Sega Mega Drive. Make sure the power switch on your Sega Mega Drive is OFF.
2) Carefully blow any sand off your Aquatics cartridge and insert into the slot on the Mega Drive. Press firmly to lock the cartridge in place.
3) Turn the power switch ON. The Electronic Arts logo appears followed by an Introduction Screen.
4) Remove any scuba gear that may impair your vision and press START. This takes you to the Title Screen.
5) Press START to take you to the Game Selection Menu.
Well? What are you waiting for?! Get out there, perform like Scaly Thompson and do FI5H proud!
James Pond was accompanied by four other marine animals, together, they were known as the Aquabats. Along with these there were penguins, who acted as referees, adjudicators and spectators. Each of the eight events in the game featured Pond and/or one of the Aquabats, either as an opponent, or as the main character which you controlled. Depending on how well you did in each event, you were awarded medals of gold, silver and bronze as you would expect of athletics events.
The first event was the 100 Metre Splash. Controlling Pond, using the old-fashioned method of button mashing, you had to sprint across a body of water as fast as you could. The aim was to beat your opponent who will be hot on your eels, renowned sprinter F-fortesque Frog, by leaving him in your wake. Victory would see Pond perform a little dance.
The next event saw you control Ceceelia the Seal in Kipper Watching. Six of her friends are having a snooze on the beach, but pesky folks start throwing beach balls at them. So you have to control Ceceelia to deflect all the incoming balls and prevent them from waking her friends up. The orange & yellow balls required one hit to get rid of them, but the blue & yellow balls didn’t bounce as far and may have required two or more bounces. In terms of excitement, this was not one of the most interesting, and it could last a while if you were any good at it.
Event three sees the return of F-fortesque Frog in Hop, Skip & Jump, similar to the triple jump. Here, Frog had to run a short distance, hop on one foot over a trap, pull out a rope and skip, then most importantly, perform a big jump as far as he could. When he reached the jump part, players had to quickly judge the angle to leap at to get the best result possible. A penguin would then measure the distance you jumped and give you the result. If you failed to get over the trap, poor Frog would comically hop along grasping his foot in pain.
Next was The Bouncy Castle. Set inside a green castle, Pond had to jump about on a pair of big sponges and perform a number of somersaults and twists in order to gain big scores in a limited time. You had to perform six specific moves in order to complete it, and do each one six times, the tally of which is kept at the bottom. Sometimes a box with a spring would appear in the middle of the sponges, allowing Pond to bounce off it in to a number of clams that gave him extra points. If you missed a landing point, you would splat on the ground and be temporarily dazed from your stupidity.
Then came Feeding Time with Freddie Starrfish. Freddie is stood on a pier holding a bag which he would fill up with sweets using one of the machines on either side. In the water below, his fish friends would rise out of the water, and Freddie had to drop the sweets in to their mouths. As the fish came out, fishing lines would appear above them and would gradually lower down to the fish. The aim was to feed the fish so they would go back underwater before the angling lines caught them. If you lasted long enough, you’ll end up running around like a lunatic refilling as the fish start to rise at the same time.
Event six, Shell Shooting, was quite peculiar and required a certain amount of skill. This event saw limpets walking back and forth across the floor. Pond would have to jump on the edge of a limpet to cause it to let out a squeak and flip up in the air, he would then have to catch it in a dish, and fling it upwards to burst a series of red balloons hanging above him. Meanwhile, he had to avoid the other limpets on the floor. He could jump on these for points, but it’s worth it purely for the satisfying splat sound. Pond would particularly have to avoid spiky metal ones that would give him an electric shock.
The Tour De Grass saw quite a bizarre sight; a shark on a unicycle. Mark the Shark had to speed along a hilly course using his flippers to pedal, whilst also jumping over crabs that were dotted along the route. Extra points could be gained for collecting butterflies along the way. This was a rather fast-moving event, and players had to rotate the D-Pad in order to move, which made this quite a frantic and thumb-aching one to play.
The eighth and final event saw the return of F-fortesque Frog yet again in Leap Frog. This was basically a hurdling event. A penguin would fire a cannon, and Frog would race along the beach jumping over electric eels that had been shaped in to hurdles. Frog had to beat a flying fish that was travelling above him in order to win. Clipping a hurdle would send him flying in the air with a shock. He would also have to leap over puddles that would slow him down.
If you were good enough, you could unlock two bonus events. The first involved Juggling with P.J. Penguin. You had to slap each ball with a flipper to juggle them, the more balls you juggled, the better the score. The second bonus event was the Long Jump with that Frog dude again. It was basically Hop, Skip & Jump, without the Hop and Skip.
I was quite partial to the music featured in this game; from the opening rendition of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ on the main menu, to the jolly themes used during the events. If you did well in an event, you would be given a big fanfare, whereas failure would give you a dismal theme that will make you feel ashamed of yourself.
‘The Aquatic Games’ was a fun little game that never took things seriously and had a charm and splendid humour that made this quite a joy to play. It was a game that you could instantly pick up and play for only a few minutes if you wanted, and yet you would also come back to it for more in future.
‘World’s Wildest Police Videos’ was a show that took real-life footage of criminal behaviour from around the globe (mostly the USA), such as car chases, robberies, riots and police stand-offs amongst others, and showed them to the viewer for their education. The show gave out a moral message that “crime doesn’t pay”.
It first hit screens in 1998 and was an immediate hit with audiences. Something which the makers were probably astounded to see happen. The show managed to achieve cult status, and that was down to one thing. It’s host, Sheriff John Bunnell (Ret.)
John Bunnell was born on May 25th 1944 in Pendleton, Oregon. Having graduated in social sciences, he decided to join the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Department in 1969. He spent the majority of the 80’s in the drugs and vice squad and was made Sheriff in 1994, before retiring the following year.
The greatness in the show lied in Bunnell’s enthusiasm and over-the-top style of his presenting. He exuded coolness, with his leather jacket, silver hair and bright white teeth gleaming in the sunlight, which made him popular with audiences. He was to this police show what Fonzie was to ‘Happy Days’. Bunnell is like the cool uncle you always hoped for.
Each show would be opened with the phrase “Hi, I’m Sheriff John Bunnell…” before giving a short monologue on how dedicated the police are and how criminals are always caught. His introductions would take place in a mock police scene, most of which saw Bunnell either getting in/out of a squad car, or getting in/out of a helicopter. He would calmly stroll through the middle of the scene without a care in the world, miraculously evading speeding cop cars and motorcycles that would zoom past him. The man was like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Without a hint of nerves or trepidation about what is around him, he walks through delivering his lines straight to camera with no hesitation. Occasionally he would hand off a piece of evidence or a gun to an officer, as if it’s the last piece of the puzzle and he’s saying to them “I’ve paid no attention to this crime here, but don’t worry, John Bunnell is here to solve it for you right now.”
In the background, officers would be taking down an assailant by throwing him over the front of a car and handcuffing him, or training their guns on to a criminal in the distance, as if just waiting for Bunnell to give the word as to when to take down the perps. If you didn’t think he was cool enough, sometimes he would be flanked by an entire SWAT team.
Most clips on the show were either from cameras mounted on the dashboard of a police vehicle as it chased a criminal trying to escape, or from a helicopter high in the air recording the full-blown pursuit. The officers would be continually on the radio urging for back-up and shouting random numbers out that only the police understand, whilst the helicopter reporters would gasp about how horrible and dangerous it all was.
Bunnell would give a running commentary about how these reckless and mentally unstable individuals are putting the lives of innocent civilians at risk. He had a fascination with the PIT manoeuvre, and never missed an opportunity to tell you about it. In case you don’t know, it’s a technique of spinning a pursuer off the road by ramming their car on one side of the back end of it, thus potentially ending the chase. Alternatively, he loved a good spike strip being thrown out in front of a criminal, knowing that shredding the tyres would bring the car to a halt.
The show never shied away from the realities of the situation though, and some of the incidents were truly horrific. Like seeing speeding criminals skid violently out of control, ploughing in to an oncoming car, causing it to flip several times, slide down the road, and eventually come to a halt. It was even more terrible when you knew children were on board some of these vehicles.
Whilst you knew he was serious about the subject, you also knew he had an underlying sense of humour and loved his job of both being a sheriff and a presenter. Many of the less terrifying clips would end with Bunnell delivering a sharp quip, such as “They tried to run from the police… but they couldn’t escape the law!”, and “Petty thugs, selling drugs. If you think you can try and sell bammer – you’ll end up going to the slammer!”
Occasionally, there would be interviews with a police Captain by the name of Charles W. Jensen. Sporadically throughout the show, he would pop up giving some titbit on what it’s like to be an officer. The thing is, in 1999, he himself came under investigation following claims of ‘improper reimbursement of meals’. (I kid you not). He took medical leave, came back, contradicted what he said beforehand, took medical leave again, and then was fired. Anyway, that’s a different story…
The show would most likely have at least one ridiculous or bizarre clip in each episode. You can’t get much more bizarre than the one involving an M6 military tank barrelling down the streets of San Diego, California. Stolen from a local armoury, the thief went on a joyride of the city running over cars and other objects. At one point, he darts off the road in to the pillar of a bridge, in the hope of knocking it down. Thankfully he fails in his attempt. He continues down the road before trying to cross the central divider of the freeway, and thus in to oncoming traffic. However, he ended up getting the tank stuck on the divider, allowing officers to climb on top and end the chase by shooting the driver in the shoulder. Luckily no-one died during the incident.
Not every clip was so serious though. In one episode, a robber walked in to a shop wielding a shotgun, he then stupidly put the shotgun down on the counter and wandered off, allowing the shop owner to grab it and chase him out of the store with his own gun. Then there was an incident of a couple of cows that had managed to escape from a trailer as they were being transported in Atlanta, Georgia. The cows ran amok on the freeway, causing traffic to come to a standstill. Bunnell’s commentary consisted of every bovine and police pun under the sun. The full clip in all its glory can be seen below.
Unfortunately, the show was cancelled in 2002. It was a great shame, as it had become somewhat iconic. Bunnell is a legend, and seeing him no longer on screen is one of TV’s greatest disappointments.
Based on the 1988 film of the same name, ‘Michael Jackson’s Moonwalker’ was released for the Sega Mega Drive/Genesis, Master System and Game Gear in 1990/1991. There were in fact three different versions of this game that had different gameplay aspects. There was a home computer version, an arcade version, and a console version. The one I played was the console version for the Mega Drive.
‘Moonwalker’ was a 2D platform game, where you controlled Michael as he battled against gangsters (and sometimes zombies) as he tries to rescue lost children kidnapped by the evil Mr. Big. Yes, you spend the game playing as Michael Jackson in search for kids. You can make your own jokes.
For some reason, the children had been littered about over a number of different environments. These included a club, the streets, a graveyard and some caverns. Michael had to search around each area, which could include opening doors, looking in bushes, checking behind gravestones and examining caves. All the kids suspiciously looked exactly the same; blonde hair, red dress, clutching a teddy bear, and they couldn’t stop crying their eyes out. Funnily enough this still happens when Michael gets near them.
The game begins with a dark screen; Michael enters through a door, does a spin, coolly whips a coin out of his pocket, and tosses it in to a nearby jukebox. The lights come on to show a room of Club 30 and a rendition of ‘Smooth Criminal’ kicks in. You are then free to move Michael around. He doesn’t walk though; he struts like the pop god he is.
As Michael searched for the kids, he would come up against numerous gangsters who he had to fight. However, he wouldn’t get in to a punch up. Oh no. Michael’s weapon was ‘magic’. Yip, that’s right. Simply by flailing his arm or leg out he would emit a bolt of magic that would fling an enemy to the other side of the screen in comical fashion. Hold the magic button down long enough and Michael would throw his hat around the place in a boomerang fashion which, somehow, hurt the enemies too. Kick and drag Michael in a direction and he would even do his trademark moonwalk.
When Jackson found a kid, they would exclaim “Michael!” and weirdly would then get whisked away on a star. A counter at the bottom of the screen would tell you how many children Michael had left to find. Once he’d found them all, his pet chimpanzee, Bubbles, would suddenly appear and jump on Michael’s shoulders and start waving his arms like a lunatic. What he was in fact doing was pointing Michael in the direction where he would come across the levels boss battle. When he arrives, Mr. Big wanders in, bombasts about how Jackson will never catch him, and buggers off. A bunch of gangsters then turned up who were just slightly harder than the normal ones.
The boss levels were the perfect opportunity to unleash Michael’s special power, the power of dance. Hold the magic button down and Michael would spin crazily before suddenly stopping and striking a pose. Inexplicably, all the enemies on screen would then stop trying to kick seven bells out of him and would instead move in to a choreographed dance formation. The music would start and everyone would boogie on down in unison for a few moments to a Jackson number. Once it had finished, it would diminish a significant amount of an enemy’s health and they would suddenly go back to giving Michael a good hiding. If you choose your moment right, you could even make dogs participate in this dance-off.
Sometimes his dancing wasn’t enough on each level as more enemies would turn up, but Jackson had one more trick up his sleeve. If he found a particular child first, a shooting star would fly across the screen. If Michael caught it, he would turn in to a huge cyborg, complete with laser beam emitting eyes and homing missiles to kill enemies as well as rocket boosters for flight. It was very much in the same vain as Iron Man.
If Michael succeeded in freeing all the kids and destroying Mr. Big’s hideout, the game suddenly changed in to some sort of first-person flight sim where Michael turned himself in to a spacecraft and you had to chase Mr. Big in his ship and shoot him down. I never worked out how on earth you were actually supposed to play this level; I just generally bashed the buttons hoping for it to work. Which, one way or another, it did to my delight.
It was a surprisingly enjoyable game, and having some of Michael’s greatest songs blaring out in that classic midi format whilst playing made it even more joyous. In truth, this is probably one of the better games that has been made based on a movie.
For most people on New Year’s Day, their festive spirit dies away, and they start to become a bit sadder that normality to life is returning. For me however, this feeling happens after Boxing Day. This is because I really could not give a flying **** about New Year.
Christmas I can enjoy as much as anyone, but I will not celebrate the New Year one bit. I’ve been to New Year’s parties, but purely to see friends and to have the odd drink, but to celebrate New Year itself? Not a chance. It is quite simply, the most pointless occasion on the calendar.
We start with New Year’s Eve parties. We are basically forced in to trying to have fun. People who never go to parties or drink at any other time of the year suddenly feel the need to go out and get blind drunk. With no idea of how to enjoy it properly, they end up making a complete arse of themselves.
Big Ben telling us we should all be in bed.
No-one is happy at these things, stop pretending you do. People with no idea of how to have fun always end up turning it in to pathetic fake exhibitionism by wearing fancy dress. “Ooh look at me, I’m a cowboy! I’m so cool!” Cool indeed, if you say so. That’s until you return to your day job as an IT software development technician, isn’t it?
Why on earth do millions of people all over the world gather together to watch a clock change? Why do you want to watch a couple of minutes pass by? So, it’s 23:59 and then it’s 00:00. Tick, tock, tick, tock WEEYYYY!!! tick, tock, tick, tock. Hoo-bloody-rah. That’s worth hanging around Big Ben freezing your arse off isn’t it? It makes me lose the will to live.
The Times Square glowing ball thingy.
It’s even more ludicrous in New York’s Times Square, where people are obsessed with watching a ball drop. They don’t round some kid up on the verge of puberty as you might have thought, instead it’s some giant illuminated ball on a pole. At 6pm on New Year’s Eve it is raised, and then lowered during the final minute of the year before resting at midnight. Apparently 1 million people actually go to watch this each year. Staggeringly though, you are not allowed alcohol in the area. What a barrel of fun that must be.
Of course though, we have to have that stupid countdown first don’t we. Oh the cheeriness of a primary school maths lesson beforehand. 10…9…8…oh shut up. Everyone doing the countdown seems to do it completely out of sync with the real clock anyway.
This sort of thing is what makes it all an embarrassment.
Once that’s over, we get the humiliation of watching drunken muppets trying to sing Auld Lang Syne. Listen, if you insist on singing Auld Lang Syne, then do me one favour. LEARN THE BLEEDIN’ LYRICS! How many more times am I going to have to listen to “Should all acquaintance be forgot and dadaddadaaaaaaa daaadaddaddadad dadadada dadaaadada lalalalalalaaaa for Auld Lang Syne, my dear…” Perhaps though, you could do us all a favour and keep quiet. Oh and what is with the stupid cross-arm dance rubbish that goes along with it? STOP IT NOW!
One of the most irritating things about it all is everybody pretends to love everyone else in the world. People who at no other time of the year would say a word or even come near you suddenly want to wish you a “Happy New Year”. Walk down the street and some pleb who’s had too much will yell those three wretched words and want to hug you for no reason. That would never happen any other night. And if it did, you’d find your wallet missing afterwards.
You get TV news crews wandering the streets asking for words with revellers. To which you get the stupid drunken words of some prat from Leamington Spa or some pisshead from Newcastle, wishing you a happy new year on behalf of their city. And why the hell do people say their always ‘mad’? “We’re all mad here in Scarborough, oooh we’re mad!”. Yeah, because you can’t hold your drink, sunshine. All these faces of jollity simply mask a life of disappointment.
This utter delusion that the next year will be a happy one is absolutely ridiculous. What on earth makes you think it will be a happy one? There will still be war, there will still be famine, there will still be unemployment and the Government will still leave us without a pot to piss in, amongst many others. Your life will not change suddenly because you’ve stuck a new calendar on the wall. Stop with this complete tosh that once we’re in a new year, all will be rosy with the world.
Calvin & Hobbes tell it how it is.
Oh and New Year’s resolutions. Everyone ‘promises’ that they’ll do something to better themselves in the New Year. People promise to give up things they have minimal chances of achieving. Take smoking, the amount of times I’ve heard people say they’ll quit smoking. Less than an hour after midnight on New Year’s Day and they’re already lighting one up.
And another thing, I don’t care what your resolution is, stop telling me. If you want to quit eating cakes (fat chance), go walking more often (will you balls) or stop drinking (see you in the pub), then go do it and stop boring the arse off me. Stop trying to convince everyone that you are a better person deep inside. We all have good and bad sides; it’s what makes us who we are.
Queeny-pooh, give this man a Knighthood for the love of God.
If you’re going to make these resolutions, make something actually worth trying to achieve. Like attempting to pogo jump over a fence, tightrope walk across the Thames, or make the worlds biggest Cornish pasty. I might be vaguely interested in such resolutions, but everyone’s seem to be rather pathetic and unimaginative.
The Queen then sticks her nose in by coming up with a list of those to be ‘honoured’. It consists mostly of people you’ve never heard of, and then she has the audacity to omit those who have actually achieved something. None more so than her constant refusal to give a knighthood to entertainment icon and British national treasure Bruce Forsyth.
Has the Queen got something against the man? He has been entertaining Britain since 1939, when he was just 14. At such a young age, he kept people entertained throughout the Second World War, even after his brother had been killed in the RAF. That’s 71 years of service to his country, which is more than the Queen herself. Jealousy from our Liz, perhaps? If Terry Wogan, a man who gets a fee for hosting ‘Children in Need’, can get a knighthood, it is insane that Brucie hasn’t.
For once, can we all just go to bed and treat New Year like any other night? Which it is. I’ve tried to sleep through it, but I’m always woken up by the cacophony of fireworks people insist on letting off come midnight. I hate everyone who does that.
If you say “Happy New Year” to me, I will return it as I don’t like to be rude. But I will snarl and say it through gritted teeth.
As you may well have noticed, it is that time of year again. It’s Christmas, of course. At this time of year, we all feel just a little bit better. Whether it’s because we get to see the family, get time off work, or just love opening presents.
I like Christmas, but I don’t get half as excited as I used to as a kid. It’s what happens as you grow older; your reasons for liking it change. It no longer is about opening presents, you are just happy now to have time to relax.
The run up to the big day starts on December 1st, when we treat ourselves to an advent calendar. For 25 straight days, we anticipate opening a window so we can see some unoriginal clichéd Christmas related picture inside. But, of course, it’s the chocolate we’re after. You wake up in the morning, eat the chocolate (even before breakfast, probably) and become bored again because that joy is gone for the day. You now have to wait a whole 24 hours for another chocolate.
Now, I’m going to give you a tip here. Buy two advent calendars, and open the first in the conventional day-by-day manner. However, on the second one, open the top of it and slide out the plastic tray that contains the chocolates. Empty all the chocolates out of it and go melt a normal chocolate bar, then simply pour it in to the spaces of the plastic tray and let it set. Voila! You now have Christmas shaped chocolates whenever you want. Repeat the process until you have a mountain of them. Good times.
You don’t truly feel festive until you put your decorations up though. Some weird people decide to put theirs up ridiculously early. I’ve seen Christmas decorations displayed in mid-November. Why? How on earth can you maintain such festive cheer for that long without getting bored of it?
Crackers, indeed.
Well, I say that, but that’s not a problem for Andy Park. Or ‘Mr. Christmas’ as he likes to be called. Apparently, since July 1993, he has celebrated Christmas every single day. His house is permanently decorated all year round. He has turkey sandwiches and mince pies for breakfast, as well as claiming to have a full turkey dinner every day. Then he watches a recording of the Queen’s speech with a sherry. Ironically, the only day when he chooses not to celebrate Christmas, is on Christmas Day.
Due to health reasons and the credit crunch, Andy has had to cut back after consuming 4,380 turkeys over the years, eating 20 mince pies a day and downing 4,380 bottles of sherry amongst others. He is now claiming that he wants to marry his Christmas tree, stating it is his ‘best friend’ and never gets tired of seeing it. The whole thing could be a hoax, but if it’s true, fair play to him. If it makes him happy, so be it.
My extremely wonky Christmas tree.
In mid-December, I drag my Christmas tree out of the cupboard. It’s not big by any means. In fact, I am taller than it. I find decorating Christmas trees very tedious, so I keep mine permanently decorated. So, all I have to do is bring it out and plug it in, job done. None of this spending an hour fiddling about with each branch making sure every single one has a bauble on it or untangling lights that have been stored away for a year. It’s so much simpler this way.
My tree looks like it has been through the wars, the main shaft up the middle of the tree is snapped near the top, so as soon as you plonk the final decoration on its peak; it gives it an incredible lean. I could just buy a new tree, but I think it adds character myself.
About a month before Christmas, you start to get all the advertisements on television. Shops bung their prices up just in time for the festive swarm that descends upon them over the coming month. The Toys ‘R’ Us advert hasn’t changed for the past 15 years or so. Whilst initially looking rather jolly, more sinisterly, the ad seems to show Geoffrey the giraffe kidnapping children and forcing them in to unpaid labour overnight in his store so a massive conglomerate can force money out of their parents. He even has them frogmarching down the bike aisle. Geoffrey, do you have no shame?
Then there’s that Coca-Cola advert, apparently people seem overjoyed when they see it. What’s so great about watching slow-ass lorries crawling their way through a small town? They’re not exactly in a hurry to deliver their goods, are they? If I’d wanted to see truckers on strike, I could just go to France.
When this starts, I guess it means we have to get off our backsides and to the shopping centre. Christmas shopping is a nightmare. Stores are packed and prices skyrocket. Every year we have to find something new for our loved ones, and with each year it becomes increasingly difficult. After X amount of years, you seem to have bought everything of interest to them. So now, you have to be ‘creative’, or ‘annoyed’ as I like to call it. For hours on end you traipse around each shop scanning shelves and windows for anything that looks even remotely interesting. Men with no hope at all always end up getting perfume for the women in their lives.
Whilst moping around, we also have to put up with the excessive amount of festive cheer from the Christmas CD they bung on every year. Endless repeats of Wizzard and Slade drive you up the wall. They’re not bad songs at all, I quite like them. But you can only take so much of them before it begins to grate on you. Have you actually listened to the lyrics of Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’? It poses the Santa related question;
“Do the fairies keep him sober for a day?”
They are actually calling Santa a drunkard. Then they go on to say;
“Do you ride on down the hillside In a bobby you have made? When you land upon your head then you’ve been Slade.”
What? What the hell does that mean? So if we go sledging, we either suddenly turn in to a 70’s glam-rock band, or we are killed by breaking our necks.
Then we can’t forget ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ by Band Aid. Not a bad song at all and done for a great cause. My beef is with the truly horrific Band Aid 20 version in 2004. The idea for this version was from Chris Martin of Coldplay, which says it all really. It is honestly one of the worst songs I have ever heard in my life. The ending is the musical equivalent of a sloth;
Santa loves kiddies. Come to think of it, has anybody actually vetted the guy? Give the man credit though; he turns up at every shopping centre you visit. It’s amazing how he gets around so quickly. I mean, he must get knackered surely?
Santa's Grotto
Taking your kids to Santa’s Grotto is one of the most bizarre things imaginable. You queue up for an age, stuck between kids yelling and screaming. Kids always want to go see Santa, but their mood changes when they actually do, doesn’t it? When it comes to your turn, you stick your kid on a stranger’s knee where he asks them what they want for Christmas. The kid stares at him, petrified, wondering what the hell is going off, before tugging violently on his beard. You then hand over £10 for the privilege and in return get a present that’s just come out of the local pound store.
Returning home, you have to write out tedious Christmas cards and wrap up all your presents. An activity that takes far too long. After fiddling to find the end of the sellotape for 15 minutes, you then cut small pieces off one-by-one and arrange them all in an easy to grab line. It’s all about preparation. Stick your present on a sheet of wrapping paper and estimate what excess around it you need to cover it. Inevitably, you are always left with one piece that is too small to cover any present you have left. It’s a swindle buying wrapping paper; there is barely anything on the roll. It is very tempting to substitute it for tin foil and bog roll.
Then there are carol singers, an utter nuisance. Just because it’s Christmas does not mean I want some brats to come to my house and sing festive numbers badly out of tune at my front door. Not only that, but they don’t even try to look jolly, all you get are glum faces. You have to stand there, pretending to enjoy their monstrosity, and then they have the audacity to demand something in return from you. They’ve got some nerve.
Then it’s time again to see your children in their schools Nativity play. Parents weep as they watch their little cherub light up the stage dressed as the back end of a donkey. The starring roles of Mary and Joseph always went to the smart-arse kids didn’t they? Everyone then sings about tea-towel wearing shepherds washing their socks by night, or something like that. Participating in it, back in my school days, all I remember seeing is flashing lights in my face as cameras went off non-stop, blinding the hell out of me. It’s fortunate no-one ever fell off the stage because of it. Then again, that might have been entertaining.
Before you know it, it’s Christmas Eve. In order to get your children in to bed, you have to terrorise them by telling them that if they don’t, Santa won’t fit has fat arse down your chimney and give them any presents. Maybe not in those exact words, mind. You do encourage your children however to leave out a glass of sherry and a mince pie for Santa though. Rest assured children, I guarantee you that sherry and mince pie WILL be gone in the morning.
Father Ted - A Christmassy Ted
Once they’re in bed, you settle down for a bit of Christmas television with a beer. There are a number of programmes I always watch every Christmas, I refuse to acknowledge Christmas otherwise. For instance, the ‘Father Ted’ Christmas Special is a must-watch. The single best festive edition of any sitcom ever. Fact. There also ‘Only Fools and Horses’, ‘Bottom’ and ‘Mr. Bean’ Xmas episodes I watch, amongst many others. I also have a personal tradition of watching the ‘Band of Brothers’ boxset in the week running up to Christmas. No idea why, it’s not exactly Christmassy, but it is brilliant though.
But, honestly, if there’s one programme that truly tells you it is Christmas. It has to be Raymond Briggs’ ‘The Snowman’. Channel 4 has shown it every single year since it was made in 1982, and has become possibly the most defining British Christmas programme of all time. The story is an animated tale of a boy’s adventure with his snowman that comes to life he made in his garden. With the poignant use of ‘Walking in the Air’ sung by choir boy Peter Auty (sometimes wrongly attributed to Aled Jones, who re-released it three years later), it struck a major chord with the public.
There is also the ‘Royal Institution Christmas Lectures’. Every Christmas, a well respected professor or public figure is invited to give a number of lectures to an audience of mainly children at London’s famous Royal Institution on various topics, ranging from science, maths, geography and history. Using simple, fun and entertaining activities, it is aimed at simplifying teachings for everyone. They have been delivered every year since 1825, only stopping for four years in the middle of the Second World War.
A Christmas Story
We cannot forget, of course, Christmas films. Everyone seems to harp on about ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ and family favourites like ‘Home Alone’. But for me, I can’t go past Christmas without watching 1983’s ‘A Christmas Story’. The story of nine-year old Ralphie Parker’s quest to convince his parents that a BB gun is the perfect Christmas gift is an absolute joy. Criminally underrated outside America, this film shows exactly what every kids Christmas is actually like.
Before the sun has even risen, children charge in to their parent’s bedroom, jump on them and demand to open their presents. The first thing you do Christmas morning is stare out of the window, hoping perhaps for once it might actually be snowing. It’s annoying it never seems to snow properly on Christmas Day. We get so much before and after, but on Christmas Day it seems incredibly rare.
Everyone piles downstairs and under the tree are tons of coloured boxes of all shapes and sizes. In less than 5 minutes flat, kids will have opened every single one, leaving piles of paper everywhere for parents to trip over. It’s amazing how such delicate and exquisite wrapping (particularly by women) can be savaged in to a mess so quickly.
At midday, you all sit down to Christmas dinner. Today is the day all turkeys have been dreading. The turkey population must take an absolute nosedive come December. I do have a problem with quite a few Christmas foods. The biggest perpetrator of all though, is sprouts. The most foul things on earth. They’re like a small angry cabbage, the Joe Pesci of the vegetable world. I avoid them at all costs. But then we also have parsnip which I can’t stand. You then finish it off with Christmas pudding and mince pies, it just keeps getting worse. The food is the one part of Christmas I really get annoyed about.
Sat at the dinner table, it’s not just about the food though. You have Christmas crackers, two people tangle over a cylindrical piece of cardboard hoping to get hold of whatever crap it contains. Half of the time that snappy thing never makes a sound, leaving you feeling empty and unfulfilled. And what the hell is with the awful toys inside? Why can there never be a cheque for 5 grand or a key to an Aston Martin Vanquish or something inside? Don’t worry though; at least you have a flimsy paper hat to get you in the festive spirit. And of course, with Christmas crackers, you get Christmas cracker ‘jokes’. Some ‘classics’ include;
What did the fish say when it swam in to a wall?
Dam.
What hides in a bakery at Christmas?
A mince spy.
What’s ET short for?
Because he’s only got little legs.
For the rest of the afternoon you fling yourself on to the sofa, resting from pure gluttony. Everyone grows a pot belly over Christmas. You stuff yourself so much; you begin to empathise with what the turkey went through. Kids play endlessly with their toys until eventually tiredness gets the better of them. Everyone by now has nodded off, just in time for the Queen’s speech.
Before you know it, Christmas is over for another year. A sense of disappointment dawns on you. It’s quite depressing taking your Christmas tree down and storing it away. Your house was so colourful and vibrant, now it’s just the squalid hole you’ve always lived in.
Football is one of the few things that bring people together in society. For nearly 10 months of the year, Saturday afternoons are reserved for discussions which are pretty much all about one thing; the beautiful game.
For many people, Saturday’s are the highlight of the week. As they and the rest of their teams supporters gather in their droves and spend 90 minutes of their lives packed together to encourage or hurl abuse at 22 men running and kicking a bag of wind around a field.
There is something very special about match days. When you wake up that morning, you know you’re going to be in for something enjoyable. Even if the match itself turns out to be rather boring, attending a football match is an event. Everything else that day means nothing. Partners are relegated to spending time on their own as their other half reads up on the latest team news, watches Football Focus, and ponders over how to fit a £14m super striker in to their fantasy football team when they only have £13.5m left.
Ever since the referee blew the full-time whistle at the last FA Cup final, the start of the new season is what us football fans count down towards. The release of the fixture list beforehand prompts mass discussions as we take note of the date of our mouthwatering encounter with our fiercest rivals, before berating the league schedulers for screwing our team over when we notice we have away fixtures at the start and the end of the season.
When the new season comes, you always get the feeling that perhaps this could be your year. It’s your time, you will be champions. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a Chelsea fan, a Barnet fan, or a fan of a team basking in the non-league; you think the time has come for your team to rise to the top. Fans of teams that have not achieved glory for many years (or never) know deep down it won’t happen. But you allow yourself that small glimmer of hope because at the start, everyone is level on zero points. We are all the same.
Every fan goes through the same emotions before they go to a match. You open your wardrobe and see your replica shirt staring back at you. You smile with utter joy that another Saturday is upon us. You carefully pick it up, touch the badge and put it on with pride.
For a moment you delude yourself in to thinking that perhaps your coach might pull you out of the crowd to fill a hole in the team following an unfortunate injury to your striker, and a bout of flu descending upon your subs bench. They have no options, but then you step up. You dream that your winger nutmegs the opposition right-back, runs down the line and puts in a magnificent cross to a gap in the box. You charge in and smack the ball with a sweet volley in to the top corner of the net and the crowd go wild. Then you wake up from your daydream. If only, you wonder, if only.
Before you leave your house, you grab your wallet, keys and of course your ticket, carefully placing it in the only pocket you have with a zip so it has no chance of being lost. Walking to the stadium, you get a buzz of atmosphere and hope that today will be a good one for you and your fellow supporters. There is no more glorious sight than heading to your ground and seeing a sea of your team’s colours on the way there. You are like an army, marching in to battle against the away enemy.
Local pubs are packed out with supporters grabbing pre-match pints. Such a small confined space plays host to much merriment as gallons of real ale are downed and chants ring out through the windows, as you watch matches that have already kicked off on big screens. In the pub, a big burly bald-headed tough guy will quickly become friends with a twiglet shaped geek in a matter of moments, because you are both there for a common cause, you both aspire for the same thing today.
As you near the stadium, you hear the yells of “PROGRAMMESSSSS!!”, and you are drawn like a moth to a flame. Even though half of programmes are filled with adverts you completely ignore, you delve in to your pocket and fiddle with change to try and find the £3 you need for this essential part of the match day experience. You want to hear what your manager thinks about the season so far, who your top scorer is, and what your hard-man central defender’s favourite pizza topping is.
Arriving early, you pop in to the club shop, where there is a hive of activity. People grab scarves, mugs, mini footballs and even dog bowls. All adorned with your team’s eye-pleasing logo. Parents buy full replica kits for their children, hoping one day they will grow up to be your star striker. If you can think of any unnecessary object in life, it will be in there. But we buy them because we love our clubs dearly and want to proudly display that fact with a smile inducing official club rubber duck.
Then you have to wander about the ground trying to find the right entrance, bumping in to everyone coming in the opposite direction and avoiding being trampled on by police horses. The copper chopper flies overhead, spying on everyone to see if a potential riot kicks off. People of all ages are here, parents with kids getting their first taste of the action, loud teenagers and pensioners who have held the club in their heart for over half a century.
Lovely Bovril
There is something strangely enjoyable about the stadium turnstile. Who knew that a simple pole with protruding handles could provoke such giddy joy when you enter? That cranking noise it makes as it revolves, which sounds as if you’re being winched to the top of a rollercoaster. It is simple things like these that add to match days. It’s just sad that good old fashioned ticket inspectors are a dying breed.
Before you take up your seat though, you head to the kiosk and buy a Bovril, the staple of the football fan. There’s no better way of warming the cockles at night games and those in the winter months. You may be shivering like mad with your scarf and woolly hat on, but a cup of Bovril makes everything better. Burton Albion even had a stand named after the tasty beverage once.
Heading inside, music is heard blaring from the stereo system, growing louder and louder with every footstep. As you climb a few more steps, you suddenly emerge in to a vast cauldron of pre-match anticipation as the fans take their seats and the teams warm up on the pitch. What a glorious sight. Banter between fans, scarves waving, flags moving around the stands and random chants. Not to mention the weird mascot that parades around the pitch, doing over-the-top gestures and posing for photographs. Wonderful.
Nice hare, Paulo!
You look at the clock and it’s only 10 minutes until kick-off. The bloke on the tannoy introduces the teams in his own unique style and the crowd are in raptures as their heroes take to the field. Then the customary introduction of each individual player, first the away team, greeted with utter silence, then the home team, each player getting a rousing cheer.
The teams take their positions, and as the referee put his whistle to his lips, there is one last cheer of hope and optimism as the match kicks off. The away side start brightly, carving a pass through a gaping hole in your back four, their striker chests it down and blasts it. But he skies the ball in to row Z of the stands, prompting ironic cheers from the home support.
After the goal kick though, they’re back on the attack. Their passing is slick and controlled, the crowd show their disgust with a chorus of boos at the opposition. But then the home team’s hard man charges in with hefty but legal tackle, sending the ball out for a throw-in, and sending the opponent arse over head. Much to the crowds delight, who respond with a cheer.
But back they come, and the away winger wriggles his way in to the centre, and smashes a shot low in to the far corner. 1-0 to the away team, the initial buzz from the crowd dies as the home support raise their arms in despair, aim various hand gestures at the goal scorer, and blame the linesman for not awarding an offside when it was never even close. Meanwhile, a small pocket of away support is heard erupting at the other end of the pitch. Whenever you concede a goal, you feel like a balloon that’s just been deflated.
But it’s not over, slowly but surely the home team are growing in belief, leading to the fans gloriously bursting in to an impromptu chant to encourage their team. Fan chants are wonderful; they seem to come from nowhere. In unity, a whole stand turns the atmosphere electric with a perfectly timed song, at that moment, you are one with the team, and you are the proverbial 12th man.
Sure enough, you earn a corner kick. Fans rise to their feet in eager anticipation hoping for something to happen, each stretching their necks to one side of the field to see. The ball flies in to the box as everybody jostles for position, when out of nowhere your towering centre back charges in and heads the ball like a rocket in to the roof of the net. The crowd go ballistic and jump around like maniacs. Smiling faces all round and utter excitement. 1-1.
Football + Pie = Heaven
The ref blows his whistle for half-time, and following an appreciative clap, fans rush off to buy a pie. Pies and football go hand-in-hand. It just feels right having a pie at a match. Sinking your teeth into that pastry and seeing the juices flow out and steam rise is reason to be cheerful. Others randomly chat to fellow fans about how the first half went, and we all find a way to moan about poor tactics by the manager and voice how we would improve things, no matter what the result is at the time.
The teams return to the field for the second half, another bout of chanting from the crowd and we’re back to the action. Both teams cancel each other out as they constantly misplace passes in the midfield, much to the derision of the support. Your striker flicks the ball up, hitting a defender on the arm. In unison, the crowd yell “HANDBAAAALLLL!!!”, but the referee ignores all 30,000 of you and lets play continue.
But suddenly your striker skins a defender, turns inside and unleashes a thunderbolt from 25 yards that smacks off the crossbar. There is nothing quite like the collective “OOOOOHH!!!” gasped from the crowd, as your hands instantly fly up on to your head. It’s such a reflex action, it is impossible to prevent yourself from making that sound when there is a whiff of a goal scoring chance gone begging.
With 4 minutes of normal time left, a clever ball from the opposition puts them in a clear goal-scoring chance, but your defender brings him down clumsily. The referee awards a penalty (or pelanty as Chris Waddle likes to call it), and the crowd can’t believe it. Fans launch tirades of “The referees a ******!” (Well, you know what). To make matters worse, your defender is shown a red card and sent off. Fans have heads in hands, and the anguish that churns in your stomach at moments like this is indescribable. It’s all gone horribly wrong, so very quickly.
The opposition striker places the ball on the penalty spot and takes six paces back. Your goalkeeper stands in the centre of the goal, waving frantically in a bid to put off the kick taker. The crowd behind the goal jeer and wave to cause a distraction, whilst others clasp hands in prayer, and some turn away and just close their eyes. He runs up to the ball and acutely shoots to the left of the keeper, but the keeper makes an instinctive judgement and gets a hand to it, parrying it away from goal. The crowd are ecstatic, they live to fight on!
3 minutes of added time are signalled. With a roar from the support, your team charge down the field in one last bid for victory. But their defenders are throwing their bodies on the line with every shot. It seems like the footballing gods are conspiring against you. 30 seconds left, your goalkeeper launches a hopeful ball down the other end, a midfield gets a head on it and flicks it perfectly in to the path of your striker. He runs in, the keeper charges, but before he makes it your striker confidently side-foots the ball in to the corner of the net. The crowd go mental, sheer relief, incredible passion. In that one moment, all is good with the world.
Chants of “WHO ARE YA?!” aimed at the away fans ring around the stadium as the game restarts, but then dissipates in to whistles in an attempt to persuade the referee to do likewise. He does! It’s over! Three points! Not a sad face in the stadium (apart from the away support obviously). Your team comes over and claps you for your support, and you respond with cheers and claps of appreciation for them for not giving up.
As you exit the stadium, fans exchange views on the events of the game. All in high spirits and proud of what they’ve just seen. Phones come out as people look up the league table and check out all the other days’ scores. If your rival has dropped a clanger as well, bonus.
Football is a sport about emotion. Those who are dedicated to their teams feel part of something. It’s somewhat tribal in its nature. You follow come hell or high water, in the good times and bad. When you lose, you’re in despair, in victory, you burst with joy.
Non-football fans struggle to see why we care about what seems like something rather unimportant. It is because it is a distraction from our mundane lives; it is a release valve, a chance for us to feel a bond with others, to show solidarity with a cause. If you’re not a football fan, you truly are missing something that makes the world just a little bit brighter.
One thing certain about Britain is that we are a nation of pet lovers. As they say, “dogs are a man’s best friend”, and cats are probably the female equivalent. Why do we love these flea covered furballs though?
The pet industry is a booming one. It is estimated to be worth just under £2 billion in the UK. With 6 million households having a dog, and 5.3 million have a cat. Even in tough economic times, we still spend a mass amount of money on our furry friends
The reason behind this is because we just simply can’t resist the “AWWW” factor. The feeling we get when we see a picture of a rabbit with a pancake on its head, or a kitten that’s fallen asleep on top of your washing in the laundry basket. (Note, remove kitten before completing washing). They have a knack of just doing adorable things…
Go to a large pet store nowadays and you will instantly be hit with an intriguing murky smell, the smell of dried food and rabbit droppings. You can walk in for a dog lead and end up coming out with a gerbil, a ferret and a monitor lizard. Instead of just selling the odd pet essential such as food, they have now become mini zoos. Useful for any cash strapped parent who wants to entertain their child for an afternoon, free of charge.
Pet shops do sell some utter pointless items though. Due to the previously mentioned “AWWW” factor, we now waste tons of money on buying our pets ridiculous things. We’re keen to spoil them, and you can buy just about anything you can imagine. I was staggered to find you can buy special dog gravy, either in beef or chicken. But that’s not all, you can give them a toy rubber chicken, and a squeaky toy in the shape of a rolled up newspaper. Yes, because dogs REALLY fetch us the papers now don’t they? Oh how hilariously cute this incorrect stereotype is.
I’ve never understood why cats are such a popular pet. OK, they are aesthetically pleasing, I’ll give you that. But they have absolutely no sense of loyalty whatsoever. They contribute nothing to life. They wake up, eat their breakfast, bugger off for 8 hours, come back, eat more food, go to sleep until morning, repeat. That is their whole life cycle; we get nothing in return from them. They basically just eat us out of our house, and guaranteed when they’re out for the day, they are eating other people out of their houses. I’m not saying I dislike cats, but they do infuriate me with their incredible acts of selfishness. They do some amusing things mind, like this superb ninja cat…
At least dogs are useful. They do what they’re told, and will stick with you. They can be trained to be guides for the blind, giving their owners a new lease of life. When was the last time you saw a guide cat, hey? Dogs have been known to help save swimmers that have experienced difficulties, as well as find people trapped under rubble after a natural disaster. Then there are police sniffer dogs, using that wet nose of theirs to find 6 grams of cocaine stuck up a dealer’s backside.
"Yeah, I totally rock this outfit, man........save me please"
One thing that makes me truly wonder what the world is coming to is pet owners who choose to dress their dogs up. I distrust every single one of you vehemently. Padded clothes for winter walks I can just about live with, but dressing your pet up in fancy dress costumes is verging on animal cruelty in my eyes. Do you seriously think your little Mr. Biggles wants to be wearing a pirate outfit? It gets worse when Christmas arrives; we shove on them stupid red Santa outfits and stick antlers on their heads. When I look at a dog dressed like this, I only see a face of misery staring back at me.
I also hate poncy owners, such as those who decide to enter their dogs in to Crufts. What is the bloody point of Crufts? That show says more about the owners than the dogs. Trust me; the dogs don’t want to be there at all. It’s exhibitionism by these bastards who want to heap misery on these dogs by conning them in to doing things with the promise of treats. It makes me sick.
These owners subject their dogs to hours of humiliation and indignation by training them to do something just for their own pompous gratification. They’re so snooty that they comb every strand of their hair to make them look immaculate under the lights, and then parade them in front of obnoxious judges in a bid to seek pathetic approval.
I would love to see the role reversed; let’s have the dogs lead the stupid owners around the course whilst they wear ludicrous outfits. Tie bows around their ears and dangle a Mars Bar on a piece of string in front of them to get them to move their fat arses. Dance human! You will dance!
We can tell how much we love our pets because of the public attention they get when a story involving them is in the media. None more so than the furore that resulted from an idiotic woman who was walking down a street, and was caught on CCTV stopping to stroke a cat on a wall, before unexpectedly grabbing it by the scruff of the neck and dropping it in a wheelie bin. She even received death threats for this incident. This shortly was followed with the story of a 22 year old woman who chose to dye her cat bright pink with food colouring so it would match her hair. Perhaps she’d been watching too many Pink Panther cartoons.
"I'm off"
Then there are those with more exotic pets, in particular, snakes. A number of times you hear reports of snakes disappearing. There was one story of a man transporting an 8ft Boa Constrictor in the boot of his car, and chose to pull over and open it up to allow the snake some air. But it escaped and did a runner. How the hell does an 8ft snake escape from under your nose like that? It was later found in a nearby garden.
Recently, a Crawley man named David Jones, is claiming the world record for the longest time spent living with snakes. He spent 114 days sharing a room, measuring only 4m x 5m, at a South African wildlife park with 40 poisonous snakes, which included Puff Adders, Black Mambas, Boomslangs and Cobras. You’d love to be his neighbour now wouldn’t you?
Even television has become obsessed with our animals. We had ‘Pets Win Prizes’, where people completed various tasks alongside their pet to win mediocre prizes. Then there was the inexplicable ‘One Man and his Dog’, a show which strangely towed the line between hypnotic and boredom. The show challenged old country folk, dressed completely in tweed and a flat cap, to guide a herd of sheep around a course and in to a pen using their trusty sheepdog. It took place out in the middle of nowhere, normally during a severe downpour or in gloomy fog. Most of the programme had the sheep running aimlessly around in circles with the bloke yelling and giving various whistles, which the dog chose to completely ignore.
Possibly the biggest contribution pets have made to television is to the BBC’s ‘Animal Hospital’. Owners would bring their pets in to an RSPCA hospital to be diagnosed for various illnesses by a vet, whilst Australian wobble-board enthusiast Rolf Harris looked on, and at times helped in any way he could. After every procedure, they would be taken to a holding room full of various animals, all with comical cones around their necks.
The show did have some immense moments of poignancy, showing the incredible bond some people have towards their pets. Any animal that had serious problems was described by Rolf as a “poor little blighter”, and most shows ended with him giving a short piece to camera, telling us that the last pet on the show either didn’t make it due to extreme injury or had to be ‘put down’. As a kid that’s just what you want to hear just before you go to bed at 9 o’clock at night isn’t it? “Before you sleep tonight kids, I’ll just tell you this cute fluffy animal snuffed it. Sweet dreams.”
It wasn’t all sadness though, there were some amusing moments. Mainly when animals just wouldn’t let the vet anywhere near them, or tried to make a bid for freedom. Some animals went psychotic, like this cat…
I’m sure most of you have had a pet at some point in your life, I myself have had quite a few, all of which have now long passed away or have just inexplicably disappeared.
I once had a rabbit, but it wasn’t exactly a friendly one. It wouldn’t let you get anywhere near it. It became apparent why after discovering it was in fact a wild rabbit. We chose to release it back to its true home in a field so it could run amok, excessively procreate and eat farmer’s vegetables. I still wonder what it did with its life; maybe it got a starring role in a remake of ‘Fatal Attraction‘.
Robert, the Giant Rabbit
My rabbit was nothing compared to the infamous ‘Robert’ though. Robert was a giant rabbit born in Germany, and weighed a humongous 23 pounds (10.4 kilograms). Its owner, Karl Szmolinsky, has bred rabbits all his life and in 2007 he agreed to sell some of them, including Robert, to North Korea in a bid to start a breeding program as a way to ease short food supplies. The idea was to allow them to procreate to form a continuous supply of rabbit meat. However, upon safely arriving in North Korea, it is believed they were taken straight to a birthday banquet for the leader Kim-Jong il, and eaten.
During my youth, I’ve also been the owner of three goldfish, all of which I named Bob. I fed them well, cleaned their tanks and tried to be a good owner. But after about 3 months, I would end up finding them floating on the top of the tank. No idea what was wrong, but clearly it seemed I wasn’t fit to own them. So now I happily own a digital one on a phone app. Actually, it’s a Parrot Cichlid fish, bit more exotic. It’s already outlasted all of them, so happy days.
Not only that, but I also had a hamster. What is more therapeutic than watching a hamster run around a wheel for hours on end? It didn’t take a particular liking to me however, and chose to sink its teeth in to my thumb, causing me to bleed profusely. I can tell you quite honestly, I wouldn’t recommend it.
Even though I am suspicious of them, I’ve had a few cats in my time. At one point, I had three cats at the same time, and they were lunatics. I walked out in to my garden once to be greeted with a dead rabbit. Not just one that had suffered from bite wounds, but in an incredibly barbarous act, it had been decapitated. Its body and its head were laying right there. It was one of the weirdest things I’d ever seen. Clearly, one of my cats went on a hunt, made its kill and brought me back a sick trophy. I didn’t know which the culprit was though.
Not only that, but on the very same day, I witnessed one of them drag a blackbird in to my conservatory that they’d just slaughtered. Whilst I was sitting there minding my own business, he decided to eat it whole. And I mean all of it. There was a bird, and then there wasn’t. Not only that but every bite was accompanied by an incredible crunching noise. I couldn’t believe the savagery I was witnessing.
All the dogs I’ve had have been very pleasant, apart from trying to hump my leg but that’s the same for any dog. Now, I have no pets (apart from digital Bob of course), although I’ve always had an urge to buy a chinchilla. No idea why, it might just be the name. Recently I’ve also had the temptation to buy some land or hermit crabs to keep as an obscure pet. The trouble with this however, is that telling someone “I have crabs” is not a good conversation starter.
"Look in to my eyes, you want to buy a Chinchilla..."
