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Playing away Do those dire, dour away games cause your thoughts to wander? Have you ever found your attention completely arrested by some seductive fantasy whilst purporting to support your team in hostile climes? Yes, I'm talking Deepdale Throat, if not Last Tango at Gay Meadow. If this is troublesome, let me share with you my system for diverting one's thoughts to matters so tedious that the football finally offers some salvation, just as Jim's Big Break might provide intellectual nourishment to someone released from a decade of sensory deprivation. There again, this might only provoke the reaction, 'Give me back my coma, you tosser!' No matter, try concentrating your mind on some or all of the following topics at your next away game as and when the need emerges. Only your libido will be disappointed. The unusual alignment of platforms at Raynes Park station Now, if you need a copy of the Railtrack Year Book to help you make it through the night you'd better skip to the next item. Damon Albarn Blur fans might protest that the virtual orifice is not at all tedious. The case for the prosecution, M'Iud, rests entirely upon Allbran's seminal appearance on a television programme called Fantasy Football League, once popular before the BBC decided to grant Frank Skinner a Life Peerage in comedy. Not only did the aforesaid Allbran fail to acquit himself with distinction, he also failed to acquit himself at all. On the paradoxical counts of being a hole in the air and a total armpit, I ask the court to find the defendant guilty as charged. Fin rot Actually, as I found at the last dinner party I ever attended many years ago, this topic offers excellent prospects of release from those insidiously reciprocal social engagements which really bugger up the lives of Blind Date completists. (Actually following Burnley plays havoc with the lives of serious Cillaphiliacs too. Okay, I’m hopelessly infatuated with her. I've even modelled my bed in her image. It cheerily welcomes me with 'Hello, chuck' whenever I collapse on it, which is very often indeed.) On the other hand the leaflet explaining the cure for fin rot will make your eyes glaze over quicker than you can mutter bloody Robert Robinson. A must for your next Mogadon party. Ring Binder Round-up Did you know that polypropylene helps to make a more robust binder? Probably not. This quarterly periodical certainly makes Concrete Monthly seem like a racy read. A pantographIt sounds salacious but it is not, unless you are easily aroused by a West Coast express. Subsidiarity A metaphor for the Endsleigh League? In any event you may recall that this was one of Douglas Hurd's favourite words. In fact, whenever he came out with it Big Wednesday was immediately signalled for the average channel surfer. But I had to admire his ever-so-reasonable way of making bollocks, like Maastricht opt-out clauses and Pergau, sound carefully considered. If only Jimmy followed suit. He could then get away with five at the back (a Peterborough Postscript: sorry Jimmy, how could I be so, so wrong? Purge me of my apostasy, wretched unbeliever that I am), with the ‘pre-season games came too early’, with any old crap, really. (Alright, quite good crap, then.) Dave Lee Travis et al I know this is barn door target practice, but exactly what sort of national treasure did Travis consider himself to be that only a public resignation would suffice? Mind you, what precisely was the legacy of Simon Bates apart from a chronic disservice to Britain’s diabetics? A Bernard Manning routine would surely be more acceptable to a women’s refuge than Steve Wright in the after life. Surely, some sort of subliminal fatwa must have been issued to ensure that there was any listening public for this lot. It does seem remarkable that Chris Evans is seen to represent a figure of salvation of Roland Rate proportions. But surely his sycophantic entourage cannot be real? Wherever Evans appears, he seems to be accompanied by a collection of cerebral amputees capable of laughing loudly off camera, off studio, off whatever, at anything redolent with the subtlety and wit of Gordon Brittas. Whether canned or incarnate, this merry band of brown nose are to be welcomed with as much enthusiasm as a collection plate for Paedophile Information Exchange at an infant school nativity play. If a bit of serious pondering on this lot doesn’t do the trick, try visiting Homebase on a Saturday afternoon instead. You’ll be back on the 8.30 am off Euston in next to no time, ready to give another undistinguished performance your undivided attention. You won't even mind the diversion via Northampton on the already heavily delayed return journey from a home match against Swansea. So, plagiarising the S & M chant, 'What do we want?' 'More Pain!' 'When do we want it?’ 'Now!’ Tim QuelchDecember-January 1995-96 |