The Sheen-a-morphosis

It was a bright and warm March day in Mexico, and the clocks were striking thirteen; cue my dad purchasing a striped brown bowling shirt which would make Charlie Sheen blush.

The conversation goes thus:

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“You know... That thing... On your chest... The baggy thing coloured like a poo.”

“It’s a shirt George, just bought it over there. What, don’t you like it?” *unknowing and deluded grin*

At this stage I’m beginning to admire his ability to lie; but the smile on his sunburnt chops doesn’t falter. He loves this icky personification of shit. He stands defiant, unknowing in the face of all the appalled Consuelas and disbelieving Pedros wandering past.

“It’s... Different.” Lacking in the necessary cruelty, I don’t know whether it’s a growing sensitivity or genuine shock that holds me back. Just as I’m about to pipe up, a street vendor gazes over longingly and admiringly in our direction.

“Nice shirt!” *unknowing and deluded grin*

The same smile, on a different face, again unfaltering. I think Gary might have just found his true kindred spirit in the most unexpected of places.

Satan’s Waddling Hench-Hound

The humble sausage dog, or amiable dachshund, is not a cuddly frankfurter of joy; nor is it a harmless oblong of shits and giggles. In fact, it’s an indirect perpetrator of attempted murder. That’s right, a sausage dog was responsible for me almost getting turned into roadkill by a lorry.

Etiquette is required when it comes to ‘I’m riding a bicycle and want to bring my sausage dog along with me’, in my opinion. Picture the scene: sprightly brunette cycles around the corner as I approach it on my lunchtime jog; I smile politely and squeeze onto the road to let her pass. Once I turn the corner (and she is at least 10 yards away), what I initially assume to be an obese rat leaps up at me. The natural and manly reaction, which I obviously took, was to scream like a three year old girl and jump into the road, whereby I was tooted by an angry Phil Mitchell lookalike in a Transit van. As I collected myself, and checked to see if I still possessed a set of testes after being such a wuss, I stared down to meet the eyes of my nemesis; cold, bleak and pompous. The type of glare which Piers Morgan gives himself when he’s staring into the mirror, wanking furiously.

What is the sausage dog etiquette? Surely it has to be on a lead, otherwise this act of narrowly avoided manslaughter will occur on countless occasions again; and I have no desire to press charges on a creature so perilously shaped like a chipolata.

*rant* x

The Nutter and the Putter...

Mention the name Craig Bellamy, and what does it muster within you as a football fan? Is it thoughts of his masterful performance against the usually mighty Manchester United last season, plundering two unlikely goals for their sky blue rivals? Is it recollections of his exciting emergence at Newcastle, under the tutelage of the legendary Bobby Robson and with the guidance of super Alan Shearer playing alongside him? Most likely, no. What you’ll remember, unfortunately for the fiery Welshman, are the abusive texts sent to the iconic Shearer in April 2005 after the Geordies’ F.A. Cup Semi defeat to Man. Utd, whilst Bellamy was on loan from Newcastle to Celtic. Or perhaps the manner in which he whacked John Arne Riise with a golf club in February 2007 on a team bonding trip will live long in the memory. The reason for this outburst, apparently, relating to Riise’s reluctance to sing karaoke. I love a drunken sing song as much as the next man, but if a supposed pal of mine didn’t fancy blasting out a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, my natural inclination wouldn’t be to pulverise him into oblivion. ‘The Nutter with the Putter’ thought otherwise, however!

All this without recalling his criminal trial in November 2006 for purportedly assaulting two women in Cardiff; although cleared of all charges after a brief trial lasting five days, a cloud of trouble endless circles around Bellamy. One could attribute this to a competitive spirit that never ceases to diminish, or the teenage torment he experienced when, as a feisty 15 year old in Cardiff, he left to join Norwich and struggled to settle in without the support of family and friends around him. Regardless, the ‘little man syndrome’ Bellamy so epitomises has systematically tainted the career of a man described as ‘a great player wrapped round an unusual and volatile character’ by none other than his former manager, the late Bobby Robson. Does his mercurial talent excuse or justify in any way the petulant outbursts he seems to specialise in? Should football clubs tolerate his unpredictability whilst keeping the golf clubs carefully hidden away?

Bellamy’s talent is undeniable, not necessarily because of his impressive goal scoring statistics; despite not being an out and out striker, a scoring ratio of approximately 0.35 goals a game throughout a fairly lengthy career makes for attractive reading. It’s a shame, therefore, that for every two goals scored whilst (thus far) darkening the doorstep of nine clubs, Bellamy has also collected a yellow card. His disciplinary record, both on and off the pitch, is not only questionable; it’s pretty appalling.

Nevertheless, many that have worked with Bellamy have cited his keen sense of humour and will to succeed as character traits which, on the whole, override the storm clouds hanging over his peanut-shaped head. He attributes the time spent in East London at West Ham as the happiest of his career, in a recent interview with the Daily Mail; again though, the boy from the valleys is a contradiction in terms. If he was so happy, why did he flee like Speedy Gonzales straight into the arms of Sheikh Mansour? Only the most generous of observers would conclude that it was solely to work with his former Wales manager, Mark Hughes; to believe Bellamy merely went to the blue side of Manchester to join a club with a rich wealth of history and success would be equally foolhardy. The man is, like many a modern footballer, a financial mercenary. That’s not to discredit him, because if you have a valuable service to provide, and someone offers you an increase in cash to strut your stuff on a Saturday afternoon, then why not? Hell, if you fancy it Craig, bring your golf clubs along for the ride. But let’s get real here; the man was lying when he claimed to be truly happy at the Hammers. For all of the rich history resonating through the annals of Man City, the Boleyn Ground provides its own ample selection of heroes and grand occasions past. After all, they won the World Cup in 1966, didn’t they? Jury might be out on that one...

Bellamy, at the grand old age of 31, has in his own words mellowed out a smidge. ‘Now I do the school run, train, pick up my daughter, I am living in the real world and I am a father now. That has given me more satisfaction than football, in terms of responsibility, being here with your children day-in, day-out.‘ Before you descend all lovey dovey into the notion that our Craig is now a chilled out dude, spending his days knitting in a rocking chair out on the porch, remember two things: John Terry was once voted dad of the year, and look at how that turned out. Secondly, Bellamy has recently courted the headlines for the wrong reasons once more; after a ‘handbags at dawn’ skirmish with Reading F.C. players down the tunnel, his club Cardiff were fined £5,000. Although cleared of any wrongdoing personally, rumours were circulated that ‘The Nutter with the Putter’ had again instigated trouble. That same storm cloud rearing its ugly head yet again...

England shouldn’t take Bellamy lightly however; quick, direct and technically gifted, he can cause the Three Lions’ backline a hell of a lot of problems. He lacks the ability to completely turn defenders inside out a la Ryan Giggs circa 1999, yet still possesses a wily ability to surprise and perform on the most highly charged of occasions. Harking back to my original point, I ask myself: what does the name Craig Bellamy muster in my imagination?

Away to Barcelona, Champions League Last 16 tie, the first match immediately after the karaoke chaos with John Arne Riise. Bellamy equalises, sarcastically celebrates with the swing of an imaginary golf club, then poetically assists Riise for the winner.

England, be warned.

What are your opinions on Craig Bellamy? Do you think he’s finally found his level in the championship? Is he the man to watch on Saturday? Let me know all of your views, or tweet me: www.twitter.com/highlystrungyng

Got 99 Problems But the Nickname Ain’t One

Spongebob Squarepants. Cuddly figure of cute, innocent joy? Or perhaps, for the drained parent among you, a square-shaped and puss-coloured ball of crap whose repetitive catchphrases are really beginning to get on your tits. However, irrespective of your opinion on the cheesy kitchen sponge with the helium balloon high voice, would you classify him as this: a vicious and unwanted nickname which, if you’re unlucky enough to be known by, could net you £142,000? Yep, me neither.

Mrs. Licia Faithful, formerly of AXA PPP Healthcare, has been awarded the gargantuan sum from an employment tribunal in Ashford, Kent; citing extreme emotional stress, the 31 year old of Brazilian descent claimed depression and post-traumatic stress as a direct consequence of her ordeal.

Now, I don’t know about you guys, but that’s not an awful nickname to have. There are some truly cruel ones out there, most gluing themselves to you like a stick of insulting chewing gum well into the rigours of adulthood. I went to school with a kid who had the unfortunate coincidence of having a first name sounding eerily like ‘minge’; no surprises for guessing what he had to put up with. Which, to some of you and especially me when I was 13, seemed the height of hilarity; he might have thought differently however after several years of being referred to as a synonym for vagina. (If he ever gets to read this, let’s hope I don’t have to contribute a portion of the 142 grand he’ll inevitably receive!) What are the ingredients of a decent nickname, you may ask? There are two to be precise, in my opinion: it has to be at least ever so slightly cruel, and also make you laugh; preferably, it should be a play on their name too, a la Mr. Minge mentioned above.

Some names really do cross the hazy line into downright wrong, but I can only recall one which, coincidentally, I heard of recently. The guy I was speaking to was a friend of a friend (also very hazy, may I add), and was regaling me with a tale of his grandfather’s childhood pet. The lovable scamp of a puppy was (get this), called ‘Nigger’. To further reinforce the fact this was post war north London, a West Indian family on the same street would quite happily pet the dog, contentedly calling the mutt by its morally questionable first name. Alas, this was a different time and place, but it supplies a clear indication of how culture and environment play the pivotal role in deciding whether or not something is termed as ‘appropriate’. Now, back to little old me dear readers.

I was referred to, VERY UNTRUTHFULLY (okay, I may have been on the chubby side aged 10 or so), as ‘Rikishi’. For those of you not versed in the fine art of turn of the millennium wrestling superstars, here’s the big guy in question:

I would like to stress, for the record, that I have never sported such horrific peroxide cornrows. Nor have I ever grinded my arse into some unfortunate bystander’s face. Unless they asked me to, in which case I charged a small fee.

I suppose my point is this: no matter how frustrating it may be, as a young and popularity obsessed pre-teen, you gradually gain the balls to say: f*$& you, as the Cee-Lo tune goes. Or, in my case, run your arse around the block a few times and ask your mother politely to stop buying chicken & mushroom flavoured pot noodles.

Or, ultimately, my point may be this: WHERE THE F*$& IS MY 142 GRAND!?

Peace out possums. x

Wayne the Pain?

Re: Daily Mail article 22/03/11

‘Capello wants to unleash Rooney AND Carroll against Wales’

Fabio Capello, like many an impressionable lady before him, seems to love a bad boy; where Ulrika Jonsson had Stan Collymore, he has John Terry. Where the talented yet demented Whitney Houston had Bobby Brown, Fab apparently covets the emerging caveman figure of Andy Carroll. Undoubtedly, he is a gifted young footballer, but my question is this: is the Carroll/Rooney partnership the best big man/little man partnership we have leading into the Euros next summer? Or is it a mere shadow upon the Heskey/Owen partnership which preceded it a decade before?

Capello is eager to start the two together in this weekend’s upcoming qualifier against the Welsh. However, he will be choosing in Rooney a player who, despite his technical brilliance, has been more interested over the last 12 months in bedding women who look almost as troll-like as him. His scoring statistics this season in the mighty red of Man. Utd are as follows: 26 games played, 9 goals; a dismal 7 in the Premier League. Contrast that with last season (42 games, 34 goals), and the problem becomes all too apparent. But it’s the manner in which he’s played that’s so troubling! For a man who prides himself on aggression, exquisite touch and fierce hunger to win at any cost, he has often looked lethargic and one step off the pace just as Fernando Torres has since joining Chelsea. The argument is, of course, that Rooney is reliable in pressure situations (despite looking well into his 30s, he’s only 25 remember). Nonetheless, who can forget the tired and predictable performances he turned in during South Africa 2010; think less of an English lion, and more of a Scouse kitten. Rooney, despite popular protestations to the contrary, doesn’t always deliver the goods when it matters.

Carroll has worn the £35 million price tag on his broad shoulders pretty well since moving to Liverpool. Although he’s barely been able to play and made less of an impression than his strike partner Luis Suarez (a great addition to the Prem), the Geordie looked excellent when he played most of the game against Sunderland. His touch was vastly better than Rooney’s has been of late, and his eagerness to please borders on the comical at times (like a dog chasing its own tail), but the man is deceptively agile. Of course, he has also courted seediness in the same way his new strike partner has, but he looks less like a balding Gremlin than Rooney, so we’ll forgive him for that.

However, I propose this as the better solution; start Carroll, yes. He looks surprisingly sharp after coming back from the thigh injury that plagued him. Cast Rooney to the bench in favour of the one English striker this season that has consistently scored, also without the help of a top four team behind him: Darren Bent. I know his scoring rate has slowed down as of late, his effectiveness in the past for England has been questionable, bla bla etc. etc.

Bent is the most natural goalscorer in the box since Michael Owen could actually kick a ball without making an arse of himself. He possesses true pace, instinctive finishing and works harder for the team than he used to. His ability to handle the pressure has improved since leaving Tottenham, where he was unappreciated and underutilised. Bent runs the risk of being the next Andy Cole: a highly effective club striker who never made the grade at international level; now is his time. He has probably peaked at this age (27). Give the guy a chance Fabio!

I don’t propose Carroll/Bent as the next Shearer/Sheringham or anything like that; nevertheless, as a temporary solution, it beats the big man/ugly ogre combo of Carroll/Rooney.

Do you think Carroll/Rooney is the next strike partnership for England? What would be your team selection for Saturday? If you have any other thoughts and opinions about issues leading up to the match, e.g. Terry the wanker back as captain, leave your opinions here or tweet me at: www.twitter.com/highlystrungyng

Cheers petals. x