I like Peter Crouch. There’s a connection with the big fella. We both love a sour cream Pringle, spontaneously break into robot impressions and enjoy the company of unfeasibly fit women. In May, 'two metre Peter' also nodded in the most important goal in recent Spurs history while making Kolo Toure dangle in the air like an Abidjan street puppet. What’s not to like.
Yet, according to those moral standard bearers, the News of the World Big Pete has gone and done the dirty on fiancée and Tottenham’s first lady Abigail Clancy (who stood in so admirably last season for the on loan Danielle Lloyd-O’Hara). I almost gagged on my coke. The Daily Mail claimed these unproven allegations of a highly personal nature had brought new shame to the England football team for which Crouch was not selected. My Lithuanian hooker and I both agreed, it was a dreadful state of affairs and immediately boycotted Wednesday’s England vs Hungary friendly.
Now dear Abi has apparently sought solace from tabloid tormented Toni Terry who has similarly suffered from unproven allegations in the French letter department regarding former 'Daddy of the Year' and 'hubby of the moment' John Terry. I bet Abi and Toni are on the Chablis now..half way into a Sex and the City boxset.
So will Abi ditch Crouchy and SMS your Lust Doctor for a Cheryl and Derek style vacation (sans malaria)? Will the big fella poke another one in against Manchester City on Saturday and give the Paxton an impromptu pole dance by the corner flag? Paul the Psychic Octopus’s mobile is engaged so I couldn’t tell you.
But let’s hope they make it away from the sleazy glare of the tabloid spotlight. The best thing about the breaking up is the making up. So Abi: “Whatever Crouchy said, whatever Crouchy did, he didn’t mean it (he was wankered), he just wants you back for good...wants you back...wants you back...he wants you back for good."
Monday, August 9, 2010
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Cheap thrills
Some people love to play the poor card. ‘I am skint’ they say, before cosying up to someone else’s girlfriend rather than pay for their own.
They are bad debtors. 'I’ll sort you out at the end of the month when I get paid.' They have bad memories. Five weeks later…you are still waiting. They all have 'pay as you' go mobiles and never make calls.
On eBay you will find them trading as hopeful salesmen. They hawk secondhand boxer shorts and used trainers. You can almost imagine their startled horror and bemusement as the clock ticks down and there are no bids. ‘I would have bought that’ they think. But they wouldn’t.
Their feet become leaden when they enter pubs or bars….they gently fall to the back of the pack without anyone noticing. They are always the last person to buy a round. Sometimes they miss the round. They never buy two rounds. Ever.
They shouldn’t be anyone’s friend, but they owe a lot of people money. So we stay in touch….until they sort us out at the end of the month.
They are bad debtors. 'I’ll sort you out at the end of the month when I get paid.' They have bad memories. Five weeks later…you are still waiting. They all have 'pay as you' go mobiles and never make calls.
On eBay you will find them trading as hopeful salesmen. They hawk secondhand boxer shorts and used trainers. You can almost imagine their startled horror and bemusement as the clock ticks down and there are no bids. ‘I would have bought that’ they think. But they wouldn’t.
Their feet become leaden when they enter pubs or bars….they gently fall to the back of the pack without anyone noticing. They are always the last person to buy a round. Sometimes they miss the round. They never buy two rounds. Ever.
They shouldn’t be anyone’s friend, but they owe a lot of people money. So we stay in touch….until they sort us out at the end of the month.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Things fall apart
….he almost flies past the bus stop, a jagged leaf on the breeze, grey boxers, three-quarters showing, rude boy in white, youngish geezer, good looking council, gets plenty, probably, purpose straining his sinews, angry cry poised in his lungs, target not immediately obvious, suddenly stops, a pear-shaped woman in a blue tank top, over-sized shades, older and mismatched, shoving her pushchair like a secondhand piano, suddenly stops, he leans in angrily, pushes his jaw right up to her face, she doesn’t flinch, his mean whispers inaudible, brief and nasty, he suddenly pivots, flies back past the bus stop, to his life more desirable, you’re not a dad you’re not even a man, she yells after him, he does not glance back at his medusa, his past, she pushes the baggage of their love forward, the only way she can, in the opposite direction….
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The bump of the dice
Scrambled eggs in a New York diner around 10am, long after the Wall Street rush and the tide of cell phones to ears and Italian suits immacolato, draining the black coffee refills too quickly without considering the gut, thoughts turn to home, the mess back there, confused like spilled spaghetti, lying misdirected and tangled.
Nearby a derelict in a red woollen hat, pulled right down to his eyebrows, a dead ringer for a 1977 Richard Pryor, opens the doors to a Broadway McDonalds for every visiting and departing customer, his easy charm soothing what could appear an aggressive panhandle. A dollar or more earns a “God bless you and America…this is gonna be your lucky day today...I can feel it.” No dollars earns a smile and no judgment. He is in all senses cool with the game, however unexpected the bump of the dice.
The hot dogs are sizzling early and there are plenty of takers, heartburn riskers and Weight Watchers dropouts, waiting in line with rumbles in tummies and rumbles in minds, yellow taxis swim through all obstacles like deep sea shoals darting this way and that, and it’s on to the next stop, for all of us, wherever that may be…..
Nearby a derelict in a red woollen hat, pulled right down to his eyebrows, a dead ringer for a 1977 Richard Pryor, opens the doors to a Broadway McDonalds for every visiting and departing customer, his easy charm soothing what could appear an aggressive panhandle. A dollar or more earns a “God bless you and America…this is gonna be your lucky day today...I can feel it.” No dollars earns a smile and no judgment. He is in all senses cool with the game, however unexpected the bump of the dice.
The hot dogs are sizzling early and there are plenty of takers, heartburn riskers and Weight Watchers dropouts, waiting in line with rumbles in tummies and rumbles in minds, yellow taxis swim through all obstacles like deep sea shoals darting this way and that, and it’s on to the next stop, for all of us, wherever that may be…..
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Bare facts
If no-one wore clothes there would be less lies. Push-up bra manufacturers would be among the first to go bust.
Extreme diets would be impractical. Over-skinny girls would no longer be the secret of their mirrors or boyfriends. You’d find one hiding behind every lamppost waiting for the pavement to clear.
Women would never drop keys. All men would carry newspapers. And there would be more truth understood in churches than ever before.
Extreme diets would be impractical. Over-skinny girls would no longer be the secret of their mirrors or boyfriends. You’d find one hiding behind every lamppost waiting for the pavement to clear.
Women would never drop keys. All men would carry newspapers. And there would be more truth understood in churches than ever before.
Monday, June 9, 2008
When 4 x 7 equals nothing
They make sure you don’t get it at school. Sat in rows of four by seven being taught by experts in their second choice career. Malleable drones, having your ability to think for yourself erased and made redundant like Betamax. Your questions are not the answers the OCR Examination Board is looking for….so get in line or fail.
Ten years later those 20k-a-year jobs are still 20k-a-year; the details of your emails and texts are retained for ‘your own safety’; politicians step right in unison, the house keys of their subsidised London homes jangling in their pockets.
People complain on phone-ins, usually buoyed by prejudice rather than solidarity; their revolution ends as the radio presenter cuts them off in mid-flow or their girlfriend replaces her earphones….their wife replaces her earplugs.
The illusion of freedom persists until you stand up and hit your head on the glass ceiling.
Stand up.
Ten years later those 20k-a-year jobs are still 20k-a-year; the details of your emails and texts are retained for ‘your own safety’; politicians step right in unison, the house keys of their subsidised London homes jangling in their pockets.
People complain on phone-ins, usually buoyed by prejudice rather than solidarity; their revolution ends as the radio presenter cuts them off in mid-flow or their girlfriend replaces her earphones….their wife replaces her earplugs.
The illusion of freedom persists until you stand up and hit your head on the glass ceiling.
Stand up.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Nun the wiser
Where I grew up, good-looking women were like tornadoes; you hoped one might arrive to improve the scenery, but they never did. Local men were therefore forced to aim low…a peroxide blonde with a dirty laugh from the local council estate received much the same attention as Giselle strolling around St. Tropez in a day-glo thong.
In these barren times, I was set-up (possibly framed) with a Catholic girl called Mary. “She really likes you,” said her friend who I was more interested in. “Meet her on the bench outside the Women’s Institute at 8pm.”
With few sparks flying between young Mary and I, the relationship was over before it started, but with no number to call I had to turn up in person to break the ‘bad news’. Just as I was about to leave late at 8.15pm, my mother presented me with a meal she had cooked in near-secrecy….I had no choice but to temporarily abort my plans and eat while she sat on the other side of the dining table nodding in approval.
At 8.45pm, I arrived at the rendezvous point expecting to find Mary long gone, but she was still there, sitting hopefully in a conservative blouse and pointy shoes, fiddling with a conspicuously large handbag (big enough to conceal a crucifix and holy water should the need arise). She smiled at me for the first and last time. “Sorry I’m late….but this isn’t working out…….” Three minutes later the date was consigned to history.
“Her parents are strict Catholics. She is only allowed to go out once a month. Last night was it!” explained her friend the next day. “Mary’s very angry. You’ve put her off men completely. She’s talking about becoming a nun and her parents have said they will back her all the way.”
I have been filling convents ever since.
In these barren times, I was set-up (possibly framed) with a Catholic girl called Mary. “She really likes you,” said her friend who I was more interested in. “Meet her on the bench outside the Women’s Institute at 8pm.”
With few sparks flying between young Mary and I, the relationship was over before it started, but with no number to call I had to turn up in person to break the ‘bad news’. Just as I was about to leave late at 8.15pm, my mother presented me with a meal she had cooked in near-secrecy….I had no choice but to temporarily abort my plans and eat while she sat on the other side of the dining table nodding in approval.
At 8.45pm, I arrived at the rendezvous point expecting to find Mary long gone, but she was still there, sitting hopefully in a conservative blouse and pointy shoes, fiddling with a conspicuously large handbag (big enough to conceal a crucifix and holy water should the need arise). She smiled at me for the first and last time. “Sorry I’m late….but this isn’t working out…….” Three minutes later the date was consigned to history.
“Her parents are strict Catholics. She is only allowed to go out once a month. Last night was it!” explained her friend the next day. “Mary’s very angry. You’ve put her off men completely. She’s talking about becoming a nun and her parents have said they will back her all the way.”
I have been filling convents ever since.
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