Saturday, 22 February 2014

Proper Chaps


Another piece originally published in Some Sunny Day, this is the unexpurgated version, although I don't think the published version was particularly heavily edited.

            It is well known that Paul Tisdale has said that he likes to employ proper chaps – he described Artur Krysiak as one when he signed him – but what makes a proper chap ? I looked for advice to The Chap magazine. I e-mailed the editor. He didn’t reply. Not much of a chap, then. Or maybe with all the recent national exposure – Mirror, Times, BBC – Tis is too big for The Chap.  Although from the national coverage it would seem that it is a challenge for anyone to write an article about Tisdale without using the word ‘dapper’.  However, on The Chap’s website they have a manifesto which may provide a few pointers.

 

Thou shalt always wear tweed:  Even Tisdale himself is unlikely to qualify under this. It looks like a fall at the first hurdle, as I expect it’s a fair while since City had a tweed wearing player, even though His Vintage Life magazine have recently declared “Yes, tweed is in.” However I doubt that any of today’s youth will be at a shopping centre near you soon with tweed trousers belted half way down their legs.

Thou shalt never not smoke:  Well, we’re on safer ground with this one after all the fuss surrounding Jack Wilshere.  On the cover of the 76 -77 promotion DVD, Tony Kellow can be seen having a post-match tab whilst pouring champagne into a paper cup. Whether Kellow was a ‘proper chap’ is a matter of conjecture.  I have no idea how many, if any, of course, of the current squad smoke. Disturbingly, I think The Chap may be referring to pipe smoking as a more refined, flamboyant intake of nicotine.  Oh, and  a Modern Grammarian would say ‘thou shalt never use a double negative’.

Thou shalt always be courteous to ladies:  Think I should put this down as ‘not tested’ and move swiftly on.  Last season we did have a loan player who was accused of not being at all courteous to a lady. He was acquitted.

Thou shalt never, ever wear pantaloons de Nimes:  Or denim jeans to you and me.  Well, obviously if you always wear tweed you’d never wear jeans. Now, it is my understanding that jeans were going out of fashion as the young people associate them with their parents and old fogeys, citing Jeremy Clarkson as an example – and I’d argue that Clarkson is definitely not a proper chap.  Hence I would think the current squad may have a lot of qualifiers under this criteria but a very high number of past players would dip out. 

Thou shalt always doff one’s hat: Ah, hats. Something else Tisdale specialises in.  Not sure the woollen versions as sported by John O’Flynn – or is that his hair dyed ? – really count.  I remember Stuart Storer wearing a broad brimmed hat that led to him being compared in We’ll Score Again to one of the characters in the film Tombstone about Wyatt Earp and the OK Corral.  As to the matter of doffing, Tisdale certainly didn’t doff his natty fake fur creation when he came into the away end at Norwich a few seasons ago. But it was damn cold.

Thou shalt never fasten the lowest button on thy weskit:  Who on earth habitually where’s a weskit, sorry, waistcoat these days ?  I wrote that shortly before watching a Match of the Day where then Palace manager Ian Holloway is wearing a waistcoat.  With the lowest button fastened. Then the following day I saw James Lance in one on a MoneySupermarket ad. Again fully buttoned. And shortly afterwards, in the video of Army Of Two, Olly Murs in a waistcoat with the lowest button undone. Maybe the weskit is also making a comeback.  Particularly if it’s tweed.

Thou shalt always speak properly:  I don’t know whether it is because they have media training these days but players when interviewed by TV always seem surprisingly eloquent.  Or perhaps I have particularly low expectations.  I think even Steve Tully’s, erm, shall we say ‘fruitier’ televisual comments might still pass muster with The Chap as their beef seems to be with textspeak and slang rather than profanity. Blates.

Thou shalt never wear plimsolls when not doing sport:  It then goes on to say that a chap wouldn’t be doing sport. I think only Neil Saunders may qualify on that count.  Although they do make an exception for cricket, so Mr Tisdale’s  Lords Taverners experience and the team that played Topsham St James would qualify.  I also believe past players like Jimmy Giles and Stuart Storer were useful cricketers, and remember seeing a charity match at the County Ground – the rugby ground – at the time that Kellow and Hatch played – and Graham Weeks lived almost next door to the ground.

Thou shalt always worship the trouser press:  I suspect the hotels City stay at probably don’t have a trouser press in the room. And, once again, I’d hazard a guess that only Mr Tisdale would use one.

Thou shalt always cultivate interesting facial hair:  This is clarified by The Chap as moustaches, so Tommy Doc and Pat Baldwin’s beards don’t quite make it. And designer stubble definitely doesn’t come up to the mark.  Peter Fox’s Ned Flanders impression may just sneak in, but Stuart Storer’s tache is a certain sign that he may well be a chap.  In fact there is probably a decent eleven or even full blown squad of moustached players in City’s history.  However, they’d all be fairly uniform and probably not qualify as ‘interesting’.
Arthur Ransome
Image via Medlar Press

            So what conclusions can we draw from The Chap manifesto with regard to what  a footballing version of a ‘proper chap’ may be ?  It would’ve been a damn sight easier in Arthur Chadwick’s time to find a moustached, hatted, waistcoated gent.  And what The Chap really seems to be aiming for is a latter-day Arthur Ransome, the author of Swallows and Amazons.  Most surprisingly of all, it would appear that Tis’s next signing is most likely someone who’s been recorded correctly wearing his waistcoat, has facial hair (albeit stubble), is known to wear hats and be courteous to ladies.  Extensive research (0.25 seconds on Google; other search engines are available) tells me that he was a striker at school, played in Soccer Aid and also played for Witham Town, currently in the Ryman League North and managed by former City loanee Garry Kimble. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr Olly Murs.

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, 16 February 2014

The Blackstone Code: Episode 4


 
The story so far:  Professor Padraig O’Riordan, an expert in football cryptography at the University of Liffey (formerly Dublin Polytechnic), is visiting Preston when the curator of the National Football Museum, Jack Salter, is murdered, but Salter has mutilated himself in order to leave a clue.  Tara Farmer-Palmer (TF-P), the local constabulary’s football cryptographer, helps O’Riordan to escape from Chief Inspector Freddie Flintoff, who suspects that O’Riordan may be the culprit, in a Chieftain tank.  However, Flintoff and DS Jeremiah Fuzzyduck are in pursuit.  Now read on…

 

          The Chieftain tank turned onto the M6 Preston By-Pass.

          “OK, now we’re out of Preston, where do we go ?” asked T F-P.

          “Well, you know that cryptic clue that Jack Salter wrote on the floor in his own blood ?” said O’Riordan.

          “You mean ‘Blame sick token. Now sob true fish-face.’”

          “It’s an anagram of ‘Mike Blackstone.  The Brown Sauce Is Off.’”

          “So ?” queried T F-P.

          O’Riordan wondered why he had to explain all this to someone who was an expert in the same field as him.  But his sideline as a pulp novelist made him realise that to present it as a dialogue was the only way to avoid a long, dull explanatory paragraph.  However, this may look rather clumsy if it were to be made into a film without the help of a good script writer.

          “So,” said O’Riordan.  “That book is the key to everything.”

          “…and we’re going to Morecambe to see Mike Blackstone ?” interjected T F-P.

          The writer in O’Riordan calculated that it would be far easier to base a story on someone who was long since dead and with no living relatives.

          “No, I believe that Mike Blackstone is too secretive and will not be willing to talk about this.  And besides I think he’s at a Groundhoppers’ Weekend and Fleetwood Hesketh v. Crooklands Casuals is a 2am kick-off,” he said.  “But three people are acknowledged at the start of the book: Derek Coates, Hugh Elwood and Steve Field.  They may be able to help us.”

 

 

          Flintoff and Fuzzyduck were questioning Private Parts, who had ‘loaned’ O’Riordan and T F-P the Chieftain tank, at Kimberley Barracks.

          “So you say two people took the tank,” queried Flintoff.

          “Yes, yes,” stammered the young TA Private. “A man who said nothing and a woman, a posh woman, who said she was a Captain in the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment volunteers.”

          “Farmer-Palmer !” exclaimed Fuzzyduck.

          “Where did they go ?” barked Flintoff.

          “I don’t know !” replied the exasperated Pte Parts, now sweating profusely.

DI Flintoff suddenly burst into song for no apparent reason: “I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I’m miserable now.”

DS Fuzzyduck wondered whether he had suddenly become part of a Dennis Potter-style TV play, and that camp dancers dressed as policemen were about to flounce in, or whether to section Flintoff under the Mental Health Act.  Flintoff realised that there was no music playing and that no-one had joined in.  He coughed nervously and tried to pretend nothing had happened.

“Sir,” said Fuzzyduck.  “How difficult would it be to find a Chieftain tank in the middle of the night in Lancashire ?”

 

 

          O’Riordan pondered the three names.

          “Well, I believe Derek Coates lives on Merseyside and a Chieftain tank might not look out of place on the streets of Liverpool…” mused O’Riordan.

          “Maybe in the Eighties,” replied T F-P.

          “Besides, I think that he would just spin us one of his stories of non-existent City players from the Fifties…”

          “Hugh Elwood – The Teacher ! Of course !” cried T F-P.

          “But Newcastle’s a hell of a way to go at this time of night,” replied O’Riordan.

          “Then Steve Field it is,” said T F-P.  “Where does he live ?”

          “Not sure, but he did mention driving down the A6 to Leigh.  Have you got a map of Lancashire ?” asked O’Riordan.

          “What ? In a tank ? Where exactly ? In the glove box ?” snapped T F-P.

          “OK. OK. It may have been a stupid question. I think we may need to ditch the tank.”

 

 

          Flintoff and Fuzzyduck returned to the Incident Room in the National Football Museum.

          “Inform all officers to be on the look out for a Chieftain tank,” barked Flintoff.

          “And if they spot it, do you want to get O’Riordan and Farmer-Palmer in the interview room to see if they’ll sing ?” asked Fuzzyduck sarcastically.

          Flintoff glared at his junior unamused, but said nothing as he would never live it down back at the station.

 

 

          “If we get rid of the tank how do we get to Steve Field’s ?” queried T F-P.

          “Well,” said O’Riordan.  “I had planned to go to Carnforth Station, where they filmed Brief Encounter.  But that’s north of Morecambe, so let’s go to Lancaster (formerly known as Forton) Service Station, leave the tank and get a taxi.”

          “A taxi ? At this time of night ?!” said T F-P.

          “Well, it’s more likely than public transport.  We can have a coffee and I can tell you more about this whole thing.”

 

To be continued…

Any resemblance of any of the characters to any person, living or dead, particularly Steve Field, is purely coincidental.

Monday, 20 January 2014

Nosferatu

A colleague today brought in a heart rate monitor that fits on a finger.  Apparently I have a resting heart rate of 59 beats per minute, lower than everybody else in the office.  And almost on a level with an athlete (see chart on this page http://www.netfit.co.uk/fitness/test/resting-heart-rate.htm, I'm nearly 50). As I am clearly not an athlete, I think this may mean that I am one of the undead.

Tuesday, 14 January 2014

Chocolate Review: Wonka Crème Brûlée





Wonka Crème Brûlée - and, yes, they do include all the accents - looks much like Wonka Nice Cream, but tastes more like coffee and has gritty/ chewy bits in.  In fact, the taste is very similar to Wonka Millionaires Shortbread (see http://blogtoffee.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/chocolate-review-wonka-millionaires.html).
Hence, the overall conclusion is that this bar is a bit pointless; looks like (Not)Nice Cream, tastes like Millionaire's Shortbread.   In general I have found Wonka bars disappointing, and I do realise that they're not actually made by Oompaloompas, but I was expecting something a little more out of the ordinary. I'm assuming that this has the approval of Roald Dahl's estate, or is the Wonka name now property of a film studio ?

Thursday, 2 January 2014

Chocolate Review: Wonka's Chocolate Nice Cream

The usual Wonka packaging, and yet again no golden ticket.

Overexposed pack shot

The bar itself is rather 'flat' tasting and doesn't seem as sweet as most British chocolate.  The cream filling isn't particularly creamy, more the consistency of shaving soap, and the whole experience is rather disappointing.  Even the savour test fails to make it any more enjoyable. Having consumed the full bar I was still not tremendously impressed.  There is an 0800 phone number on the back of the packaging to ring.  Could I just phone and say that I think using the word 'nice' is against advertising standards ? Or maybe it's named after the city in the south of France.


Wednesday, 1 January 2014

The Blackstone Code: Episode 3

The story so far:  Padraig O’Riordan , Professor of Football Cryptography at the University of Liffey, has been summoned by Detective Inspector Freddie Flintoff to the National Football Museum.  The museum’s curator, Jack Salter, has been murdered, but not before mutilating himself in order to leave a cryptic clue.  The police’s Football Crypotrographer, Tara Farmer-Palmer, has persuaded him that he must escape … Now read on…

          Despite this latest turn of events, O’Riordan was wondering who would play him in a film: Liam Neeson, preferably, or James Nesbitt, possibly, but only with the Viva Zapata moustache.  But definitely not Colin Farrell.  He was still trying to think of names to use in his sideline as a pulp novelist.  He had always admired the Carry On films, with names such as WC Boggs, Sir Rodney Ffing and Sir Roger Daley. 

          Farmer-Palmer eased the fire exit open, setting the alarms off.  “Quick,” she said. “Run.”

          Where to ?” said O’Riordan, aware that there wasn’t an Irish embassy in Preston.

          Kimberley Barracks.”

          “Where ?”

          “Just down Deepdale Road,” said Farmer-Palmer.
 

“Sir,” said Detective Constable Jeremiah Fuzzyduck.  “Professor O’Riordan appears to be trying to escape.”

          “Let him go,” replied Flintoff. “We’ve got him tracked, let him run.  And turn that bloody alarm off, it’s giving me a headache.”
 

          O’Riordan and Farmer-Palmer burst into the office at Kimberley Barracks.  A startled, spotty youth, in Combat 95s, reading the latest issue of Nuts (Caution: May contain traces of Exeweb), sprang to his feet.

          What do you want ?” he sputtered.

          Farmer-Palmer replied first.  “I am Captain Farmer-Palmer of the Queens Lancashire Regiment Volunteers. I need a vehicle urgently.”

          The youth snapped to attention.  “Ma’am, I am 24703614 Private Parts of the Lancashire and Cumbria Volunteers, ma’am.”

          O’Riordan was reminded by the word “ma’am” of the time he was due to meet the Queen.  His faculty had been told that “ma’am” rhymes with ‘spam’.  When he was about to be introduced to the Queen, he ran away as he was sure that, after the initial “Your Majesty”, he would call her “Spam”.

          “Ah, Pte Parts,” said Farmer-Palmer. “I need a vehicle.”

          Pte Parts looked towards the wall on which a series of hooks hung underneath brass plaques reading ‘Land Rover’, ‘4 Tonner’, ‘All Terrain Vehicle’ etc. All the hooks were empty save one.  It was marked ‘Chieftain Tank’.

          “Erm, ma’am,” started Pte Parts hesitantly. “The unit is on exercise.  I’m the Rear Party.  All the vehicles have been taken on exercise.  Except the Chieftain.”

          “That’ll do,” snapped Farmer-Palmer (or T F-P because her name’s taking up too much space).

          O’Riordan looked at her as if she were mad.  A Chieftain Tank ? On the streets of Preston ?  Liverpool in the Eighties, maybe, but Preston ?  Even in the early hours it wouldn’t be easy to make their getaway unnoticed.  

          Pte Parts handed the keys to T F-P and directed her to the Chieftain’s hangar.

          “Could you look after this ?” asked T F-P delving into Professor O’Riordan’s jacket pocket and handing its contents to Pte Parts, who put it in his own pocket.

T F-P and O’Riordan ran to the tank. 

“Have you ever driven one of these ?” O’Riordan enquired sceptically.

“All the time,” responded T F-P.  “Get in.”

O’Riordan clambered through the hatch in the top of the Chieftain.  T F-P followed him, sliding into the driver’s seat, she started the tank with ease, using the foot pedal to move through the gears and operating the tiller lever that steered the vehicle.  O’Riordan was impressed with the way she handled the vehicle.  He was even more impressed that she hadn’t hung her handbag on the tiller levers.

“Where now ?” queried T F-P.

“Anywhere that’s out of Preston,” answered O’Riordan.  “Then I’ll explain everything.”  The pulp novelist in him thought “And about time, too”, but it would make a useful cliffhanger for the next episode.

 

Fuzzyduck looked up from his laptop. “Sir, the tracking device has been static for some time now.”

“Right,” replied Flintoff. “Time to reel him in.”

 

The Chieftain drove on through the night northwards towards the first stretch of motorway built in Britain.  The pulp novelist in O’Riordan was musing on how you sometimes have to insert an irrelevant paragraph to give the effect of the passage of time.  He did not know when he would next sleep or eat.

 

Flintoff and Fuzzyduck burst into a small office in their search for the fugitive O’Riordan.  The room was empty, except for furniture, of course.  Fuzzyduck checked his laptop.  “The tracking device is behind that door, sir.”

Flintoff, without checking the door, kicked it in.  Behind the door, now with shards of wood in his hair, Pte Parts was sat on the toilet with the latest issue of Nuts (Caution: May contain traces of Exeweb) in one hand open at the page with a picture of Babestation’s Jamie Lee (Who she  ? – Ed).

“Where’s O’Riordan ?” barked Flintoff.

“Who ?” said Pte Parts.

 

To be continued…

 

Sunday, 29 December 2013

Twitter

I joined Twitter - under my real name, not the name I use for this blog - a few months ago.  The experience has been largely enjoyable but I currently have some misgivings.  I appear to have gained a stalker.  Someone called misanthrope, sorry, Miss Ann Thorpe who has not tweeted, has no followers and follows only one person (ie me). And whereas normally I get an e-mail from Twitter to inform me that someone has been added to my 'followers', but when Miss Thorpe joined I didn't get one.
Should I be perturbed ? Should I just ignore it ?  Should I tweet 'her' to ask who the <expletive deleted> she is ? I have tweeted her to point out that Roger McGough's adaptation of Moliere's The Misanthrope is on tour http://www.ett.org.uk/productions/74/the-misanthrope.
I may keep this blog updated on developments. If there are any.