Tinker, Tailor, Solider, Real Estate Agent...

This is Anna Chapman. She's a spy... bollocks, I mean, she's an online real-estate magnate with a Master's in economics. Forget the spy thing... oh, alright, she is a spy. A spy for the Russkies.

Along with some middle-aged families and and a South American journalist, Chapman was (supposedly) planted by Moscow to infiltrate the policymaking circles of the US and send intel back to the Kremlin.

This is my favourite new story of the week. Essentially we are now living in a Len Deighton or John le Carre novel, in which the Russians have sneakily assimilated themselves into positions of power within America. If only Alec Guiness' George Smiley were here to see it all.

Unsurprisingly, Chapman has become the pin-up of this furore, presumably because people don't expect real life covert ops to look like that. But surely she should have some implausible moniker like Pussy Galore, Xenia Onatopp or Tits McGee? Well, yes, if this old world of ours was a touch more interesting, instead of a slow and painful march through encroaching bureaucracy to the grave, then she probably could have gone to Deed Poll and called herself Dr. Holly Goodhead. At least this kind of fun story is a step in the right direction.

Mature editorial comments that I've already spotted whilst trawling the web for material, include 'I'd let her spy on me any day' and 'they didn't look like that in the Cold War...'. Good to see that the media are dealing with this with the maturity required to deal with a potential 'diplomatic incident'. But it could all be brouhaha... alright, so Chapman's facing 20 years imprisonment for spying and money-laundering, but apart from that it could all be brouhaha, right?

Well, not necessarily. The Americans seem to be taking things pretty bloody seriously and what might seem like a ripping yarn of femme fatales and deep cover spying to us, constitutes a breach of trust and compromises the integrity of the highest echelons of the American governmental system.

But hey, at least it's keeping things lively.

To finish, a neat little Steve Bell from today's Guardian.

Media Fakery...

Right, remember when that fan burst into the England dressing room after the lamentable performance against Algeria? Well, as it turns out, the whole thing was likely orchestrated by a journalist from the Sunday Mirror. Cue cries of "surely not?", "how awful" and "actually, now that you mention it, it does make sense and the 'I was looking for the toilet' excuse was a pretty fucking see-through one now, wasn't it...".

32 year old Pavlos Joseph apparently bumbled into the locker room while searching for the facilities. To be honest, the moment I heard this story the alarm bells were ringing. Supposedly he burst into the room full of dejected England players by accident and, rather than continuing his search for the men's room, he proceeded to inform them that their performance was 'woeful and not good enough' (to be fair, he's right about that one) and then 'had a word' with David Beckham. That basically makes the whole sorry experience a more downbeat parody of this already existing parody.

It seemed a classic 'woops, wrong room' *leaves room* *re-enters room* 'actually while I've got you, you're not fit to wear the shirt' *leaves room* kind of situation. The kind of thing that definitely only happens for Sport Relief comic parodies. Joseph, who has clearly been waiting for this kind of exposure to launch his Stavros Flatley tribute act, Pavlos Flatley (an already depressing indictment of modern celebrity), faces the ignominy of a court charge for trespassing and can now add conspiracy to that.

What's perhaps even more unsettling, is that this could signal the dawn of a new type of football hooligan. The kind that takes a bung from the Mirror or the News of the World and goes covert ops instead of the good old days of the Firms kicking the shi... oh, hang on. I'm not entirely sure which of those two is more depressing.

Soon no-one will dare talk to anyone who leaves their bag on the table in a coffee house for fear that they might be some kind of tabloid hack looking to exploit their idiocy. Yup, it's 'hell in a hand basket' alert time again.

I'm not going to say explicitly that we're all going to hell in a hand basket, but we're definitely all going to hell in a hand basket...

Weekend Stuff...

Well, well, well. How about that for a weekend. A real mixed bag, one might say.

An epic Doctor Who finale, a bollo performance from England's 'Golden Generation' against the Germans and some tremendous sets from a sweltering Glastonbury served up onto the tellybox by Auntie.

First things first, Who was really excellent. It had me thinking 'this is pretty good for the first few minutes' and then Matt Smith said "It's a fez. I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool." At which point the entertainment part of my brain blurted out 'Ok, this is the best thing ever'. The performances were towering, the writing nothing short of brilliant and just enough intrigue was left to leave me wondering how I'll get by until the Christmas special.

Second things second, England are a painful team to watch. With my Swiss hopes already dashed by remarkable profligacy in front of goal against Honduras and a rather dubious red card against Chile, I now settled down to watch Capello's unchanged 4-4-2 take on a youthful and exciting German team. England's chances had been talked up by pundits and fans alike, but I (though I must confess I missed the Slovenia game) wasn't so hopeful having seen two uninspired and frankly uninspiring performances against the USA and Algeria. But then, surely this was the moment to step up to the plate and silence the doubters, the moments when things would turn around?

Well, no, not really, as it happened. The positive thinking lasted all of 20 minutes and then 'keeper Manuel Neuer smacked a drop kick 100 yards down the pitch, bouncing over the heads of a hapless Terry and Upson, for Miroslav Klose to slot past a furious David James. Village. The fury was compounded seconds later as dicy German passing led to Lukas Podolski smashing home through David James' legs from the tightest of angles. It was looking as though it could be a cricket score, when a chipped cross from Frank Lampard found the head of Matthew Upson who fired it over a rather flappy Neuer and into the net. The lifeline we'd supposedly been waiting for? It was the much-maligned Lampard who struck again sending a trademark slapshot 0f the crossbar and in. Except well, was it in though? Well, yes it was, but that didn't stop the Uruguayan ref and his assistant failing to notice this.

It all became irrelevant in the second half however as another incisive German counterattack (as a historian it's very, very difficult not to draw parrallels with the Battle of the Bulge and such like...) saw 20 year old Thomas Mueller, one of Germany's most impressive youths along with 21 year old Mesut Oezil, slot home and the quickfire double salvo was completed with another close range finish from the Bayern Muenchen youngster, 3 minutes later. The rout was complete, the misery confounded. Hope was lost the moment that Capello revealed his game-chasing attacking substitution to be Heskey on for Defoe.

It was an abject, miserable performance from the 'golden generation'. Rooney looked as feckless up front as he had done all tournament, Glen Johnson failed to be in the correct defensive position once, Terry and Upson resembled the Chuckle brothers at centre half and all were run rings round by the youthful exuberance of the talented Germans, as painful as that is to say.

An 'inquest' was promised by the commentators. To be fair, Lineker and chums could have summed up the performance simply as 'the Germans were much, much better at football than we were'. Shearer wasn't best pleased either. Hansen declared that the Germans brought 'ideas that England just couldn't cope with'. Yeah, like 'defending'.

The big players didn't perform. It was simple, England weren't a team, they were a collection of egos made to wear the same colour shirt for 90 hopeless, agonising minutes. Rooney is perhaps the greatest villain of all. Knackered and impotent up front, he's made Slovakia's Robert Vittek look like Pele. Hopefully some of the deadwood will have been cleared out in time for the Euros in 2 years time, but don't count on it.

Third things third, Glastonbury has some pretty stonking performances. Obviously on occasions such as these, it is the headliners that draw the most attention. Friday saw Gorillaz deputising for U2 and their crocked, divisive lead singer Bono and, by all accounts, not particularly well. Revellers began to drift away from the Pyramid Stage during a downbeat set which included only a couple of big hits. Contrast this with the other two headliners, Muse and Stevie Wonder, who produced terrific feel-good greatest hits sets (and with my favourite Glasto perfromance of recent memory, last year's epic Bruce Springsteen set) and you can see perhaps why a psyched-up Friday night crowd didn't appreciate a dark, experimental study in melancholia.

Muse were all stadium rock and pyrotechnics, producing a marvellously lively collection of hits from their impressive back catalogue. They finished with a stonking rendition of space western epic Knights of Cydonia prefaced by a snippet of Ennio Morricone's Man With a Harmonica from Once Upon a Time in the West (a personal favourite of mine). Motown legend Stevie Wonder gave a hugely entertaining, light-hearted set, reeling off hit after hit and present Glastonbury founder Michael Eavis with a harmonica during Happy Birthday. Wonder has clearly lost none of his exuberance, giving a wonderful, life-affirming performance to an adoring crowd.

Friday Pictorial the Nineteenth: Tennis

Well, well, it's been all go down at the All England Club and the Friday Pictorial simply couldn't resist joining in the action. So join pundit and ex-pro Jim Backenroe for his take on the longest match in tennis history.

Anyone For Tennis...

Well, Wimbledon was pretty bloody exciting yesterday as history was made. Play between Nicolas Mahut and John Isner was halted at a mere 59 all in the fifth set because of bad light.

This was a preposterous tennis match, the final set alone already eclipsing the previous longest match in history. Isner (who appeared to have one sleeve longer than the other for reasons which I don't fully understand) look shattered even before the 9 hour mark and I fully expected him to simply collapse on court, gifting the win to the Frenchman Mahut, however the 6 ft. 9 American dug deep and hung in there, depsite one or two of his serves representing a large Haddock attempting to free itself from a captive grasp.

Mahut certainly looked the fresher of the two, skipping along the baseline in the 30 degree heat while Isner looked as though he'd been taking part in a wet t-shirt competition, but despite this both men had chances to win the match. The games however continued to follow serve for over 6 hours and, just as the umpire looked as though he was going to fall of his perch, Mahut complained about poor visibility and play was suspended. So, at stumps of the first day it was 2 sets all, 59 games a piece in the final set. The second day starts in just under half an hour, will we have a winner before tea? I'll guess we'll have to wait and see.

The Cuts...

Right, this'll be a quickie (mild relief for those of you who don't like my satirical posts... as if such a person exists...), but as it surely cannot have escaped your notice that yesterday was the fabled 'Emergency Budget' as Gideon stepped up to the dispatch box to deliver basically the opposite of what we should be doing according to American economist Paul Krugman.

So what would the Deficit-busting Budget have in store? Well, poor old Danny Alexander sat wondering what the fuck just happened and why had he been implicated in it. With the departure of Mr. Choppy after a not uncommon breakout of homophobia from the Tories, the Scot (think Beaker from the Muppets made flesh) was given the role of Chief Secretary and boy, oh boy was it a poisoned chalice.

Some of you with long memories might remember, say, 2 months ago when Nick Clegg promised to avoid the VAT bomb. I won't sugar the pill, this was basically a lie. Gideon announced that VAT would rise to 20% in January, among other hikes, cuts and general stuff.

So, what does this mean for their key demographic, the average Tory family (lucrative private sector positions, house in an affluent neighbourhood, 2.4 children, loveless marriage etc...)? Well essentially, I don't know because I'm not an economist, but I do know that the rest of us are pretty much fucked for the next 4 years.

Sweet dreams.

(If you fancy a lighter tale, catch up with my Alex Horne-style adventure on the new tumblr page)

Druids... and The Doctor...

Well, Monday saw the Summer Solstice rung in in the traditional way. A load of hippie types dressing up and heading to sites of historical interest around Britain such as Stonehenge and Avebury. There are just a few minor issues with this.

Most importantly, how on earth did hundreds of thousands of revellers make it to Stonehenge without being vaporised by a collective alliance of Autons, Daleks, Cybermen, Sontarans et cetera? I mean, The Doctor is still locked in the Pandorica, watched over by this new terrifying Alliance (or, dare I say, 'coalition'), so how did the Druids manage to avoid extermination? Hippie magic trumps cyber technology now, does it?

Actually, allow me to get sidetracked, the opening part of the Doctor Who series finale was an absolutely tremendous high point in a series that has seen the new key talent of Moffat, Smith and Gillan produce some astounding moments. Admittedly, the big twist of the Pandoric being a prison for The Doctor was a touch predictable (although maybe I just spend too much time writing things myself to enjoy the mystery of such things anymore) but there were still a suitable number of questions left unanswered and a few things to make one's brain hurt. Such as, Rory came back as a Roman, but he wasn't really Rory, he was just an Auton programmed to be and think like Rory, but then if he was erased from time and never existed and Amy forgot about him, then how did the Alliance know and... ow, my head.

As well as every star in the universe going supernova and The Doctor being locked in a large cube (maybe Phillip Schofield will appear at some point), we were also left with a dying Amy. Now, I imagine some serious deus ex machina appearing in the next episode and I don't imagine Amy will remain dead any more than I imagine the Doctor will end up imprisoned forever and the writers will leave every star in the universe destroyed. Theories and symposia on possible resolutions that I've read include both The Doctor and River Song being Prisoner Zero, River's vortex manipulator will save the day, that Amy's house is the TARDIS (bigger on inside, blue etc.), some kind of link between Amy POND and RIVER Song. I don't know though, it's all very much nerdy internet ramblings. The long and the short of it is simply wait until Saturday and then we'll all find out.

Anyway, back to the Druids. Flocking to what we now know are in fact the communications towers that are the mysterious lithics of Stonehenge to celebrate what is in fact a festival celebrated possibly as early as the neolithic period, which happily is also the period in which the monoliths were erected in Avebury. So neo-druids flock their to celebrate something not in fact originally worship by Celtic religions at a site that has equally little to do with actual druids.

Now, I don't really have that much of a problem with new-age-y types with beards and robes, however as a historian it does bother me that their research seems to be a little flawed. In the musuem galleries at Avebury there's a child skeleton found on Windmill Hill, a real wonderful archaeological find, but the Druids insist on it being reburied. Now, not only would this set a worrying precedent and possibly end up with a huge number of societies and museums caving in to the demands of a group with little right to force this issue, but in all likelihood the skeleton is that of a neolithic child, given the period of other finds from the same area and again is nothing to do with Druids.

Gah, it just strikes me as misinformed, lobbying for the sake of making it look like you're doing something instead of arsing around in robes. You know it is, it really is.

Some People are on the Pitch! Oh... Wait, That's Just Footballers...

Bizarre football result news now (I am trying to limit myself rambling about football but it's not so easy, I'm sure many of you still have nightmares about the Winter Olympics and what that did to this blog. I'll try and keep it to 1 or 2 posts a week maximum and find other funny things to ramble about, promise - an example of things that I intend to comment on this week: Doctor Who, the 'Emergency' Budget, ). The World Cup has definitely kicked into action now, you can tell from the bickering within the teams and the inevitable fannying around from supposedly the best players in the world.

Let's deal with this chronologically. Friday saw England play out an awful 0-0 against Algeria that was very much the definition of 'bore draw'. As well as an absolutely shocking performance from Capello's men, it was also one of the most tedious 93 odd minutes of football in living memory. Neither team looked like scoring or indeed looked entirely like they could be arsed (if you want to see the awful spectacle yourself but done in a much, much more exciting way, then have a look at this). That said, it's not as though the other 'potential winners' are faring any better either. France have pushed the self-destruct button and may well end up putting out the coaching staff to face South Africa in the final group game and Italy's campaign has stuttered equallly as impressively as England's.

The current champion's fought back to snatch a draw in their opening game and were forced to do much the same against a spirited New Zealand team. Shane Smeltz stunned the Azurri by poking home the opening goal (from a, shall we say, mildly offside position) past a helpless Federico Marchetti after a magnificent Simon Elliot free kick. Juve's Vincenzo Iaquinta smashed home a spot kick after handbags between Ipswich's Tommy Smith and Roma's Daniele De Rossi (notice the difference there?) in the area. The All Whites held on to clinch easily the best result in the footballing history of a nation that doesn't even have a professional domestic league. So, the embarrassment is being piled onto Marcello Lippi's team but where did the rot start?

Well, fortunately for the Azurri, they still possess many of 2006's World Cup-winning team, unfortunately even then they were considered one of the oldest teams in the competition and the legs have only become more heavy and the faces more beardy in those 4 years (see: Daniele De Rossi, who appears to have spent his end of season break auditioning for a role as Tom Hanks' friend in Cast Away 2 or genuinely on a desert island). Also they lost the one-time 'world's best goalkeeper' Gianluigi Buffon in the first game of the group stage, replacing him with inexperienced Marchetti (just because you dress him exactly like Buffon, doesn't gift him the talent, Marcello) who has at times appeared a little unconvincing as a deputy.

But the madness didn't stop there, in yesterday's evening fixture, Brazil vs. Cote d'Ivoire (it strikes me as odd that we have to refer to them as that or CIV, none of the other countries insist on the native tongue spelling of their country in every other nation), we were given everything from the sublime to the ridiculous. Luis Fabiano opened the scoring with a well-taken finish after a threaded through pass from Kaka (who would still have his part to play in this crazy spectacle) and the Sevilla striker followed up with some flashy skills and after a flick and a jink (and at least two separate handlings of the ball) Fabiano thundered home the half volley. The ref even seemed to check with the striker if he'd handled. "Nope" Fabiano no doubt replied (except in Portugese). "That's good then. Just checking. Wouldn't want to make an arse of myself." The ref then replied (probably), before nodding and winking. Nonsense.

We weren't done with the bizarre yet though, not by a long chalk. Elano scored Brazil's third goal with a deft first touch into the net from Kaka's terrific squared ball (he's still not done though). Elano ran to the TV cameras and pulled down his socks taking out his shin pads (complete with his children's names emblazoned on them - funny place to put them, where no-one could see them, where they'll get sweaty and possibly be clattered into by an Ivorian, but we'll get back to that). It was strangely prophetic, as, just seconds later, Tiene smashed his studs metaphorically into Elano's children (see what I meant about getting back to that). I can only hope that he did actually put his shin pads back on, but then you'd be a fool not to (although, as we've established, you'd also be a fool to put your children's names on your shin pads). Either way he was stretchered from the field of play, while two children were no doubt sobbing in Sao Paulo after being sybolically scraped by an Ivorian's studs. Yet we still weren't done with what was one of the best games of the tournament so far (along with Slovenia-USA) but for all the wrong reasons.

Drogba pulled back a consolation goal for the Ivory Co... sorry, Cote d'Ivoire but they never looked like pulling a miraculous comeback despite the final twist in the tail/tale (depending on your persuasion). The ball went out for an inocuous throw-in but Kader Keita was on the floor clutching his face as if he'd been playing the part of 'Man Who Receives Chainsaw to the Face' in a low budget horror movie. What had happened? The Ivorians surrounded Kaka. Jonathan Pearce was apopleptic with confusion. The replays showed Keita given a cheeky nudge in the torso by Kaka, off the ball. So, he was given a little elbow in the chest. Then why was he rolling around on the floor like the victim of a botched assassination attempt? Well, presumably to get the already booked Kaka sent off. Which happened. Nice job there, folks.

Football, eh?

Friday Pictorial the Eighteenth: Reality

Right, the Friday Pictorial returns, although today's is perhaps more of a Friday Audio...torial, Auditorial? I don't know, it's basically more sound than pictures anyway.

In exciting news we have a brand new contributor for this one. None other than the legendary singer/songwriter Mr. Tom Waits! Who I commissioned to write a song about reality TV. This is what happened...

Swissophile...

I've always had a bit of a thing for the Swiss, indeed I've spent so many summer holidays there I'm expecting my citizenship papers to be in the post as we speak, so when in the Listening to Livesey Facebook Group World Cup Sweepstake I drew, at random, the mighty Switzerland from the metaphorical hat, it could only be fate.

Faced with an agonising wait until their opening midweek fixture against the highly-fancied European champs Spain, I sat back and researched the team. Many of those players I remembered from last summer were there - the excellent 'keeper Diego Benaglio, skilful winger Tranquillo Barnetta, seasoned campaigner Hakan Yakin. However one or two surprises cropped up. An injury to target man Marco Streller meant a call-up for 18 year old, Albanian-born Xherdan Shaqiri of FC Basel. I can't claim to have seen much of Kosovan-Albanian-born (do I see a pattern emerging) Albert Bunjaku either, so when the Schweizer Nati took to the field against the would-be champions without pacy utility man Valon Behrami and all-time leading goalscorer Alexander Frei (who has endeared himself to me on numerous occasions, once for spitting at Steven Gerrard and then again in this match for nonchalantly sitting in the dugout with a cup of tea) and captained by Udinese midfielder Gokhan Inler, I suspected them to find it a little difficult.

There's no doubt that in 'der General' Ottmar Hitzfeld, the Swiss have a top-class manager. The German is the only manager to win the Champions' League with two different teams, a feat equalled this season by Jose Mourinho. But even with a two-time World Manager of the Year at the helm, it was hard to look past the talented Spaniards. Surely the Swiss would look to snatch a point with some stout containment of Davids Villa and Silva and midfield dangermen Andres Iniesta and Xabi Alonso.

After the opening few minutes it was clear that this was the plan, now it was just a question of its effectiveness. Hopes took a blow when recently-unveiled Fulham signing Phillipe Senderos left the field with an injury. Steve von Bergen was brought on to partner rugged center half Stephane Grichting. The strike partnership of Blaise NKufo and hot prospect Eren Derdiyok saw little of the ball, as the Spanish stroked it around, sending chance after chance safely into Benaglio's gloves or sailing over the bar.

Then, from nothing, a Swiss break saw Derdiyok charge into the box, Casillas came out to win the ball but only suceeded in bundling the young Swiss over, I was ready to appeal for a penalty, but as my mouth opened, Gelson Fernandes popped up to stab home the loose ball and give Switzerland a remarkable lead over who many considered to be the champions-in-waiting.

The next hour or so saw my nerves shredded. Spain spurned yet more chances and heroics from the magnificent Benaglio and sheer determination from the veteran Grichting. A lively looking Lichtsteiner at right back made a couple of surging runs, but the Swiss found themselves very much penned into their own half. Then all of a sudden Derdiyok popped up again and hit the upright. The Swiss were showing real danger on the break, but that would be their last meaningful attack.

As the game wore on would tired legs be able to maintain the brave defending that had preserved the lead for this long? Spain threw on Torres in a last gasp attempt to break down the highly organised Swiss defence, but he fired his best chance wide and, despite looking lethal throughout, Spain succumbed to defeat in their opening game.

This was a magnificent result and a tactical victory for der General. Swiss Parliament finished early so they could watch the end of the game, car horns were blown triumphantly in the streets of Bern, Basel and Zurich and for a day Alpenhorns triumphed over Vuvuzelas. My national pride was stirred (impressive, seeing as I'm not a Swiss national) and I felt jubilation for the first time this World Cup. Hopp Schwiiz!

Sound Bites...

Yep, that title has a double meaning. Essentially I've spent most of the day watching television. One particular piece of the endlessness that piqued my interest was Prime Minister's Questions. Now, the format pretty much does what it says on the tin. With one subtle difference.

Where it's generally considered good form to answer the questions from the House, Cameron appears to be bringing a maverick approach and throwing the rulebook out of the window. "Ooh isn't he marvellous, the loose cannon." Is the inevitable response of Nick Robinson and pals. "I love how honest he is, admitting that he doesn't know the answer." Fawns another. But you can be sure that if, say, Gordon Brown had said that he wouldn't answer the question because he didn't know the facts, then people would have labelled him an incompetent arsehole. It smacks of laziness, as does the policy mentioned in the build-up to the election of letting us take over failing schools/hopsitals/police stations/circuses etc. (although I may have made one of those up). You're supposed to sort it out because that's you're job, we're not going to sort the country out for you.

I feel I'm getting sidetracked somewhat. My main gripe was Cameron's description of the Labour Leadership race as 'increasingly like a Star Trek convention'. I have absolutely no idea what that means. Diane Abbott as Uhura? Because that's borderline racist. Also what are the grounds for this. Who's Captain Kirk? It was on Newsnight, is Paxman Kirk? Paxman's probably Kirk... I'm going for Ed Milliband as Spock, Ed Balls as Scotty, Andy Burnham as McCoy and, well, David Milliband as... er... Sulu... The less said the better probably...

These pointless soundbites are arriving with increasing frequency and becoming more and more convoluted. I long for the day when Dennis Skinner would just come out and say he thought someone was a c*** (alright, he might never have actually said that) he's a proper politician who doesn't subscribe to the 'throw in a similie to hide your unoriginality' school.

Coping Strategies...

Let's face it, life is generally a pretty banal affair sometimes, particularly if you're body clock needs winding up (like mine). I've been stuck with what I deem to be inappropriate times of feeling tired. Roughly around 3.30 in the morning and then whenever I get up. This means that I am at my most awake at around the midnight to 1 o'clock period. Not especially practical.

But how can we steer ourselves through everyday mediocrity? Well, I find that a simple boring walk down the street can be made 10 or 11x more interesting by pretending you're in a Leone film. Pick a Morricone tune (my favourites for this exercise being the theme from For A Few Dollars More or The Ecstacy of Gold from The Good, The Bad & The Ugly) and then stride purposefully along with the rousing score playing in your head. A simple stroll through the park can become a dramatic experience. For added bonus points, keep your choice hand (righty or lefty depending on your handedness) hovering above your waist and narrow your eyes at passers by.

That might be alright for walking, but what about at 1 in the morning where it's very much the convention to stay inside and not pretend to be in a Western? Well, last night I watched TV Club's Bad Film, The Omen (the remake) on E4+1 and joined in with the fun. Essentially, you watch the film and make as many 'sarky and twattish' comments as you like. A magnificent exercise and one that actually makes the film surprisingly enjoyable. It is utter nonsense, of course (as most unnecessary remakes are) but that's the fun of the #badfilm. It's like a counselling session where you all chip in and help each other make it through the movie.

Anyone have any other interesting ways of making life less of a grim march towards the grave and more of a jolly skip?

My Hero, The Satirist...

Ok, this might seem a little from the left-field but figuring that you followers might have had enough football on TV and Twitter, you might want something a little different. So, here's something a bit personal.

Long-time subscribers will be aware of my deep love of Cowards and how my comedy style has undoubtedly been heavily influenced by messrs Key, Basden, Woolf and Golaszewski and how the acerbic wit of Charlie Brooker is a real touchstone for my own style, but perhaps one of my greatest idols in comedy is someone not many of you will be familiar with.

To preface this, I should point out that I have, for as long as I can remember, had the brain of a 30 year old trapped in the body of a child/teenager/young adult etc. While other kids were finding amusement in urinating on the slide in the park or SMTV Live, I listened to radio comedy. While their heroes were Ginola or Ryan Giggs, mine was a bearded satirist, cartoonist and unquestionable master of Mornington Crescent: the irrepressible, witty, lugubrious Willie Rushton.

Rushton could make me laugh like nobody else. His surreal, yet wonderfully clever contributions to I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue made the young me yearn to be as wise, wonderful and witty as the great man himself. He rose to prominence as a cartoonist and writer for the legendary Private Eye magazine and rubbed shoulders with the comedy greats of the period such as Peter Cook, David Frost and Tony Hancock. Indeed it was our Willie who brought home Hancock's ashes after his tragic suicide in Australia in 1968.

I was of course too young to enjoy his satirising heyday or his apparently uncanny impression of then Prime Minister Harold MacMillan, but it was as a child that I heard his distinctive voice 'given silly things to do' on ISIHAC. As well as unparallelled skill at Mornington Crescent he was a master of all of the regular rounds, but the feat that sticks in the memory as one of the most marvellous pieces of concise comic parody is his account of the diary of Mahatma Gandhi (which can be found here, he's the last to play the round). While Humph was as good a host as there has ever been and Barry, Tim and Graeme are all fantasticly funny, I only had ears for Rushton.

Perhaps the best quote purely from the top of my head to give you an insight into the mind of the man is when he was invited back to his Alma Mater of Shrewsbury School to open a new wing with a speech. His 'speech' consisted of "the bugger's open". But then he always had a way with words. In his Who's Who entry he listed his hobbies as 'gaining weight, losing weight and parking'. Indeed it was one bout of sudden weight loss, while wrestling with the Diabetes that forced him to give up his beloved beer, that prevented him playing cricket for Prince Rainier's XI. Cricket was one of Rushton's true passions and as well as plying his trade as a panel wit on ISIHAC he could also be heard as a jovial team captain on Radio 4's Trivia Test Match, where his warm wit was equalled by his immense general knowledge of the gentleman's game.

He was admitted to hospital in December in 1996 for heart surgery and tragically died on the 11th of that month from complications, aged just 59. Among his last words was a message to fellow-panellist Barry Cryer, "tell Bazza he's too old to do panto", even with his last words he was magnificently funny. When the news broke, the 5 year old me cried into a cushion, a white one with a zig-zaggy green stripe for about 40 minutes. I can't tell you any other real distinct memories from my early youth but this one is as clear as day in my mind. Willie was like a favourite uncle or a lovable, roguish grandfather and I felt the loss terribly. It sounds a little pathetic now, but hey, I was only 5, life is hard.

Fortunately, while our earthly bodies may perish, the true soul of wit can never fade away and Willie lives on in the hearts and minds of comedy lovers such as myself. I can fully quote his Gandhi diary (on a good day) and I can hear his voice prompting me with it in my head (I know, I'm crazy).

This was a wee bit random and perhaps a touch too personal to be of interest, but the fleeting nature of genius has struck me somewhat recently. So I'll raise a glass to Willie Rushton- Satirist, cartoonist, wit, the greatest player of Mornington Crescent to ever grace this Earth and my hero.

Nearly There...

Ok, so I'm nearly at the end of the crazy hectic week, which means that the Fri Pic is on course for it's scheduled return next week. It's going to be another musical one, seeing as they've proved popular with 100% of followers who posted on last week's Friday post (alright, so it was just Simone that commented, but seeing as no-one else contradicted her and I trust her verdict on all things comedy, it's going to be another song).

So, I don't know whether to tease you or not really... oh go on then, you're all lovely people really. Essentially (pending some more amusing lyrics arriving in my brain at some point over the next week) it's about Big Brother. I'll confess now, that I haven't seen a huge amount of Big Brother, but I imagine that I can mostly fill in the blanks myself. Awful people in an awful house doing awful things on live television. That's about it, right?

Anywho, if you have any phrases, verbs, nouns or proverbs etc. you'd like me to include in the song, leave a comment and I'll try and crowbar... ahem, I mean, seamlessly weave them into the tune.

I'm Spartacus, I'm Spartacus (Blood and Sand)...

I know, I've been neglecting you lovely people with all my talk of politics (boring) etc. So today I've decided to return to what I know, namely 'taking the piss out of television'.

Ok, I caught Bravo's Spartacus: Blood and Sand in my mildly delirious, dehydrated, post-rehearsal haze and well, well... where to start? I'll confess that I missed the first episode (although at no point did this seem to matter). Our hero Spartacus has ended up in gladiator school. He's given a bath (which apparently consists of a man pouring water over you with a ladle) and some of the senior gladiators explain the ropes. "It's the truest form of brotherhood" proclaimed the bastardy one (something mildly hilarious about saying this, wang swinging in what appears to be the Roman equivalent of a locker room full of jocks). It's horseplay ahoy. "This gladiator's been killed, the useless fuck, ha ha ha ha ha" "Work harder, cunty cunterson, or I'll sit on your face" and "Want some food, eh? Well, you shits, you can eat it off the floor" are just three of the quotes that I've made up because I can't actually remember any real ones, but you'll just have to take my word for it that a lot of the dialogue is basically that with different swear words and situations... and wangs... too many wangs.

John Hannah plays the Peter Ustinov role and bless him, he's trying his best, but Ustinov he ain't (but then neither is anyone) but he does at least attempt something towards gravitas on-screen. This reminds me of another point. I'm not entirely sure why this has been made. As far as TV goes this is a kind of stylised sub-'Rome' and as far as the Spartacus story goes, we already have a perfectly serviceable film. The script is ludicrous with more "cunts" than a German football league (by which I mean 'Kuntz' is a not uncommon surname, rather than any kind of personal attack) and it veers wildly from attempts at 'period' dialogue to what you'd hear from a youth in an underpass if you told him that he looked ridiculous with his trousers around his knees and he should bloody well put his hat on the right way, shouldn't he...

I digress, from what I can tell almost everyone in the Roman Republic spoke with slight Antipodean accents (this is never explained), foreplay was effectively sorted out by servants (particularly if it involves Xena: Warrior Princess) and don't get me started on the Legionnaires wearing Lorica segmentata in that period... (I know, I've turned into my Dad. What of it?) It's also worth noting that Spartacus: Etc. subscribes to the 'the bigger your six-pack, the more you're compensating for your acting ability' school of performance. (Also see: 300)

The story is spread criminally thinly, the performances (with the exception of John Hannah) could keep a carpenters stocked for years, the script is frankly ludicrous and the gratuitous sex and violence are... well... gratuitous and yet it is actually quite entertaining. If only for sitting and tutting at it (some of the dialogue is laughable... we're talking Twiglet ((the first one, not New Moon)) laughable here). I'm reliably informed by people far wiser than me (Charlie Brooker) that it gets better towards the end, though I imagine much of the charm will be lost if it even approached competence.

It's worth a look though, particularly if you're a teenage boy who doesn't understand the phrase 'homoerotic subtext'.

The Brothers, The Balls, The Dark Horse and Diane Abbott...

Clearly my gifts for political commentary haven't waned during this extremely busy and stressful week, as I was able to give the kiss of death to John McDonnell (see yesterday's blog) by endorsing his campaign. This morning he withdrew from the contest to allow Diane Abbott (never quite sure how many double letters there are in that name... although I feel slightly better in the knowledge that neither does David Milliband and he endorsed her campaign, so...) onto the ballot. Now, this is a highly honourable and admirable act allowing Abbbbotttt to receive the required number of nominations and actually creating a fairly diverse ticket (a change from the usual 'should it be this middle-aged, public schoolboy or this one?' mentality of pretty much all other leadership elections in living memory).

Can Abbbbbbotttttt actually win though? Surely she's too cosy on the sofa next to Portillo on BBC's This Week? Well, she ticks a good number of boxes actually. Many of the leadership candidates have recognised the need for a revamp of the party, perhaps turning back to its roots and Diannne has long been a detractor of New Labour and it's more central policies. Perhaps picking the first black, female MP elected to parliament to be the first black, female party leader could be a masterstroke, reflecting genuine change instead of the glossy plastic, upper class change that half of the country was apparently swindled into in May. At this point however, it does seem more likely that the members, trade unionists, MEPs and MPs will opt for the 'safe pair of hands' offered by one of the Millibands, who are neither smokers, jokers or midnight tokers like their forgotten brother Steve (musical joke... oo ra).

This is all conjecture naturally. I'm in no way qualified to give informed, unbiased opinions, but hey, Nick Robinson's got away with it for all these years, hasn't he...

Was it Something I Said...?

Well, well, well. It's hustings time for the Labour leadership (I love that word, hustings... it's just a good word) and already John McDonnell has put his foot in his mouth apparently, simply by saying what we were all thinking and indeed what I shouted at the television. At the GMB Union hustings, McDonnell answered the question 'if you could travel back to the 1980s and perform one act to make the world a better place, what would it be?'. At this point I ran to the TV. "Assassinate Thatcher!" I yelled repeatedly and, as if by magic, out of McDonnell's mouth came the very words "I think I would assassinate Thatcher."

'Praise be!' I thought, my esteem of the man increasing ten-fold. Other people however seem less enthused and for some reason McDonnell was forced to apologise for the comments. Utter nonsense. It was at the GMB Union, he was preaching to the converted and there was a big laugh from the audience, one of the biggest of the night. Had he followed it up with "no really, I'm deadly serious, I would step into the DeLorean and spatter her brains across the walls of No. 10" I would still have thought that he had a point. What McDonnell said is really no worse than Cameron claiming that George 'Gideon' Osbourne is somehow good for the economy, but then I don't see him having to apologise.

Yesterday appeared to be a day for people putting their feet in their mouths (their respective mouths, not each others' that would have just been weird), as the longest-serving White House Correspondent Helen Thomas (who has covered every president since the Eisenhower administration) was kicked out for claiming that Israel should 'get the Hell out of Palestine'. Now people have quickly leapt to accuse her of being an 'anti-semitic bigot', but I think we should probably make a distinction between bigoted anti-semitism and simply suggesting that perhaps attacking an aid flotilla was a step too far for most. Needless to say wading carelessly into the Gaza strip debate probably isn't the sort of thing advisable to someone like me, armed with very little facts, a hefty dollop of cynicism and the simple aim to elicit a chuckle from my readers.

Let's look at the possibilities though.
1) Helen Thomas is actually a massive anti-semite (could be true, though she's managed to hide it well for 57 years).
2) She was simply angered by the Israeli response to the aid flotilla (a much more plausible possibility).
3) She forgot where she was and didn't realise she was being taped by a Rabbi (well, she is 89, it's a miracle she can even keep track of the political complexities of the Palestine conflict. Besides, this is what 89 year olds do. My Grandad still complains about 'gyppos' from time to time but he hasn't been kicked out of the White House Press Corps...). (Plus, we can't assume that every Rabbi will turn out to be Donal MacIntyre...)

Every Kick Mattering Massively to Someone, Presumably...

Right, yesterday saw the third Soccer Aid in which celebrities and retired pros from England and the Rest of the World kick a football not quite as well as we're used to while Clive Tyldesley tells us about how Olly Murs used to play semi-professionally and Andy Townshend reminds us that he once had a career too (nope? Me neither). I'm making light of it, but it is all for a genuinely good cause- the money raised goes to Unicef- and it is a fairly decent laugh watching out of shape blokes pretending to be Bobby Moore.

To be fair, for a few minutes the ragtag bunch of reality TV stars, actors, presenters and whatever it is that Jonathan Wilkes actually does did look like the real England team. Sadly those minutes were the last 20 or so which saw half of their 10 penalties saved by Patrick Kielty or blazed over the bar. Yes, we witnessed 90 minutes of pretty tentative football which saw a first half Nicky Byrne (your man there out of off of Westlife) penalty saved by David Seaman and a Jamie Redknapp (manager's son... not a hint of nepotism or anything...) goal on the stroke of half time, before a well-placed Teddy Sherringham header left the Rest of the World with a mountain to climb, however much like a cosmopolitan, star-studded Edmund Hillary they duly climbed it with a sweeping poacher's effort from Joe Calzaghe and a corner bundled over the line by Sammi Hyppia, leaving things all square.

So plenty to talk about, presumably we have some qualified pundits to discuss the nitty gritty to keep the real fans interested? Well, no. In fact there were more pundits on the pitch than in the studio. "What did you make of it?" asked Dermot O' Leary to Louise Redknapp, who is naturally both qualified to comment on football and make a fair, unbiased judgement, despite the fact that her husband is on the pitch. And if that wasn't intricate, Pleat-like analysis enough, we were also treated to the opinions of The Pub Landlord.

This years event was much hyped as fans and pundits alike revelled at the prospect of the legendary Zizou possibly nutting Robbie Williams or Ben Shepherd in the chest, but produced rather a different success story as 48 year old Woody Harrelson blasted home the decisive spot kick. Having taking up the game at the tender age of 40, the Hawaii-based actor is more used to the barefoot, beach brand of 'soccer', but took a crash course under Rest of the World manager Kenny Dalglish (and apparently some kids in Battersea park who let him join in their kickabout) and had the courage to strike home the 20th penalty of the shootout, past a helpless, dejected, lanky Jamie Theakston, sending the rest of the world into raptures (presumably).

Michael Sheen (Clough/Blair/Your Italian fella out of off of the Twiglet film) lifted the trophy and passed it around to fellow Welshman Gethin Jones, comedy actor Mike Myers, James Kyson-Lee (Ando from Heroes... even Tyldelsey referred to him as that), Gordon Ramsey (who can't have done his dodgy knees much good... much less his sweary, sweary mouth), Simon Baker (The Mentalist... not an accusation or derogatory assertion about his footballing ability, that's the show he's from) and of course the heroic Harrelson. Figo and Zidane turned down the offer of raising the Champers-filled silverware to their lips (presumably not much cop if you've won a World Cup or Champion's League, charity or no...).

It was left to Robbie Williams (one of the England players who 'pulled a Becks' and duly fired over the bar. Also see: Paddy McGuiness, Theakston and basically Dominic Cooper) to dissect the defeat as he talked to Dermot... or was it Kirsty Gallacher... I can't really remember. Essentially he didn't care because it was for charity (a fair point, I suppose... the old 'get out of jail free card'). We were also treated to seemingly gratuitous shots of Orlando Bloom in the BT tower reminding us how nice it was to be there as a representative of Unicef and how all of the generic t-shirted telephone operatives behind him were doing a great job. This seemed to happen during the football itself.

Well, basically Soccer Aid had everything: banal opinions in the studio, essentially pointless pitchside interviews, overweight celebrities huffing and puffing on the pitch and, of course, Bradley Walsh. Much fun was had by all and let's face it, it isn't every day that you get to see Woody from Cheers stroke a penalty past a sprawling Heart breakfast DJ or Paddy Kielty make a terrific one-on-one save against Alan Shearer.

(It's easier to be cynical about this than the BAFTAs, where the tremendous The Thick of It picked up a hat-trick of awards... although I should point out that Unicef do absolutely sterling work. Donate to them, I would)

Excuses, Excuses...

Right, I'm afraid there's no Friday Pictorial this week. Busy, stress, stress, busy etc. I'm sorry about that, I truly am, but hopefully you'll all understand that I'd much rather miss a week than put out something that I didn't feel was up to snuff. I can't even guarantee one next week, but the week after that should see its triumphant return.

In the mean time you might want to relive some of the classics (I use that word loosely), which can be found slightly more conveniently here. (If you fancy some of the copyright infringing material... we're talking Lambing Live here... then that can only be found on this blog). Hopefully that'll help you get your fix.

If you fancy submitting ideas then that would of course help the whole process along nicely...

A Quick One, While I'm Away...

Ok, so I have lots of points to make and not really all that much time to make it in. That said, any kind of pseudo-cultural, cynical blog seems a bit trite and insignificant after yesterday's tragedy in Cumbria. For what they're worth, Or So I Thought...'s condolences are offered to all affected. Terrible loss of life and only 3 weeks or so into the rule of the Coalition. Now, I'm not saying that this is Cameron's fault, but in many ways, this is Cameron's fault...

Anyway, that's enough walking the razor's edge of taste for one blog. Moving swiftly on, Junior Apprentice continued its crash course through the corridors of busines, this time stopping at art dealing. Again, I find the best way to watch this (as with Eurovision) is with friends... alright, not real, actual, fleshy people who are in the room, but witty E-people delivering 140 character character assassinations (I'm not sure if that was actually quite clever or just clumsy syntax). Well, things opened with the usual hive of Tim 'I'm secretly 31, but shh, don't tell anyone' Ankers theories and we all agreed that he was in no way a 17 year old. Arjun was wearing a suit several sizes too big for him (one of Tim's? As several theorised...), whether he was staring in the Bollywood remake of Bugsy Malone, we'll never know (though I suspect the application will be in the post should he be fired at some point). Most of the attention was suitably garnered by mega-cow Zoe who decided that she was Charles Saatchi all of a sudden. What was it her parents did again? Oh, that's right, they're artists, aren't they. As she reminded us every five fucking minutes. That said, it was very difficult to distinguish between her obvious bullshitting and, say, Tim's. There were just as many. 'Ooh, nice use of space' and 'you're taking me on a journey's.

Tim had been operating with the other blonde one as his secretary (hopefully avoiding the usual trappings of the boss/secretary relationship as he would no doubt end up on a register...) and was looking particularly louche in the back of the mini cab. Zoe had once again been sucking off Clifford the Big Red Dog/Po/Iron Man (delete as appropriate) as her mouth was a lurid red, like some bollocks-spouting life ring. It seemed to work for her as she got the pick of the artists. Kirsty's infallible Scottish charm clearly not triumphing this time... ahem...

In the sale room, Zoe decided to steal everyone's customers and tell them about how she knew so much about art. Clearly one of those people who goes on a reality show so that they can end up presenting a feature about home decor on This Morning. Arjun, the sly dog, had picked up a few ladies on the quiet and had promptly sold them in excess of £2,500 worth of modern tat... sorry modern art, don't know what happened to my keyboard there... Tim decided to push people, who weren't having any of it, until a restaurant owner managed to flog him £1000 worth of photographs (no qualms there, that's pretty much art).

So what did everyone think come the end of the task? Well Zoe said that she had 'no idea how the others would turn on her' as she was 'very strong in that task'. No idea? Hahahaha. As the legendary Bernard Black (on whom I appear to have based most of my life) don't make me get sick into my own scorn. Have you never met you, Zoe? You're a teensy bit bitchy, of course they're going to turn on you. 'Delusional as well as self-obsessed and dressed like someone Arjun is about to pimp to Tim' was Simon Best's (friend of this blog) verdict on Zoe and I couldn't put it better myself.

As it happened, it was Tim's team left to face the music. "Tim, is it going to be Ankers away?" said Lord Sugar, who'd clearly been hoping that Tim lost so he could make that excellent pun. Nope, it was going to be Hannah away, because she was the most qualified. Remember Hibah? No? Well, she was fired for the same thing. That's how it works.

Finally, nemesis update. The best way I can think to frame this is that he's one of those guys that people seem to like and you appear to be the only one who can see that he's the king of all cunts. I have a lot of sympathy for Frank Grimes in The Simpsons, because, from a purely objective point of view, Homer is a bit of a bumbling, offensive loon and it's only natural that Grimes would question how he seemed to be so popular and why no-one could see his obvious flaws. I suppose, like all the things, the principle of nemeses is purely subjective... expect for this nemesis is actually a complete, mind-bogglingly punchable, marauding fucknut. Fact. That is all.