If we took a holiday...ooh yeah, ooh yeah

I'm just back from a long weekend in Ireland, visiting my parents. I always sleep like a new born when I'm there. It's difficult to pin the very welcome blame for this on one cause; it's probably a combination of events: the clean air, the peace, the restful ambiance, the good food and the heavy consumption of Guinness. Each plays its part I suppose.

The odd thing is though as soon I step back onto English soil I'm unable to slumber, which makes no sense. Take last night for example. I spent the majority of the day in Ireland, so I had a plenty of exposure to clean air. I ate well, and because of the travelling, I arrived home in a fatigued state. The wife and I then popped out for a couple of sharpeners before dinner to bring the curtain down on the festivities. But could I sleep last night? Could I feck. The only conclusion I can come to, therefore, is that I'm allergic to England. It could be London I suppose. But I'd need a control group to be certain. Perhaps I should relocate to Leicester for six months? That's a high price to pay for catastrophic fatigue though; I think I'll just make do and mend.

Remember whotsisname? We were like brothers.

There was another leaving presentation at work today. It was the usual well-worn path of card, whip-round and ill-chosen words. In fairness, the chap who's leaving worked in a department who all seem very close, so the address was rather more heartfelt than is usually the case in these matters. Said leavee is moving to Australia, which makes the "you must come and visit" platitude ring even more hollow. Both parties know that "must" is a euphemism for "won't".

It's strange and worrying just how quickly genuine affection for long-standing colleagues is lost when they go. You spend the majority of your time with these people. This is normally a recipe for disaster, so when characters do actually chime, you have to suppose that it's a lasting kinship. No so. Our Botany Bay emigré will be forgotten by Tuesday next week. And unless his new life hits the Aussie buffers, he'll forget us. It's a necessary evil I suppose; no-one likes a moper in the workplace.

...I wrote "au revoir" in the card initially, but hastily revised it to "goodbye". I thick it for the best.

Football Pie

Being a dyed-in-the-wool lover of the beautiful game (no, not darts this time, football) like what I am, I feel duty-bound to at least attempt to get a ticket for Leyton Orient's upcoming FA Cup tie with north London's pre-eminent poseurs, Arsenal.

To make things fair (and expensive), Orient have decided that you must have tickets for the two Tuesday night home fixtures that precede the cup tie. They dropped this bombshell the day before the first game. This means then that I've had to shell-out for a ticket I can't use. Even then, I'm only buying the right to queue for a cup ticket. If they're gone before I pitch up at the box office, I'm screwed. But what can one do? If I leave the sauce alone, I might live another thirty-five years, and not see Orient reach these dizzy heights. They've got me over a barrel. I must attend.

All football clubs do this of course, but generally it's the reserve of the top-flight clubs to wring quite so much financial advantage for a single game comme ça. It's unusual for the blood-letting to descend to League One. Consequently, the wound is a little sore. Come on, you Os.

Today's Chip Paper

I've been pondering the prospects for News Corp at late. Rumours are rife that Jimbo Murdoch (son of Rupert and current chairman of the group) is keen to dispense with its traditional newspaper interests.

There's some sense in this of course; print media is up against it, particularly newspapers. As soon as digital data clouds are reliable and abundant, newsstand titles are screwed. Murdoch Jr, who cut his teeth in the music industry and on-line content, knows this and is not in thrall to noisy newsrooms and the smell of ink. He also realises that governments no longer quake at the prospect of a damning leader or two.

Sadly, however, NI's other major holdings are TV channels. While everyone's been singing laments for the inkies, the traditional TV channel's demise has been rather overlooked. I contend that individual television channels will be finished inside ten years. What's the point of them? Commercials channels' USPs are scheduling and advertising. They arrange the schedule so that millions of people have to sit down at the same time to watch the same programme. Once herded like this, they are subjected to breath-takingly expensive advertising. Or rather, they used to be. Personal recording devices have all but rendered this business null and void. I, along with the rest of the right-thinking world, developed quite a crush on "The Wire". My trusty PVR recorded them for me, and I watched at times that suited me.

The series were broadcast by BBC2. I know this because there were no adverts. If there had been, I'd simply have skipped through them using my PVR's skip-this-bit facility.

In a few years' time another world-beating drama will emerge from the US. This time, however, my wireless telly will download it from HBO (probably) directly. They'll get my hard-earned. Why would I give it to Sky? NI is a giant middle-man. James if you're reading this, I want to speak to the organ grinder.

I Never Forget a Face

A friend sent me a link to this charming, and, it has to be said, strangely erotic, little vignette from you tube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgD6W1wCqyY). For those of you who can't view it, it's footage of British bob-sledder Gillian Cooke inadvertently exposing her arse during a recent championship. I'm afraid my hurried description doesn't really do the clip justice; it has an undeniable olde-worlde charm. There's so much pneumatic rutting on the internet these days, that's it's nice to revert to a bit of saucy, seaside postcode nudity from time-to-time.

After studying it for continuity errors for an hour or so, it occurred to me that Gillian's non-reaction to the event was rather surprising. One would have to assume that the air was chilly to say the least, and yet she appeared unaware of the icy blast whistling around her Racecourse Ground.* I suspect she was heroically ignoring the situation, which makes sense. What was she supposed to do? Jump on a milking-stool and start shrieking? The alternative explanation is that she was so "in the zone" that she didn't feel a thing.

Whatever was going through her mind is of academic interest only. The really pleasing aspect is the knowledge that élite female athletes wear thongs to compete. Hubba hubba...

* home of the Wrexham (sorry about that)

In Your Facebook

It's been a wee while again since I last blogged. Sorry about that. I've been having an affair with Facebook. I resisted as long as I could but a friend posted some pictures on there in which I had a supporting role. And being the massive narcissist that I am, I could not not see them. This meant signing-up. Clever 'eh? That's how they get you.

Anyways, I became addicted like that [clicks fingers]. I did feel bad about neglecting you though all the time I was filling my Facebook boots. I'm not prepared to give it up just yet, you understand, but I'm sure we can reach an accommodation - a sort of I.T ménage à trois. What's the worst that can happen?

I'll Be Back

I've been away for a long weekend. It was the August bank holiday here in the UK yesterday - the traditional end of the Summer. We spent the weekend under canvas as is our wont at this time of year. The weather, for once, was tremendous.

We spent the weekend pursuing very low-impact pastimes: croquet, crabbing, eating and drinking, and a bit of camp football. I don't mean we were mincing up the wing à la Quentin Crisp. I mean we were playing on the campsite, which necessitates careful reining in of the male instinct to twat the leather off the ball irrespective of the tactical advantage to be gained. We did quite well in this regard.