Tag Archives: footy

Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

So whoa, how ace was yesterday, as transfer deadline days go?! Man City, I don’t even know where to begin, Man City started the day with effectively no owner after absolute nutjob of a Thai ex-prime minister billionaire “human rights abuser of the worst kind” fly-by-night Thaksin ‘Frank’ Shinawatra had his £800m assets frozen. Not the most promising of starts, and then by lunchtime the boys in sky blue are apparently rolling in oil money, waving over £30m of it at Wor Dimi, pictured above, presumably at least half sincerely and the rest with the concerted aim of pissing all over the cornflakes of veteran veiny-nosed gobshite ‘Sir’ Alex, also pictured above? And buying Robinho.

Incidentally, I myself was praying for Kevin Keegan to sneakily nab this sulky bugger off our hands for 50p or something, having never forgotten the mildly entertaining chat when he first came over about his being a mental Magpie: “Dimitar told me it was his dream to play for Newcastle United one day and wear the same shirt as Alan Shearer, who is my son’s hero”, said his ma. His old schoolmate Mario Bekov, who has known Berbatov for 20 years, said his admiration for the former Toon ace bordered on obsession. “Dimitar never missed a Newcastle game when it was on television. And Shearer was up there with Pele as a God for him.” Alas, this one really was but a dream. Sure he would only have fallen victim to the curse of NUFC/Michael Owen syndrome and sustained a mysterious ‘training ground injury’ like all their other half decent players ever. Serious, what is it with that? Is it from foightin’? Well, now they have Joey ‘stubbed out a lit cigar in a youth player’s eye and also assaulted a 15-year-old’ Barton, so probably yes. And also the Messiah himself is heading off down the Gallowgate Jobcentre. Or not. Probably. Maybe.

So, the point is, yes I am going to miss Berbs. I’ll miss his weirdly early receding hairline, complete with girly Alice band, I’ll miss his deep-set eyes and his lovely accent, I’ll miss his great long runs and his flailing predation and I guess I’ll miss his teenage strops. And I’ll definitely miss the time he netted four against Reading. WHAT IS THAT EVEN CALLED? A four-trick? A fat trick? A hat-trick-and-then-some? A fourgasm? A Dimi? And what will become of him? I’m not too sure. I think, as we’ve seen, boy’s perhaps got too much of an ego on him and he wants to be a superstar, and I just am not sure whether he’ll look quite as good as he thinks he will lining up alongside Ronaldo and Tévez and even, on a good day, Giggsy… and there is just no sign of anyone EVER stopping wanking on about Ronaldo, so will there be enough wankery left over for wee Berbs? WE SHALL SEE. Also I just really really dislike Man U and always have and always will, I dunno. Even though I do love red.

What will become of Berbatov? What will become of Keegan and NUFC? What will become of Pavlyuchenko with no Arshavin? How cute was it when Corluka said he was really happy to come to Spurs because Luka Modric is his bestest friend? Is Daniel Levy a nob head and should I have given up on him years ago? Why do I get so worked up about this stuff, actually? Do you care about footy? You mostly don’t, do you? What about some of you? Club football? International football? Do you know what I mean if I say something about no matter how rational and logical and sensible you want to be about it, you just can’t help but feel disappointed with mornings like this one and ever so slightly angry at players who’re ‘disloyal’ to the club, even when they’re Bulgarian Toon fans and you hated the way the whole Jol thing was handled and it all really has very little to do at all with lovely old scummy old North London and the grimy smoggy streets you walked and ran and grazed your knees on as a little girl, and besides all that you actually lived very slightly closer to Upton Park anyway? No? I should go to bed, really, shouldn’t I?

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT
With no transfer window to entertain me, I had to console myself with playing the old ‘Elvis Costello-lyrics-related-facebook-status-updates’ game with my brother instead, today. In case you were wondering. That’s awesome.

I went to Critical Mass! With M, who is wicked cool. I met a nice Australian(?) girl. My back wheel/mudguard situation was a little bit mashed up: boo. P fixed it, pumped my tyres and stopped the seat squeaking too: yay yay yay.

You know what is really really cool?

Mehndi

sri’s mehndi hands by darcitananda

And
Mandalas

the end. by misscaro

Aaaand
Islamic tile art

Image Plate from Owen Jones’ 1853 classic, “The Grammar of Ornament”, as scanned by cool origamist EricGjerde


Isfahan/ Imam(Shah) Mosque by HORIZON

And pretty much all intricately detailed fractalicious abstract things. AWESOME.

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I used to think that this day would never come.

I know it’s my facebook status and I further know hardly any of you give a shit about this but I do:

TOTTENHAM 5-1 ARSENAL

WE COULD BE HEROES
JUST FOR JUANDE

that is all.

Hot in the city.

This weekend, I have mostly been drunk. It’s too hot here, and alcohol makes you dehydrated. I feel dried up, like a raisin. In fact, more like a paper flower: when I was little, once or twice I remember my mum bringing me these beautiful, tightly folded, brightly coloured tiny paper flowers, and we’d fill a bowl or the bathroom sink with water and then float them on top and they’d bloom. Open out gently and gradually, just like real petals, but faster and more surprising and you felt like you’d made it happen yourself. (Like with my begonia – latest news on that: still alive!) That’s what I feel like today – hot and hard and dry and tight. I want to blossom, I want someone to float me and open me up.

I’m dreaming of cool water every night recently – I dream of rivers, of deep dark mirrored lakes and the endless ever-changing sea. Of stillness and storms, silence and susurrus, and thunder and the roar of waves. I want to do away with the space and layers between me and the elements (well maybe not fire). I dream of submergence, of swimming, of running through fountains, but mostly of floating alone with nothing but blue – water and sky – for miles around.

In my family (I don’t know if it’s idiosyncratic or normal), we have two Hebrew/Yiddish names, just as most people have a first name and a middle name. My brother got given both of his around the time that my mum converted, when he was a baby – his regular name (Samuel) has a direct Hebrew equivalent (Shmuel) so that had to be first, and his second one is Yitzhak, Isaac, which means ‘laughs’. Because that’s what he did, and still does; apparently he was an unusually happy baby. I wasn’t. But my sister and I, I don’t know if it’s because our regular names aren’t Hebrew ones, we each got given one by our parents and then chose the second when we reached 11 or 12 and started preparing for being bat mitzvah. Mine from my dad is Adel (Adele? Edel? Aydel? I don’t really know how you spell it), which is Yiddish and was his grandmother’s name. Because it’s Germanic I don’t know if it means anything. The one I chose is Ahuva, meaning beloved, so I never forget.
Anyway, that’s background: the name my sister chose, she told me in March just before her bat mitzvah, is Mayim – water. I never even knew that was a name (although apparently it is, just not a common one), and I thought it sounded slightly silly, like River Phoenix and whatever his crazy siblings were called apart from Joaquin (Summer, right? And Rain??) But then after the service my mum gave a little speech about her and talked about her choice of name and how appropriate she (Mum) thought it was: water is both beautiful and necessary, it’s life and it’s inspiring as well. It’s flexible and changing, it’s rivers and mist and ice – it’s soft and hard and it’s quietly much stronger than it seems. It smooths rocks and wood and sharp edges, makes those pretty sea-glass pebbles you find on the beach. It gently, gently, slowly, slowly wears down everything in its way, even the hardest stone. Then I understood. Thanks Mum. Incase you’re bored at work and nosing around again.


Someone else’s picture.

Mint and tea tree shower gel is good, though.

I suppose you’ll be expecting me to say something about this.


The End of the World. Cup.

Er… I cried a bit. John Terry set me off though. And Robinson (see? not a thug.)* I hate it when men cry. So how was I supposed to cope with supermen crying?
I’m less disappointed that we’re out, more disappointed that England can’t really say “we was robbed” this time – disappointed that we didn’t even begin to try to live up to the hype, that there was no beautiful football, it was all ridiculous and no sublime. Let down and hanging aroundovers all round. Oh well, next league season starts next month, yay! Seems like I’ll mostly be cheering Spurs (obv) and Hertha BSC Berlin. Ho hum.


In a way, I think his story is the saddest of all. Look at him there: “Hooray! I’m going to Germany… on holiday!” To sit on a bench for another month. Thinking “I could’ve put that in”, “I could’ve got that cross”, “I could’ve been a wee bit more subtle about stomping on that guy’s spuds”.
THE NEXT PELE? screamed the headlines. Well, I guess we’ll never know. No World Cup fun till you’re 21, son (you have to read that bit in a sort of Sir Mix-a-lot style, kay?)

*AND BY THE WAY: It’s totally true what I’m always telling anyone who’ll listen about Albert Camus being a goalkeeper. He played for his university’s team (Algiers) but had to give it up in 1930 when he contracted tuberculosis. He was serious about it, too – there’s lots of lovely stuff in La Peste where he has one of the characters reminiscing about t’beautiful game and going around scoring ‘goals’ by kicking pebbles down the street into the drains. And apparently he once said ‘All that I know most surely about morality and obligations, I owe to football’. I read somewhere that he said he was keeper because the other positions made your shoes wear out faster and he was poor as owt. But I think it’s really because it allows – no, demands – lots of thinking time. So they’re all, like, cerebral and that. Vladimir Nabokov was a numero uno, too:


‘The goalkeeper is the lone eagle, the man of mystery, the last defender.’

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SWEET! THUNDERSTORM!!