'The Beautiful Game', my peach-like arse!

Right in the nuts
Just not cricket: Wayne 'Shrek' Rooney gives Carvalho one in the nuts. That has got to smart.

I'm sorry, call me unpatriotic and old-fashioned, but, if you stamp on a chap's nuts, you don't deserve to win a local five-a-side pub soccer match, let alone the sodding World Cup. That's not the English way of doing things.

Wayne Rooney, if you're reading this (read a lot, do you, Wayne?), you are a disgrace to your team-mates, and to your country. Unfortunately, as is not usually the case with Man U players, your country also happens to be my country. I hope you're bloody ashamed of yourself.

What am I talking about? Of course you're not.

Kedgeree recipe

As I type, I am in the middle of a VERY SLOW so-called instant messaging conversation with Carolyn. About half an hour ago, I asked her if she'd like a copy of the excellent kedgeree recipe Jen and I found in a magazine a few weeks back. Fifteen minutes later, Carolyn said yes please. I then said I'd try to type it up tomorrow. But Carolyn clearly has her mind on other things tonight (she's busy counting coins, apparently), so, while I've been waiting for her next message, I typed up the recipe and published it here.

You should give it a go: it's dead easy, and it's absolutely delicious.

Serendipity Do Dah!

James Garner
James Garner.

How's this for a pleasing co-incidence? It's a bit convoluted, but bear with me, it's worth the wait:

  • when I was a kid, I always thought that James Garner from out of The Rockford Files was the spitting image of my dad. I wasn't alone in this belief: kids I hardly knew would come up to me and say, "Your dad looks like Jim Rockford". Sometimes they would go so far as to say, "Your dad is Jim Rockford";
  • for the record, my dad's name is not Jim Rockford, it's Norman;
  • entirely unrealted to the above—or so it would seem—my mum's favourite film of all time is Oklahoma!
  • while I was in totally shattered mode after my big walk last Friday, I turned on the telly, and they were showing The Rockford Files. While I was watching it for old times' sake, I found myself wondering whatever happened to James Garner. He must be getting on a bit by now, I thought—assuming he is still with us, that is. So I looked him up on the Internet Movie Database;
  • the good news is that James Garner is still very much alive, and is still making films, but GET THIS…
  • James Garner was born in the city of Norman, Oklahoma!

I lied when I said it would be worth the wait.

No! Man!

My dreams of becoming a tip-top tap-dancer lie shattered: Carolyn has been told that men are not welcome at the tap-dancing classes. I have never been the victim of blatant sexual discrimination before, and it hurts. Would they have been allowed to ban me if I were from a racial minority, do you think, or if I were disabled? Well then! Men are a minority too, you know: only 49% of the adult population.

Actually, I'm rather relieved. But Carolyn is outraged, and has sworn to do something about it.

Watch this space, as they say.

Shagged out

I went for a ten-mile walk yesterday. Jen dropped me off at Blackstone Edge on her way into work, and I walked back to Hebden Bridge along the Pennine Way. I'd forgotten how far it was.

The first half hour was spent in thick fog, the second in heavy drizzle. After that, things picked up a bit. I only saw two other people in the five hours of the walk, and they were together, so they only counted as one really.

Yes, that's right: it took me five hours, but I was taking loads of photos, I received two phone calls, and I did spend about 40 minutes on top of Stoodley Pike, so call it four hours' walking (i.e. 2½ miles per hour).

I don't think I'll ever do the Pennine Way in full: you're supposed to do over 20 miles a day for a fortnight, or something stupid like that, and I'm totally shagged out after just ten.

My, it was fun, though.

The green choice

RSPB: Wind farm strikes at eagle stronghold

A key population of Europe's largest eagle has been significantly reduced by a wind farm.

Only one white-tailed eagle is expected to fledge from the wind farm site on the bird's former stronghold of Smøla, a set of islands about six miles (ten kilometres) off the north-west Norwegian coast.

Turbine blades have killed nine of the birds in the last ten months including all three chicks that fledged last year.

The number of young has crashed from at least ten each year before the wind farm was built, with numbers outside the wind farm falling as well—there are no breeding pairs within one kilometre of the turbines.

To add insult to death, nobody seems to have worked out that wind powerstations are almost literally pissing in the wind—including the RSPB.

As I have previously stated, I object to these things being referred to as wind farms, but I'm beginning to have second thoughts about referring to them as wind powerstations too: perhaps we should call them wind abattoirs instead.

The odd couple

Stense was in town last Tuesday evening, so I took her out for a meal in the restaurant adjoining one of our favourite pubs. It's called the The Cowshed Restaurant, but don't let the name fool you as it fooled me: it's rather posh. Stense had done herself proud as usual (she scrubs up well), but I felt as if I'd dressed a bit too casually. Well, I did once Stense pointed out that I probably should have worn a tie.

There was a bunch of old dears at the table next to us. One of them seemed rather intrigued by Stense and me. I think she was trying to work out what the relationship was between the fat, scruffy, bearded bloke with the greying hairs around his temples and the rather elegant, attractive young woman with the spectacular haircut.

She probably thought Stense was my probation officer.