You couldn't Make This Up..

This is the headline from a Datamonitor study into the leading players in a specific pharmaceutical market.

Penetration Sought In Erectile Dysfunction Market

Also, closing the gap on Pfizer's blockbuster Viagra in this, ehem, growing market, is a Korean firm appropriately named Dong-A PharmTech Co.

Precious.

The Future Is Unwritten .. Well 'Till Thursday

I've never been to a film premiere before so I'm very excited about Thursday night.

OK. It's not exactly a world premiere -- that was at Sundance late last year -- but it is an advanced showing ahead of its 18 May UK release.

The film is "The Future Is Unwritten", Julian Temple's bio-pic of Joe Strummer.

I do, without equivocation, rate the erstwhile John Graham (Woody) Mellor as my absolute hero.

But then we must always remember that heroes are human and therefore fallible.

For instance, I was left with a rather sour taste after devouring Chris Salewicz' brilliant (official) biography "Redemption Song" recently. The reportage was accurate, detailed, personal and importantly, sanctioned. Moreover it was honest.

No one's perfect and Joe was nowhere near perfect. He was real. He was complex. And what's the point in fawning sycophancy?

I'm not going to re-write history or serve as a muso/pop-soc/socio-political critic. There's plenty of words about Joe out there and Wikipedia's profile is as good a place as any to start.

That said, I am hoping that the film will be a wee bit more 'enjoyable' than the book. [I know, enjoyable's the wrong word ..Satisfying? Direct? Telling?]. Either way, surely the medium of film is more visually and aurally appropriate to understanding and appreciating the man and his work? His was a musical art afterall, with a bit of film acting and scoring thrown-in for good measure..

Oh, even though in his later years Mr. Strummer preferred The Groucho to The Elgin, forget about Leicester Square as the venue. The advanced screening's part of the East End Film Festival and is at the Rio in Dalson -- just down the road from us.

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore (Or Ever)

And now a joke (of sorts) made up today by Charlie, my four-and-a-half-year-old godson.

Q: Why do chefs plough the fields?

A: Because they don't like cooking.

Surrealist? Absurdist?

Hey, it didn't do Spike Milligan any harm and according to Saturday's Guardian magazine, he coined that oh so amusing joke below.

Smells Like..

It hasn't rained in London since some way before Easter. That's over four weeks. But this morning we've just had a very light spinkling which causes one of the best smells in the world -- light rain on dusty streets. It really is a sign of summer. Kind-of like new mown grass.

Stop Me If You've Heard his One Before

I know it's old, but it is considered -- through scientific study -- to be the funniest joke ever..


Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy whips out his phone and calls the emergency services.

He gasps, "My friend is dead! What can I do?"

The operator says, "Calm down. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead."

There is silence, then a shot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says, "OK, now what?"

Too much Pressure

So we bottled it. With ManUre dropping two points to a feisty Middlesbrough on Saturday, all we had to do was dispatch Newcastle at St. James' yesterday afternoon. After a convincing four-one away against the Hammers last week, one would have thought we were back to scoring ways.

Well, we aren't (back to scoring) and we didn't (beat Newcastle). We didn't trouble their goal and we didn't compete in midfield. In fact the Geordies pretty-much ran the show for 94 minutes and actually came close on a couple of occasions. We can complain about dodgy reffing decisions and disallowed penalties, but hey, play to the whistle and quit moaning.

So, onto the next ones -- a double-header this week and next against Liverpool for a place in the Champions League Final. Oh, and we host Bolton on Saturday -- never an easy fixture, especially when they're playing for a UEFA place next season.

Grrr.

Finally, to the FA Cup.

The new Wembley has a capacity of 90,000.

Chelsea FC currently has 27,267 season ticket holders, (22,606 non-hospitality/4661 hospitality). It also has nearly 70,000 members.

Chelsea (and ManUre) will receive a total of 25,000 tickets from the FA -- aka Fekkin Ar**holes -- for the Cup Final.

This means that 50,000 tickets will go to partisans and 40,000 will go to sponsors and an odd assortment of footballing trainspotters, geeks and weirdos.

Some 23,000 tickets will go to other clubs and grass roots and other football organisations. Erm, OK. Why would a groundsman from, say, Colchester or a ticketer from Oldham get dibbs?

And a stack -- 17,000 -- have been allocated to to some f***wit outfit called Club Wembley -- an affiliation of eejits who'd prefer to pitch-up a wad of cash for a guaranteed decade of crap like England Ladies XI v Luxembourg Ladies XI and Robbie Williams.

Vitriol misplaced? Au contraire. If you Google for tickets, there are thousands available -- even though they haven't yet been released -- and all for upwards of £1,500 each. So our assorted spotters and freaks are making hay while we true supporters either pay though the nose or watch on telly..

Isn't this season stressful enough?

I wish I'd followed my father and become a Villa supporter. I wouldn't have to worry about any of this stuff..

Carefree

Highway To Hell

Caution with that Internet browser thingie -- especially when using a work laptop at home.

I've been online for 11 years now and so know what I'm doing in the wibbly-webby world. Well, I like to think I do. But occasionally even the most experienced of us surfers take a wrong turn.

The Wi-Fi connection to the iMac at home is practically non-existent and Steve Jobs' pretty little pooter is a good year past its best. It's time for us to upgrade and following the lead of RJB and PJ we're going Gates. (Frankly, PJ should should know about this stuff -- it is his job as a tech analyst after all). In the meantime I use my work laptop at home over the weekend.

Anyhow, left to my own devices for a couple of hours last weekend, I was browsing for rock and roll info and memorabilia. I thought that I'd visit the site of a rather famous Australian heavy rock outfit and see if there are any good looking Donnington t-shirts and cheap CDs out there. Note: 'DC's catalogue isn't available on iTunes.

But instead of using the handy Google toolbar I usually use to navigate, I typed something like ACDC.com directly into the address bar and pressed return.

Eeks. Thunderstruck. But for all the wrong reasons.

Instead of Angus Young and gang, there's ladies and men and ladies and ladies all sans clothes and in poses.. You get the drift..

(I don't know the actual URL [really!] and I'm too scared to go look now).

I know I was there a matter of moments, but now I've got nasty cookies and I'm certain that IT will send me a stern memo about correct use of corporate equipment.

So memo to self: Use Google. And you don't need any more heavy 12 bar blues-based rock music.

Dogged Ambition

While I've miserably failed over the years to quit an unpleasant nicotine addiction, I did manage to stop chewing my nails well over a decade ago. And I've successfully resisted gnawing my digits since.

But with the current football madness of CFC -- scrapping every game to keep ManUre in sight in the Prem, a double-header against our nemesis of recent seasons (scaarase gits) in the Champions League semis and the prospect of battling The Red Dung again in the FA Cup Final -- my fingers (and nerves) are raw.

Great to see SWP coming good and just waiting for Joe Cole to find his touch again. There's yet much hope and still all to play for.

But it would be nice if Ronaldo could catch a cold, or something..

Carefree

Gunning For Trouble

After nearly a month of work-type madness, things are more under control and there a wee bit more time. So back to this..

With the wonderful Spring weather and longer evenings -- it's long walkies in Clissold Park for me and my furry friend. And if we stop by The Shakespeare en route home to whet our whistles, hey, we've earned it.

Old Emms is a biddable pooch and very friendly -- especially to picnickers and groups of young women lounging on the grass.

Top tip to young single men -- get yourself a cute dog, or borrow one at least. It really engenders coos of interest from said young women -- which of course, is lost on me as I have the delightful P.

Anyway, back to the park..

More so than ever before, we dog owners are under general scrutiny for how well we manage our beasts. Dog ownership is all about consideration and responsibility.

Aside: with the exception of work suits, every pocket I have is crammed full of poo bags.

But today, some breeds are now seen as urban status symbols -- doggie bling as I put it. This is a problem. Canine bling is exclusively centred on the most unpredictable and dangerous of breeds -- pit bulls, rotweillers, chow chows, American staffs etc., -- dogs bred expressly for hunting and fighting. These aren't pets or companions, they're lethal weapons. Moreover, the folks that own them are invariably unsuited to the task of dog ownership. Think modern-day Bill Sykes and Bullseye (shudder).


The papers are full of horror stories about savaged toddlers, bystanders and other, more malign pets. Ipso facto -- there's an understandable degree of public alarm about these monsters being abroad, and a keen interest in their control. So all over the park are signs reminding folk about responsible animal husbandry and expressing the rule that 'dangerous breeds' must be carefully controlled and on the leash.

We (Ems and I) wholly approve. If these breeds are 'banned' as the BBC keeps saying, then why are there so many of them -- not just in London but across the country? Why are they still bred and why aren't they confiscated and destroyed?

Surely, we should bring back The Dog Licence as a means to control ownership and engender responsibility?

The dog licence was abolished in 1987 after which a series of consultations led to the dog control measures contained in the Environmental Protection Act 1990 and to the Dangerous Dogs Act 1991. In Opposition Labour gave a commitment to introduce a dog registration scheme, a course of action rejected by the former Government.

Mr. Cameron. Here's a nice and easy policy for you. Everyone will support you and heck man, you need one!

Not convinced?

OK. The other evening she and I quietly, happily getting on with our constitutional, causing no harm to anyone. We pass three young-uns in hoodies and caps askew. They have a young pit bull type straining on a heavy chain and as we pass a conversation (of sorts) is exchanged.

Hoodie 1 (addressing 'Killer', 'Tyson', 'IceCube' or whatever the unfortunate hound is named). "Ah, Geez. It's not fair, innit. Vat one's free an you ain't."

Hoodie 2 (regarding Ems asks his crew). "What kinda dog is dat anyway?"

Hoodie 3. "It's a gun dog, innit."

Hoodie 2. "Wicked. I gotta get me one of vose."

Hoodie 1. "But if it's a real gun dog, why don't it look very hard?"

We didn't dawdle long enough to find out what kind of game these likely lads had in mind for retrieval, or indeed, removal..

(Meet Me At The) Cemetary Gates

Beyond the usual urban crap, our patch of North London holds many fascinations, not least Abney Park Cemetary.

This eerie Victorian cemetery is a gem amid the hustle and bustle of the city.


Not only is it a place of gothic tranquility, it's expressly a place for non-conformists. As an aging punk, this appeals to me greatly.

It's one of only two key places for the burial of non-conformists in the capital and offers a fascinating insight into the history of London's dissenting families. Which I guess, explains why the leftie loony lefter-overs of the 80's set-up shop on Saturdays to peddle Socialist Worker to passers-by..



The ornamental ironwork, along an Egyptian theme, over the Church Street entrance came from the entrance to Abney House, named after Lady Mary Abney, who retired here in the early 1700s with her daughters and their tutor and chaplain, Dr. Issac Watts -- a well-known dissenter, who lived in the area for many years and was famous as a composer of hymns and sermons.

The heiroglyphs over the lodges read, 'The Gates of the Abode of the Mortal Part of Man.' Also in Abney Park, are wonderful Celtic crosses, austere Welsh Slate memorials to members of the London Welsh community, and a vast statue to Isaac Watts. There is also War Memorial commemorating local people who fell in the two World Wars. A smaller Civilian War-Memorial was raised in memory of local people who died as a result of enemy air bombardment during World War II.



The cemetery's chapel, in a fine gothic style, was part of the original installation of Abney Park. The imposing spire retains much of its original cladding, but today the chapel is a sad shell, home to a population of pigeons and used as a setting for horror films.

The fortunate result of neglect was to allow the cemetery to develop into an 'urban forest.' OK, now in disrepair but a conservation area, at its zenith, the cemetery eclipsed the Royal Park at Kew, with 2,500 different species.



Disappointing: Emms didn't dig up any bones.
Question: Where's Jim?

We Need To Talk About ...Emmie

Recognising that London is an increasingly hazardous Gotham and Gomorrah (see previous post), the city's councils keep its parks locked through the hours of darkness in an effort to keep safe its citizenry from bush-lurking n'er do wells.

This makes absolute sense and is the right thing to do. The only problem is that pooch and I can't get into the Green first thing in the morning for our daily eye-opener. Well, she can squeeze through the tightly bound multi-locked gate, but I can't. So we instead scratch around and attend to pees and poos on a piece of waste ground adjacent to the out-of-reach mini park.

Naturally, this isn't very exciting for either of us, but we make do. Though Emmie has taken to pawing at the park fence and yelping pleas for access. And clearly, as the mornings have got lighter and she's been able to case the railings, think, sniff, plot, pee and plan, a change has come over her.

This morning with my back turned the pooch shimmied through a gap in the fence and with spike-topped wrought iron fence between us, ran off into the Green and refused to acknowledge my whistle to heel.

It's 6:20 a.m., so 'calling' a dog must be done very quietly and with due regard for slumbering neighbours. Only, the more she ignored me -- occasionally gazing my way in distain, with clock ticking and my bath and coffee chilling at home -- the more she wound me up. (Ever tried shouting in a whisper? Grrr.)

Anyway, some 20 minutes pass and I'm about ready to join London's gang-banging teens and commit evil, evil deeds when dog saunters out, sans care in world and looking very pleased with herself.

Ever seem The Omen? ..The knowing look of malevolence in the eyes of the outwardly innocent face of the boy Damien..? That's the dog today. She knows what she's doing and she's enjoying being bad.

She's changed. I'm afraid to go home alone now and am uncertain as what I'll find.

My old pet -- riddled as she was of late with middle-class doggie angst (it's true, really) -- has undergone a transformation and is now host to an unwelcome messenger of Satan. A demon from Hell. Will she start projectile vomiting? Am I to find, though fur, the words 'help me' etched on her skin as I tickle her tummy? Will she begin levitation? Will she start resembling Linda Blair?

It's off to church with us this weekend and an overdue bath for the disobedient dog -- this time with a wee sprinkling of holy water just to be on the safe side.

London's Burning

What with London's teenagers slaughtering one another on a daily basis and rival football fans hurtling us back to the 70s and 80s -- mindless, random violence is rife and everywhere in the city today.

You can't walk down any of the capital's streets without having to negotiate around a large yellow police sign appealing for witnesses to assaults, muggings, burglaries and murder. Yes -- murder. I kid you not. There's a sign on Lisson Grove -- around the corner from the office and where I park my car -- asking for information about a murder committed on a mid-week afternoon a couple of weeks ago.

On Wednesday in Hammersmith a gang of 13-year-olds stabbed a 16 year-old lad to death just to take his dog.

When pit bulls and staffs are status symbols -- canine bling if you like -- it's time to skedaddle to the shires and leave Sodom to rot.

Bloodbath

My mornings this week are beginning to resemble scenes from slasher moves. Blood and gore everywhere. Well, mainly on the lower, hairy area of my face.

The thing is that I've bought a fancy new razor -- the kind of thing that glows in the dark (erm, handy) is battery-operated, buzzes like an electric and has six or seven multi-swivel blades.

All this pseudo-technology is designed to be "The Best A Man Can Get" and give us chaps a rash-free, nick-less, smooth and even shave.

..Does it bollocks.

Damn. The thing is lethal and would be better employed as a weapon in a Tarantino flick.

It matters not how much or how little foam I apply or how carefully I scrape. I'm getting shredded. Every morning.

This means that I spend the first couple of hours each day with bloody scraps of TP all over my mug and am actually carrying a few scabs. I look like I've been tarred and feathered and we're rapidly running out of Andrex.

Sod Beckham, the metro-macho ads and the flannel. I'm growing a beard.

Correspondence

An email exchange between two chaps about the important things in life -- seeking consensus and common ground in a spirit of equanimity..

Though things won't be so equitable on Sunday, 11 March in the sixth round of the F.A. Cup..

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Tottenham
Sent: 26 February 2007 11:12
To: Chelsea blogger
Subject: RE: :-)


Morning mate.

Fair f***s to your lot yesterday. That bunch of South London diddicoys/cuckoos needed beating (stroppy babies imbued with too much arrogance all round, in my bitter and twisted opinion) and it's just a shame Terry got the kicking instead. I've only seen the still photo on the Beeb's site - that's bad enough. Good job his looks aren't a worry, eh? ;-). As far as the ruck goes, expect about 25-50K fine each I reckon.

Keane's 'Off' yesterday made it all the sweeter in a bizarre way. Probably had to go, but v unfortunate. MoTD made for very happy viewing last night. And whilst Robbie serves his ban, we'll trot wee Defoe out to partner the footballing genius which Berbatov is fast becoming. Not bad at all, and next three league games are all v winnable.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Chelsea Blogger
Sent: 26 February 2007 11:05
To: Tottenham
Subject: :-)

Everyone's happy.

You return to winning ways -- 3 wins in a week. Though Keane's an odd one -- two goals and a red card.

We win in Cardiff against a lively bunch of young gooners (but remember we hit to woodwork twice too).

Both DD goals fair and on-side. (28 for the season -- can he make it 40?)

JT is truly made of steel. (Felt sick at the time thinking 'that's spinal..')

20 minutes of extra time -- well, it felt like it anyway.

Then a big old ruck (ehem -- handbags, ladies) and it ended with three reds, seven yellows and more to come in FA enquiry.

Jolly japes.

Carefree

Blue Is, Of Course, The Colour

I love this line from the 1972 squad song. It's soooo untrue :-)

Come to the Shed and we'll welcome you

Anyway, probably the best ever footie song done as a team sing-song.
("In the cup for Tottingham," I ask you..)

Sing along everyone.

Carefree



Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.

Here at the Bridge, whether rain or fine
We can shine all the time
Home or away, come and see us play
You're welcome any day

Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name

Come to the Shed and we'll welcome you
Wear your blue and see us through
Sing loud and clear until the game is done
Sing Chelsea everyone

Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.

Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.

For The Love Of... (Redux07)

Reheating last year's post..

Today's St. Valentine's Day -- probably the worst example of a 'Hallmark Holiday' known to man.

So who was St. Valentine anyway?

He was a mysterious early catholic martyr -- and a relatively minor one at that. There were two, possibly three St. Valentines, btw.

Oh, how relevant. Anyone for St. Ida of Boulogne? St. Methodius? Or that perennial crowd-pleaser, St. Tarcisius -- the persecuted 12-year-old acolyte mangled by the Romans in the third century?

Right then. I'll get all romantic..

Brilliant.

Saw This And Thought Of ..Me

I spied this aspirational bon mot on a greeting card.

"My ambition in life is to someday be the person my dog thinks I am."- Emily Maughan

Erm..

Upon reflection, only a bloke would write about the misery of flu. How self-indulgent. 'Man flu,' I ask you..

But then that's the point of all this, innit? Self-indulgence ;-)

Anyway, an amusing cockney aside.

Overheard a geezer in The Shed yesterday afternoon remarking upon the glory of Drogba's first place kick.

"Solicitor's Letter." quoth Blue philosopher.

Translation. "Tell 'em we mean business."

Carefree.

Outbreak UK

Influenza of one kind or another charaterised this week.

The dreaded Bird Flu arrived on these shores proper with a devastating outbreak at the Bernard Matthews turkey farm in Suffolk. Mass slaughter, incineration, DEFRA investigations, questions in The House and much fear and loathing.

Closer to home I've been stricken with a nasty bout of flu of the human kind. This is no weak-tea 'man flu' of mere runny nose and sneezing either. No, it's been truly miserable. A very high temerature with all the usual symptoms -- writ large -- but also with three full days of complete and utter delerium.

Yeah man. Sounds great being totally out of it.

But no. It's been like living through an extended freak-out trip induced by a nasty cocktail of dodgy recreationals. Have a look at thattuneinmyhead. The sheer trippiness of the whole thing is characterised by the fact that Jimi Hendrix's Highway Chile ran on a loop in my head for the first 24 hours. Migrane central and completely insane in the membrane.

I'm sick of Kleenex, Lemsip, Actifed, Strepsils, Vicks, Neurofen and frequent very hot baths. I'm a confirmed OTC junkie and now must find a 12-step programme to address my unwilling addiction to expectorants.

Anyhow, I'm improving now and my employer kindly couriered my laptop to me at home today so I can do something a bit more productive than hucking loogies.

As the charming Mr Matthews might say, "Bootiful."

Bad To The Bone

This is a marvellous leader in today's Scotsman.

Like most people, I believe human children are evil and should be reared in pens. Some people say children start off innocent but are corrupted by the BBC. However, new research shows badness is in the DNA and that some kids would be unpleasant no matter where or how they were brought up.

We need to talk about Kevin, indeed..

This is grim news indeed. Until we can modify ourselves genetically - oh, roll on, glorious day! - it's virtually impossible to nip the nasty nippers in the bud, thus leading to calls for all children to be treated harshly, just to be on the safe side.