Latest party game for those who haven't seen it, is to discover your Royal Wedding Invitation name. Start with Lord or Lady then, for your first name, use the forename of a grandparent (whichever is the best). The surname is a double barrel of your first pet and the first bit of the name of the road where you grew up.
Hence I am Lord Israel Dandy-Cranley. And perhaps the best I've heard so far is Lord Russell Pussy-College.
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Is it hayfever, is it some kind of spring flu or are people allergic to the tube? For some reason, every single person who uses London Underground now sniffs for the entire journey.
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Robbie Savage is retiring from football at the end of this season and the general rule is that all fans are supposed to salute his spiky, never say die attitude that made him such a popular figure with all the clubs he played for and a kind of pantomime villain for everyone else.
Not me. How someone with such a limited talent made so much money and is now feted as some kind of tactical genius and broadcasting star (Radio Five Live - how could you?) is beyond me.
I have a general policy not to feel hatred and bitterness towards footballers. It's just a game and they are all trying their best.
But not Savage. Not for diving in the 1999 league cup final and getting Justin Edinburgh sent off in the biggest game of the lad's career. And a million sins against the English language. And for that hair and his arrogance and for being the best example how a no-talent dipstick can make millions in the modern game when people like Jimmy Greaves and Stan Bowles struggled to make an average living.
No, I don't wish him well and a happy retirement. I'll stop short of wishing him harm in the way Arsenal fans would with, say, Ryan Shawcross of Stoke. I'll settle for his hair falling out.
Not like that nice Ryan Giggs who is such a wonderful ambassador for the sport and a lovely family man to boot, I believe.
-------------------------------------
Sainsbury's has this really, really, condescending, smarmy and completely unconvincing policy of calling all its staff 'colleagues' whether they are in the boardroom or stacking shelves.
So all press releases talk about the money colleagues in Wigan raised for Comic Relief or how the company's profits are all down to the hard work of colleagues.
It smacks of trying to be like John Lewis where everyone is a 'partner' but then that company is owned by the staff. Sainsbury's is not. It's a moneymaking giant which, like Tesco and others, squeezes suppliers until the pips squeak and exists purely to make money.
Its insurance arm, for instance, will go to extraordinary lengths not to pay out on a policy if it can find the slightest excuse not to.
And I bet when some acne-ridden checkout kid is caught nicking a few cans of beans from the storeroom, the manager doesn't call him 'colleague' as he frogmarches him to the security chief.
--------------------------------
I'm a bloke and blokes make lists. It's in the official Haynes Manual for men of a certain age. So here's my top ten favourite Simpsons episodes of all time. For no particular reason other than I was mulling it over in my head.
1.The Stonecutters - Homer joins a Mason-like cult and becomes the chosen one. Until all the others get sick of him. It's my personal fave.
2.The Gay one - with John Waters where Homer is worried Bart may be gay. Features the brilliant scene in the steel foundary.
3.The prohibition hits Springfield and Homer becomes a beer baron. Ends with the immortal toast 'to alcohol, the cause of, and solution to, all life's problems.'
4.The fiery chilli cookoff episode which sees Homer go into a chilli-induced fantasy that includes Johnny Cash as a space coyote and ends in a lighthouse and everyone singing 'who loves short shorts'.
5.The Van Houtens divorce. Milhouse's parents split up and Homer decides to be nicer to Marge. It's just hilarious.
6.Cape Fear rip off where Sideshow Bob seeks revenge on Bart. So many visual gags and references but best of all is an extended scene of Bob standing on rakes which was made to fill in time because the original episode was too short.
7.Snow Plow wars (that's how they spell plough out there) where both Homer and Barney each start up a snow plow business. The adverts they make are brilliant. And it features Linda Ronstadt.
8.22 short films about Springfield - a marvellous pastiche of Pulp Fiction with loads of scenes all merged into one episode.
9.Selma marries Troy McClure - if for nothing else but the revelation that Troy has a sexual abnormality that involves fish and he needs to marry someone, anyone, to avoid the papers finding out.
10.Monorail. Includes a wonderful song, some brilliant sight gags and loads of clever one liners that you miss the first few times of watching.
And the moral of the story is...the best ones don't necessarily need the biggest stars or Ricky Gervais but have the crispest writing, the subtlest jokes - and some unsubtle ones - and both heart and pathos.
My name is Solly and I'm a Simpsons addict....shhhhh....Solly
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Why MBA? You can hang out with all of the boys
The Daily Express has a four page pullout on the royal wedding which it describes as indispensable. I've checked. It isn't. I do this so you don't have to.
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How do you know if someone has an MBA? Simple, they tell you within half an hour of meeting you.
They don't just come out and say it, though it is often the first thing they really want to say, as in: "Hi, I'm Mike, I've got an MBA, I bet you haven't. It's what makes me better than you. I love earning money - does it make you feel poorer than me?'
What they actually say is, after a couple of lines of conversation 'uh huh, yuh, there was like, this guy who I met when I was doing my MBA'. Because they all speak like that.
And they all have that look. You know THAT look. The slightly preppy, clean cut face with an expensive but not too trendy haircut. They wear smart casual to work and match jeans to a jacket when socialising (they often iron their jeans too.)
They like those reddish brown brogues and thin suits which they think makes them look like Don Draper. Actually they look like those guys in Reggie Perrin who used to say 'great' and 'super'.
At work you'll hear them say 'don't bring me problems, bring me solutions' or some other sage advice that they think will make them the next Rupert Murdoch but will actually make them the next David Brent.
At weekends they pursue something a bit show offy like doing an ironman challenge crawling across the Kalahari while towing an elephant on a pushbike or something they can boast about on Facebook. And they are more likely to prefer rugby to football and will often be at Twickers in the corporate box.
MBAs are a cottage industry - when the cottage is a second home in Tuscany which you nip off to when not in your London penthouse where you entertain lots of people you think are friends but very few who would actually cross the street to piss on you if you were on fire.
It costs a lot of money to get an MBA, and it's not easy but the reward is a feeling of superiority like you've managed to get into the most exclusive club in the world, a cross between the Groucho, MCC and The Stonecutters, the fabulous Freemason pastiche in The Simpsons.
People with an MBA gravitate towards other slightly nerdy obsessives with an MBA but don't do very well with real people. That's partly because they can't talk about anything unless it has some kind of monetary angle where they can inject a little nugget of wisdom that reinforces the fact they have got an MBA.
They fancy themselves as Buddy Fox, the character Charlie Sheen played in Wall Street. And most of them will probably end up as the character Charlie Sheen appears to be playing in real life.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Talking of wankels - is it just me or does anyone else feel a bit uneasy about those TV ads in which Japanese giant Mazda cashes in on the memories of Hiroshima to promote its range of its cars (most of which are only suitable for hairdressers of course).
Next week, VW reflects on its roots as Hitler's 'people's car' and Mercedes boasts of how the spirit of Princess Diana goes into every car it makes for its Paris market. Or is that Fiat?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Andrew Marr said that he took out a super injunction to protect his wife and three children from harmful publicity. Of course, there is a better way to protect one's wife and three children from being upset and hurt and that's not to boink some posh bint with wobbly eyesight in the first place. Blimey, what is it about the £600,000 a year famous TV presenter that helps him pull a not unattractive nor unintelligent female journalist? For the rest of us, the thought of Marr making the beast with two backs gives the phrase 'gagging order' a whole new meaning.
He said: 'I did not come into journalism to gag journalists'. I think he meant 'shag'.
By the way, for anyone wanting to know who the woman was/is, then just look up the excellent political blog by Guido Fawkes who revealed her identity way back in 2008.
And boy do I hope someone uncovers something salacious about Louise Bagshawe, the horsey looking chic lit writer turned Tory MP who thinks she's fabulous now she's appeared on Have I Got News For You?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I happened to buy the People newspaper on Sunday. I had my reasons. It wasn't because of the front page but I bet a lot of people did part with a pound when they saw the headline about William's stag do and a picture of the Prince half naked wrapped in feather boas with his arms in the air.
Millions - well hundreds - will have bought the paper believing it to be a real exclusive about the heir's recent stag do. And they will have turned eagerly to the inside pages to discover it was a photo taken at someone else's birthday party in 2003. Nowhere did the front page say this WAS his recent stag party but nowhere did it make clear that it wasn't. So no law was broken, but I bet a lot of people who bought the paper last Sunday and do not usually will remember having the wool pulled over their eyes and use this information when they come to make purchase decisions in the future.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I noticed that Metro used the word 'til' in a headline this morning. Not 'until' or 'till' but some kind of hybrid slang term. Is this part of the wonderful evolution of language, a poor sub not able to find an alternative in the English language or just tosh?
Til next time....Solly
---------------------------------------------------------------
How do you know if someone has an MBA? Simple, they tell you within half an hour of meeting you.
They don't just come out and say it, though it is often the first thing they really want to say, as in: "Hi, I'm Mike, I've got an MBA, I bet you haven't. It's what makes me better than you. I love earning money - does it make you feel poorer than me?'
What they actually say is, after a couple of lines of conversation 'uh huh, yuh, there was like, this guy who I met when I was doing my MBA'. Because they all speak like that.
And they all have that look. You know THAT look. The slightly preppy, clean cut face with an expensive but not too trendy haircut. They wear smart casual to work and match jeans to a jacket when socialising (they often iron their jeans too.)
They like those reddish brown brogues and thin suits which they think makes them look like Don Draper. Actually they look like those guys in Reggie Perrin who used to say 'great' and 'super'.
At work you'll hear them say 'don't bring me problems, bring me solutions' or some other sage advice that they think will make them the next Rupert Murdoch but will actually make them the next David Brent.
At weekends they pursue something a bit show offy like doing an ironman challenge crawling across the Kalahari while towing an elephant on a pushbike or something they can boast about on Facebook. And they are more likely to prefer rugby to football and will often be at Twickers in the corporate box.
MBAs are a cottage industry - when the cottage is a second home in Tuscany which you nip off to when not in your London penthouse where you entertain lots of people you think are friends but very few who would actually cross the street to piss on you if you were on fire.
It costs a lot of money to get an MBA, and it's not easy but the reward is a feeling of superiority like you've managed to get into the most exclusive club in the world, a cross between the Groucho, MCC and The Stonecutters, the fabulous Freemason pastiche in The Simpsons.
People with an MBA gravitate towards other slightly nerdy obsessives with an MBA but don't do very well with real people. That's partly because they can't talk about anything unless it has some kind of monetary angle where they can inject a little nugget of wisdom that reinforces the fact they have got an MBA.
They fancy themselves as Buddy Fox, the character Charlie Sheen played in Wall Street. And most of them will probably end up as the character Charlie Sheen appears to be playing in real life.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Talking of wankels - is it just me or does anyone else feel a bit uneasy about those TV ads in which Japanese giant Mazda cashes in on the memories of Hiroshima to promote its range of its cars (most of which are only suitable for hairdressers of course).
Next week, VW reflects on its roots as Hitler's 'people's car' and Mercedes boasts of how the spirit of Princess Diana goes into every car it makes for its Paris market. Or is that Fiat?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Andrew Marr said that he took out a super injunction to protect his wife and three children from harmful publicity. Of course, there is a better way to protect one's wife and three children from being upset and hurt and that's not to boink some posh bint with wobbly eyesight in the first place. Blimey, what is it about the £600,000 a year famous TV presenter that helps him pull a not unattractive nor unintelligent female journalist? For the rest of us, the thought of Marr making the beast with two backs gives the phrase 'gagging order' a whole new meaning.
He said: 'I did not come into journalism to gag journalists'. I think he meant 'shag'.
By the way, for anyone wanting to know who the woman was/is, then just look up the excellent political blog by Guido Fawkes who revealed her identity way back in 2008.
And boy do I hope someone uncovers something salacious about Louise Bagshawe, the horsey looking chic lit writer turned Tory MP who thinks she's fabulous now she's appeared on Have I Got News For You?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I happened to buy the People newspaper on Sunday. I had my reasons. It wasn't because of the front page but I bet a lot of people did part with a pound when they saw the headline about William's stag do and a picture of the Prince half naked wrapped in feather boas with his arms in the air.
Millions - well hundreds - will have bought the paper believing it to be a real exclusive about the heir's recent stag do. And they will have turned eagerly to the inside pages to discover it was a photo taken at someone else's birthday party in 2003. Nowhere did the front page say this WAS his recent stag party but nowhere did it make clear that it wasn't. So no law was broken, but I bet a lot of people who bought the paper last Sunday and do not usually will remember having the wool pulled over their eyes and use this information when they come to make purchase decisions in the future.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I noticed that Metro used the word 'til' in a headline this morning. Not 'until' or 'till' but some kind of hybrid slang term. Is this part of the wonderful evolution of language, a poor sub not able to find an alternative in the English language or just tosh?
Til next time....Solly
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Chuckles Bites The Dust
I was only young at the time but there was an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show which I remember vividly. It was about the death of a clown who worked for the TV station in the series. He dressed as a peanut for a circus parade and was killed by an elephant.
Basically the episode revolved around everyone making jokes about the death except Mary until the funeral where everyone was sombre but she burst into giggles.
It was a very funny episode of a very funny show. Take my word for it.
Not as good as The Mork and Mindy episode featuring a character called Arnold Wanker, but good nonetheless.
I was reminded of this episode by a story in the papers today of an 80-year-old man who went up a rickety set of steps, fell off and landed head first in a water butt where, tragically he drowned.
They found him with his feet sticking out of the butt.
Are you smiling? No, really, are you? Perhaps MTM isn't the only one.
Let's just hope that at the poor man's funeral they don't reveal all the details of his death, that's all I'm saying.
--------------------------------------------------------
Easter this weekend and the royal wedding the one after that. Neither hold anything of interest for me apart from the fact it gives me a few days off and there may be a football match to go to. Though if it's anything like the North London derby I attended then I'm not sure my heart can take it.
My mother-in-law is a devout Catholic and, rather sweetly, still sends us an Easter card every year despite my obvious lack of Catholicism and my wife's avowed atheism. She tells me, with all sincerity, that she prays for the Jews at Church. Deep down I know she still blames us for all that unpleasantness back in the day 2,000 years ago, but she hides it well, bless.
--------------------------------------------------------
We have a new postman. He's a rastafarian and I'm not sure if he's just really, really slow or just really, really laid back. The romantic in me hopes it's the latter. We don't have many laid back people round here. Everyone's manic and obsessed by money or their looks or work or whatever.
With the last postman we got our post at around 11am. He was keen, turned up in his own car, whizzed round and generally looked busy. He probably got fired for reaching too many targets.
Tonight I got home from work at around 6pm and came across a bloke looking like Peter Tosh strolling up one driveway, back to another and then doing a u-turn and going to another in the complete opposite direction. All of which he did in an incredibly languid fashion.
Then later as I drove to pick up a child from somewhere (my child, not a random one) I saw Rasta Pat and his Colourfully Knitted Hat cycling, I guess, home. He was in civvies and cycling really, really, slowly.
On the tube, at work, in the pub, at the school gates, I'm surrounded by people who seems to rush all the time and never have enough hours in the day. Even the housewives with no jobs yet still hire cleaning ladies and gardeners are in a hurry to get to the David Lloyd or have their nails done.
Finding someone who seems to be the antipathy of this is strangely reassuring in these 100 mph times.
Of course being a rasta he stands out. We do have a variety of people with different coloured skin in this part of the world though most of them are orange or rich second generation Asians. Let's me honest, there are some black people but most of them play for Spurs. Tom Huddlestone lives down the road - I know this because he has personalised plates on his white Range Rover and drives past.
Apparently he has converted the downstairs toilet into a special storage room for all his trainers (you learn a lot from local cab drivers). Hasn't helped him learn how to run, tackle or head a ball though. Anyway, I digress.
I'm guessing that the net curtains are twitching at the sight of a 6 foot plus stick thin Rasta in a tea cosy hat casually wandering around delivering the odd letter in their neighbourhood.
Personally, it's nice to see someone so happy in their work without it having anything to do with money.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so another celebrity gets a super injunction and this one covers the whole world. So we have to go to a Martian website to find out who he is.
Before that there was a married TV star shagging a co-star who got a court order preventing identification on the grounds his kids would be bullied if it got out.
As if any self respecting schoolboy or girl wouldn't know about it already if it was the famous dad of one of their classmates. I bet they've already gone to foreign websites to find it and it's the talk of the playground gates.
And yet still they think it worth paying several thousand pounds to lawyers to stop it going into the paper.
Shameless, absolutely shameless.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My son and his friend went to the cinema today and decided the best film they could see was Fast and Furious 5.
There's a couple of good reasons for this (even putting aside the unlikely option that there was nothing else on.) The first is that he is 12, the second is that he didn't see numbers 1-4.
I believe that, just like all the Police Academy movies, the same thing happens in all of them. There are few good sequels - someone at this point shouts out 'Godfather', though I don't think anyone should overlook Weekend at Bernies II. And don't even dare mention Star Wars. I saw the first, it was rubbish, and I refuse to accept any of the others are any good either. But yet again I digress (am I turning into Ronnie Corbett but without the laughs?)
I remember as a younger man, that I persevered with at least five Friday the 13ths and I think I saw four Jaws, including one in 3D and one with Michael Caine. All at the pictures (sitting on the left hand side of the auditorium where I could smoke.)
I don't know why we do it. Watch sequels that is. But we do. And we never learn. Arthur II - and I didn't really like the first one that much, Oceans 12 and 13 - and don't forget the first one was a shoddy remake of a really cool film in the first place, Indiana Jones getting slowly worse and worsely slower, Jurassic Park follow ups, the list goes on. Though nothing, and I mean nothing, could touch Richard Burton in Exorcist II (The Heretic I think).
To be continued.....Solly
Basically the episode revolved around everyone making jokes about the death except Mary until the funeral where everyone was sombre but she burst into giggles.
It was a very funny episode of a very funny show. Take my word for it.
Not as good as The Mork and Mindy episode featuring a character called Arnold Wanker, but good nonetheless.
I was reminded of this episode by a story in the papers today of an 80-year-old man who went up a rickety set of steps, fell off and landed head first in a water butt where, tragically he drowned.
They found him with his feet sticking out of the butt.
Are you smiling? No, really, are you? Perhaps MTM isn't the only one.
Let's just hope that at the poor man's funeral they don't reveal all the details of his death, that's all I'm saying.
--------------------------------------------------------
Easter this weekend and the royal wedding the one after that. Neither hold anything of interest for me apart from the fact it gives me a few days off and there may be a football match to go to. Though if it's anything like the North London derby I attended then I'm not sure my heart can take it.
My mother-in-law is a devout Catholic and, rather sweetly, still sends us an Easter card every year despite my obvious lack of Catholicism and my wife's avowed atheism. She tells me, with all sincerity, that she prays for the Jews at Church. Deep down I know she still blames us for all that unpleasantness back in the day 2,000 years ago, but she hides it well, bless.
--------------------------------------------------------
We have a new postman. He's a rastafarian and I'm not sure if he's just really, really slow or just really, really laid back. The romantic in me hopes it's the latter. We don't have many laid back people round here. Everyone's manic and obsessed by money or their looks or work or whatever.
With the last postman we got our post at around 11am. He was keen, turned up in his own car, whizzed round and generally looked busy. He probably got fired for reaching too many targets.
Tonight I got home from work at around 6pm and came across a bloke looking like Peter Tosh strolling up one driveway, back to another and then doing a u-turn and going to another in the complete opposite direction. All of which he did in an incredibly languid fashion.
Then later as I drove to pick up a child from somewhere (my child, not a random one) I saw Rasta Pat and his Colourfully Knitted Hat cycling, I guess, home. He was in civvies and cycling really, really, slowly.
On the tube, at work, in the pub, at the school gates, I'm surrounded by people who seems to rush all the time and never have enough hours in the day. Even the housewives with no jobs yet still hire cleaning ladies and gardeners are in a hurry to get to the David Lloyd or have their nails done.
Finding someone who seems to be the antipathy of this is strangely reassuring in these 100 mph times.
Of course being a rasta he stands out. We do have a variety of people with different coloured skin in this part of the world though most of them are orange or rich second generation Asians. Let's me honest, there are some black people but most of them play for Spurs. Tom Huddlestone lives down the road - I know this because he has personalised plates on his white Range Rover and drives past.
Apparently he has converted the downstairs toilet into a special storage room for all his trainers (you learn a lot from local cab drivers). Hasn't helped him learn how to run, tackle or head a ball though. Anyway, I digress.
I'm guessing that the net curtains are twitching at the sight of a 6 foot plus stick thin Rasta in a tea cosy hat casually wandering around delivering the odd letter in their neighbourhood.
Personally, it's nice to see someone so happy in their work without it having anything to do with money.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so another celebrity gets a super injunction and this one covers the whole world. So we have to go to a Martian website to find out who he is.
Before that there was a married TV star shagging a co-star who got a court order preventing identification on the grounds his kids would be bullied if it got out.
As if any self respecting schoolboy or girl wouldn't know about it already if it was the famous dad of one of their classmates. I bet they've already gone to foreign websites to find it and it's the talk of the playground gates.
And yet still they think it worth paying several thousand pounds to lawyers to stop it going into the paper.
Shameless, absolutely shameless.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My son and his friend went to the cinema today and decided the best film they could see was Fast and Furious 5.
There's a couple of good reasons for this (even putting aside the unlikely option that there was nothing else on.) The first is that he is 12, the second is that he didn't see numbers 1-4.
I believe that, just like all the Police Academy movies, the same thing happens in all of them. There are few good sequels - someone at this point shouts out 'Godfather', though I don't think anyone should overlook Weekend at Bernies II. And don't even dare mention Star Wars. I saw the first, it was rubbish, and I refuse to accept any of the others are any good either. But yet again I digress (am I turning into Ronnie Corbett but without the laughs?)
I remember as a younger man, that I persevered with at least five Friday the 13ths and I think I saw four Jaws, including one in 3D and one with Michael Caine. All at the pictures (sitting on the left hand side of the auditorium where I could smoke.)
I don't know why we do it. Watch sequels that is. But we do. And we never learn. Arthur II - and I didn't really like the first one that much, Oceans 12 and 13 - and don't forget the first one was a shoddy remake of a really cool film in the first place, Indiana Jones getting slowly worse and worsely slower, Jurassic Park follow ups, the list goes on. Though nothing, and I mean nothing, could touch Richard Burton in Exorcist II (The Heretic I think).
To be continued.....Solly
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
The public wants what the public gets
Yesterday's blog got more hits than any of the previous 88 that I've written though that includes a lot of people who didn't agree with me defending tabloid journalism.
Working on tabloid newspapers, particularly the years I spent at The Sun, means I long ago had to accept being below lawyers, estate agents and politicians in the popularity stakes in many people's eyes.
That's why I was disappointed rather than angry about Charlie Brooker's attack on the industry in his column yesterday. Unfortunately a lot of people agree with him, but not everyone.
Being a tabloid hack was even harder during the period in the late eighties and early nineties when I covered industry for the currant bun. As you can imagine, it is not easy to represent a Tory supporting newspaper, three or four years after it moved to Wapping, while covering the TUC.
To their credit though many unions accepted that their membership and our readership were often one and the same. Sometimes the general secretaries would be from public school and read the FT but the rank and file were often made up of the aspirational working class who flicked through a red top paper in their tea break, if only to read the cartoons or racing tips.
Mind you I still had a couple of NALGO minders threaten to cut me into pieces and bury the various body parts on Blackpool beach during one TUC conference. I told them it wouldn't matter as I was a clone produced at Wapping and if I disappeared they'd just send more of me. If I remember rightly my mate from the Morning Star stepped in and came to my rescue.
I can remember getting my first contract on the paper, from Kelvin, who asked me, like he asked everyone, why they wanted to work for The Sun.
Usually people crawled up to him and told him it was because of the way it represented the people of Britain or stood up for the ordinary man or because of the top quality journalism or how much they loved Kelvin.
I was living in Stepney at the time so I simply said 'because it's my local paper' which amused him. I used to nag him for a contract every day for a year while I was doing shifts. When I got one he wrote a short letter to me which said 'Dear Solly, At last, a contract. Well done, Kelvin' and that was it.
Later he told me that it was to stop my nagging and that I was doing so many freelance shifts at the paper it was actually cheaper for them to give me a full time job.
During my six years there I used to maintain that half my life seemed to be spent working at The Sun and the other half trying to defend it.
I'm sure this will resonate with a lot of those in the industry but here are the top ten questions and comments I got from friends, strangers and others when I worked at The Sun:
1.Do you get to choose the Page Three pictures (fnarr fnarr)?
2.When did you give up journalism then?
3.You make it all up, don't you?
4.What's Kelvin really like?
5.Don't you feel ashamed?
6.I bet it's a real laugh there.
7.Do you know Garry Bushell?
8.How can you work for that scum?
9.So come on, what's the gossip they don't publish?
10.F*** off you c*** I don't talk to News International (copyright John Prescott)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
And as if to prove tabloids don't cheer us up - here's a story on the BBC that first appeared in various tabloids. It's not so much the words but the picture of the bottom half of a burly farmer being chased by a vicious otter that gets me. It's hilarious.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-13126139
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was only a matter of time. When she first announced she was bipolar there was a general outpouring of support for Catherine Zeta-Jones but less than a week later the first stories appeared with headlines like 'why are so many celebrities bipolar?'
The question mark at the end will tell you which newspaper it is. The same one that poured scorn on climate change on the basis that among those campaigning against global warming is Charles Manson.
For anyone seriously wanting to know more about bipolar disorder, I suggest a couple of books by Cara Aitken on this link. http://www.jkp.com/catalogue/author/579
Not least because she's a cousin of mine who I haven't seen since we used to get on the 129 bus to our respective schools.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The London Underground system is a wondrous thing when it works but it can't cope with good weather.
Tempers fray as the temperatures rise. There's no air conditioning and people lose their cool in more ways than one.
You also see a lot more tattoos and it was a woman with some strange and probably meaningless Chinese symbol on her ankle who started the row with another woman as one got on and the other got off.
It involved a shove and a slap and that was it, at Stratford station, but it's my first of the year. Naturally, with a majority of the passengers being East European or Asian, it was two white English women involved.
I'll say this for the burly Polish builders and musclebound Moldovans on the tube each day, they are exceedingly polite. More than anyone else they stand up for women or let you go in front of them on the platform and apologise profusely if they bump into you.
When the Olympics are over and The Shard has been built, I expect many of them will leave but it will lower the courtesy quotient on the underground when they do.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's Easter, it's Passover and though I enjoy both chocolate eggs and matzos, the religious side will pass me by but I know it's an important time for many of you out there so have a good one...Solly
Working on tabloid newspapers, particularly the years I spent at The Sun, means I long ago had to accept being below lawyers, estate agents and politicians in the popularity stakes in many people's eyes.
That's why I was disappointed rather than angry about Charlie Brooker's attack on the industry in his column yesterday. Unfortunately a lot of people agree with him, but not everyone.
Being a tabloid hack was even harder during the period in the late eighties and early nineties when I covered industry for the currant bun. As you can imagine, it is not easy to represent a Tory supporting newspaper, three or four years after it moved to Wapping, while covering the TUC.
To their credit though many unions accepted that their membership and our readership were often one and the same. Sometimes the general secretaries would be from public school and read the FT but the rank and file were often made up of the aspirational working class who flicked through a red top paper in their tea break, if only to read the cartoons or racing tips.
Mind you I still had a couple of NALGO minders threaten to cut me into pieces and bury the various body parts on Blackpool beach during one TUC conference. I told them it wouldn't matter as I was a clone produced at Wapping and if I disappeared they'd just send more of me. If I remember rightly my mate from the Morning Star stepped in and came to my rescue.
I can remember getting my first contract on the paper, from Kelvin, who asked me, like he asked everyone, why they wanted to work for The Sun.
Usually people crawled up to him and told him it was because of the way it represented the people of Britain or stood up for the ordinary man or because of the top quality journalism or how much they loved Kelvin.
I was living in Stepney at the time so I simply said 'because it's my local paper' which amused him. I used to nag him for a contract every day for a year while I was doing shifts. When I got one he wrote a short letter to me which said 'Dear Solly, At last, a contract. Well done, Kelvin' and that was it.
Later he told me that it was to stop my nagging and that I was doing so many freelance shifts at the paper it was actually cheaper for them to give me a full time job.
During my six years there I used to maintain that half my life seemed to be spent working at The Sun and the other half trying to defend it.
I'm sure this will resonate with a lot of those in the industry but here are the top ten questions and comments I got from friends, strangers and others when I worked at The Sun:
1.Do you get to choose the Page Three pictures (fnarr fnarr)?
2.When did you give up journalism then?
3.You make it all up, don't you?
4.What's Kelvin really like?
5.Don't you feel ashamed?
6.I bet it's a real laugh there.
7.Do you know Garry Bushell?
8.How can you work for that scum?
9.So come on, what's the gossip they don't publish?
10.F*** off you c*** I don't talk to News International (copyright John Prescott)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
And as if to prove tabloids don't cheer us up - here's a story on the BBC that first appeared in various tabloids. It's not so much the words but the picture of the bottom half of a burly farmer being chased by a vicious otter that gets me. It's hilarious.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-13126139
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was only a matter of time. When she first announced she was bipolar there was a general outpouring of support for Catherine Zeta-Jones but less than a week later the first stories appeared with headlines like 'why are so many celebrities bipolar?'
The question mark at the end will tell you which newspaper it is. The same one that poured scorn on climate change on the basis that among those campaigning against global warming is Charles Manson.
For anyone seriously wanting to know more about bipolar disorder, I suggest a couple of books by Cara Aitken on this link. http://www.jkp.com/catalogue/author/579
Not least because she's a cousin of mine who I haven't seen since we used to get on the 129 bus to our respective schools.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The London Underground system is a wondrous thing when it works but it can't cope with good weather.
Tempers fray as the temperatures rise. There's no air conditioning and people lose their cool in more ways than one.
You also see a lot more tattoos and it was a woman with some strange and probably meaningless Chinese symbol on her ankle who started the row with another woman as one got on and the other got off.
It involved a shove and a slap and that was it, at Stratford station, but it's my first of the year. Naturally, with a majority of the passengers being East European or Asian, it was two white English women involved.
I'll say this for the burly Polish builders and musclebound Moldovans on the tube each day, they are exceedingly polite. More than anyone else they stand up for women or let you go in front of them on the platform and apologise profusely if they bump into you.
When the Olympics are over and The Shard has been built, I expect many of them will leave but it will lower the courtesy quotient on the underground when they do.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's Easter, it's Passover and though I enjoy both chocolate eggs and matzos, the religious side will pass me by but I know it's an important time for many of you out there so have a good one...Solly
Monday, 18 April 2011
On top of old Stokie
Bloody Charlie Brooker. Generally I quite like the guy's column. Bit rude, a little bit obsessed with wanking but often quite funny in the way he pokes fun at people not as clever as himself. Oh how we laugh.
But now he's having a go at my 'homies' - you know, tabloid hacks.
I won't go into it in detail, you can find the Guardian and read it yourself but Charlie reckons tabloid journalists make the world a worse place and it's caused a bit of a furore.
You see, Charlie is one of those journalists who's never broken a story, never subbed a story, probably never written a story and when he gets together with all his new celebrity friends and celebrity missus, they probably imagine that all tabloids do is stories on D-listers who aren't as famous as him and David Mitchell.
Never mind that The Guardian, like the BBC, is jam packed with stories that were in the tabloids a day earlier.
Never mind the fact that many of the reporters and subs on the broadsheets cut their teeth on tabloids - in many cases they couldn't cut it which is why they left, to be frank.
Never mind that The Guardian still carries stories on X Factor and footballers misbehaving but then likes to look down its nose at the tabs who carry the same stories.
But most of all, never mind that millions of people, predominantly working class, buy the tabloids because they find something in there - whether it's bingo or Bushell, sports or their stars.
And that's the worst part of all this, in my opinion. The sneering middle class holier than thou snobbery at people who don't go to the same kind of dinner parties as Charlie and Konnie.
Charlie started to backtrack a bit when he realised that he'd upset some of his own Guardian fellow columnists like Suzanne Moore and others (one told him to get off his 'high cock') but it's too late.
A couple of weeks ago he wrote a column bemoaning how Twitter and Facebook and blogs had made so many people nasty and vindictive and opinionated.
Now he has confirmed his place at the top table of the pompous, liberal elite who want to tell the rest of us what to watch, what to read, how to vote and without realising it, has become all Daily Maily.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Stoke City won the League Cup in 1972 the regulars, and us as nippers, did up my gran's pub in red and white. She ran the Red Lion in Cotes Heath, Staffs. In fact she ran it for a staggering 49 years and was, when she retired, the longest serving landlord/landlady in the Midlands.
Back then The Potteries produced proper commemorative mugs as you'd expect them to - not those thin Taiwanese porcelain that you get these days - and for the final, the whole population of the five towns, it seemed, made their way to London where Stoke beat Chelsea 2-1.
In the weeks that followed, the one and only Terry Conroy came into to the village and I got his autograph. Those were the days when the Potteries had their own language. And industry.
Stoke had never been in a final before and haven't been since until now. Although playing the semi final at Wembley demeans the FA in ways that they will never understand, to be in their first FA Cup Final ever is a marvellous, marvellous achievement for any club.
For Man City too it's a proud moment. I was there the last time they were in an FA Cup Final, back in 1981 but not to see them, of course.
I'd like to wish them both luck but of course I can't, so come on City!
-------------------------------------------------------
Essex went to the marathon yesterday (when do we start to call it Snickers). Our little charity had ten runners taking part. Unfortunately one collapsed halfway and another, her dad, had to go with her to the hospital. We wish them well.
The rest did it in style and raised a handy sum for The Lauren Page Trust.
My involvement, as always, was hiring a pub for our lot near the river so we set up camp in The Savoy Tup, an overlooked little boozer just off The Strand.
The landlord and landlary did us proud, we laid out food and you could tell when our supporters turned up because the girls had come straight from the nail bar and one was wearing a baby pink playsuit and gold heels.
The runners at least wore the proper clothing but not even all that sweat could make their fake tan run.
Watching the runners take part was impressive. One bloke has a bloody washing machine strapped to his back. That's just showing off.
There is a certain amount of 'look at me' and I still get the impression a lot of people like to make sure everyone knows how wonderful they are. But others are genuinely committed to the cause and the run really is a challenge.
I mean, James Cracknell doing the marathon is not really a challenge, he could do one a day. And if it was just for charity then he has enough money to simply donate it and not bother walking to the Artic or whatever.
But for my mate Matt running it for Diabetes UK, because his two daughters have been injecting themselves with insulin since they could walk, or those who do it for our charity because they've experienced the loss of a baby born prematurely, when running 26 miles is well outside your comfort zone, I salute you.
There's also this strange kind of groupie you get at the Marathon. People who are there just to cheer on complete strangers, recognising them by the name on their vest. So people shout 'come on Jerry' or 'don't give up Samantha' and, you know what, the runners really appreciate it.
I find it odd but also, somehow, one of those quirks that show the British in a generous light. It made me almost lose my cynicism.
As for the BBC coverage. All very good but for God's sake get rid of Denise Lewis - she sounds like Minnie Mouse on acid.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I've found out the name of the 'world famous' actor who has taken out the super injunction. And I had the same reaction as everyone else, which is 'who?' But the footballer...wow!
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Whatever happend to Val Doonican? The only superstar to shy away from having a personalised number plate.
-------------------------------------------------------
With all that goes on in Libya and the Ivory Coast and so on, it makes you realise how democratic Britain is. Not only do we actually get a chance to vote for who we want or not to vote at all if we don't want to in free and democratic elections, we now get a chance to vote for which free and democratic system we want for our free and democratic elections. Try telling that to someone in Saudi Arabia. It's brilliant...no really.
Ballots to the lot of you....cheers, Solly
But now he's having a go at my 'homies' - you know, tabloid hacks.
I won't go into it in detail, you can find the Guardian and read it yourself but Charlie reckons tabloid journalists make the world a worse place and it's caused a bit of a furore.
You see, Charlie is one of those journalists who's never broken a story, never subbed a story, probably never written a story and when he gets together with all his new celebrity friends and celebrity missus, they probably imagine that all tabloids do is stories on D-listers who aren't as famous as him and David Mitchell.
Never mind that The Guardian, like the BBC, is jam packed with stories that were in the tabloids a day earlier.
Never mind the fact that many of the reporters and subs on the broadsheets cut their teeth on tabloids - in many cases they couldn't cut it which is why they left, to be frank.
Never mind that The Guardian still carries stories on X Factor and footballers misbehaving but then likes to look down its nose at the tabs who carry the same stories.
But most of all, never mind that millions of people, predominantly working class, buy the tabloids because they find something in there - whether it's bingo or Bushell, sports or their stars.
And that's the worst part of all this, in my opinion. The sneering middle class holier than thou snobbery at people who don't go to the same kind of dinner parties as Charlie and Konnie.
Charlie started to backtrack a bit when he realised that he'd upset some of his own Guardian fellow columnists like Suzanne Moore and others (one told him to get off his 'high cock') but it's too late.
A couple of weeks ago he wrote a column bemoaning how Twitter and Facebook and blogs had made so many people nasty and vindictive and opinionated.
Now he has confirmed his place at the top table of the pompous, liberal elite who want to tell the rest of us what to watch, what to read, how to vote and without realising it, has become all Daily Maily.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Stoke City won the League Cup in 1972 the regulars, and us as nippers, did up my gran's pub in red and white. She ran the Red Lion in Cotes Heath, Staffs. In fact she ran it for a staggering 49 years and was, when she retired, the longest serving landlord/landlady in the Midlands.
Back then The Potteries produced proper commemorative mugs as you'd expect them to - not those thin Taiwanese porcelain that you get these days - and for the final, the whole population of the five towns, it seemed, made their way to London where Stoke beat Chelsea 2-1.
In the weeks that followed, the one and only Terry Conroy came into to the village and I got his autograph. Those were the days when the Potteries had their own language. And industry.
Stoke had never been in a final before and haven't been since until now. Although playing the semi final at Wembley demeans the FA in ways that they will never understand, to be in their first FA Cup Final ever is a marvellous, marvellous achievement for any club.
For Man City too it's a proud moment. I was there the last time they were in an FA Cup Final, back in 1981 but not to see them, of course.
I'd like to wish them both luck but of course I can't, so come on City!
-------------------------------------------------------
Essex went to the marathon yesterday (when do we start to call it Snickers). Our little charity had ten runners taking part. Unfortunately one collapsed halfway and another, her dad, had to go with her to the hospital. We wish them well.
The rest did it in style and raised a handy sum for The Lauren Page Trust.
My involvement, as always, was hiring a pub for our lot near the river so we set up camp in The Savoy Tup, an overlooked little boozer just off The Strand.
The landlord and landlary did us proud, we laid out food and you could tell when our supporters turned up because the girls had come straight from the nail bar and one was wearing a baby pink playsuit and gold heels.
The runners at least wore the proper clothing but not even all that sweat could make their fake tan run.
Watching the runners take part was impressive. One bloke has a bloody washing machine strapped to his back. That's just showing off.
There is a certain amount of 'look at me' and I still get the impression a lot of people like to make sure everyone knows how wonderful they are. But others are genuinely committed to the cause and the run really is a challenge.
I mean, James Cracknell doing the marathon is not really a challenge, he could do one a day. And if it was just for charity then he has enough money to simply donate it and not bother walking to the Artic or whatever.
But for my mate Matt running it for Diabetes UK, because his two daughters have been injecting themselves with insulin since they could walk, or those who do it for our charity because they've experienced the loss of a baby born prematurely, when running 26 miles is well outside your comfort zone, I salute you.
There's also this strange kind of groupie you get at the Marathon. People who are there just to cheer on complete strangers, recognising them by the name on their vest. So people shout 'come on Jerry' or 'don't give up Samantha' and, you know what, the runners really appreciate it.
I find it odd but also, somehow, one of those quirks that show the British in a generous light. It made me almost lose my cynicism.
As for the BBC coverage. All very good but for God's sake get rid of Denise Lewis - she sounds like Minnie Mouse on acid.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I've found out the name of the 'world famous' actor who has taken out the super injunction. And I had the same reaction as everyone else, which is 'who?' But the footballer...wow!
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Whatever happend to Val Doonican? The only superstar to shy away from having a personalised number plate.
-------------------------------------------------------
With all that goes on in Libya and the Ivory Coast and so on, it makes you realise how democratic Britain is. Not only do we actually get a chance to vote for who we want or not to vote at all if we don't want to in free and democratic elections, we now get a chance to vote for which free and democratic system we want for our free and democratic elections. Try telling that to someone in Saudi Arabia. It's brilliant...no really.
Ballots to the lot of you....cheers, Solly
Thursday, 14 April 2011
Wear the fox hat
This is possibly the poshest office I've ever worked in and probably second only to Tory Central Office overall.
The alma maters (and I bet that's not really the plural) around here include Benenden, St Paul's, Charterhouse, Roedean and Lancing College, which I'm guessing is a not a bit like Harlow Tech but with dorms.
And this is just the cleaners we're talking about! Boom Boom.
Interesting thing about posh interns is that they have absolutely no sense of UK geography. They can name every pub in Chelsea and pinpoint every ski resort in the Alps on a Google Map but they think Hertfordshire is on the Welsh border. You think I'm joking?
Metro had a front page picture during the mini-heatwave of girls splashing in the surf in Blyth, Northumberland. Because they were in bikinis in sunshine, the girls in the office (they weren't in bikinis, it was the girls in the photo) assumed it was somewhere on the south coast and asked me if Northumberland was near Brighton.
Now I'm as London - or Laaaandaaaan - as they come but even I know that the name Northumberland tends to give the game away a bit. You go North and stop just before you hit Scotland.
They roughly know Essex because of the TV show. And roughly is probably the best way to know Essex. One guy in the office who runs his own company and is at least 30 admitted he'd been to Essex. Once. Epping Forest Country Club before it got shut after yet another drugs bust and suspicious blaze. But he's never been back. He's not been to Manchester at all or Newcastle or Leeds (can't blame him for the last one).
And you should see the blank looks I get when I mention Ilford. Mind you, I can't blame them for that.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Talking of posh, have you seen the sportsmen lining up to tell us to vote against AV? James Cracknell, Sam Wally-Thingy (he's a jockey), Steve Redgrave and various others, mainly ones who do sports where you sit down. Personally I'd like to hear Ledley King's views before I make up my mind.
However, Joanna Lumley is in favour of AV. But David Gower is against. Gower's argument, in a column in The Sun, consists of an analogy between cricket and voting. He says that in cricket 'when you win you win' which is why you shouldn't vote for AV.
That's cricket. Where you play for five days, score more runs than the opposition, take more wickets than the opposition, but can still end up with a draw.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Talking of sport (see that second segway?) I always thought of myself as a half decent footballer. Strangely, a lot of the lads I played with didn't agree. I always put that down to the fact that, like Martin Peters, I was ten years ahead of my time.
Well, those ten years have caught up and overtaken me now. Walking back through the park after lunch at the outstanding King's Head (just off Borough High Street) a ball came over the fence of a basketball court where a bunch of local Bermondsey urchins were playing football. 'Excuse me sir, can we have our ball back please' they said. Having been at first stunned by being called 'sir' by these kids - I thought everyone in London said 'mister' or 'geezer' for a start - I then flicked the ball up and lobbed it over the fence. Except I didn't. The ball hit the overhanging branches of a tree, bounced back halfway out the park, chased by me trying to catch it, which I eventually did. Then, puffing a bit, I walked back and chucked it over. Except I didn't. First attempt didn't clear the fence. Second one did though.
I know they were laughing when my back was turned but at least they didn't do it to my face.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
According to Andy Townsend - yes him again - Spurs defeat last night would leave a 'sour taste in the mind.'
I feel it's my duty to bring these to you where I can.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stratford station, or Stratford International as it's trying to call itself, needs to sort out its public address system if it is to be the pride of Transport for London in time for millions of Olympic visitors next year. And that's as well as sorting out the Jubilee Line.
Every night as I wait on the platform they announce that the next 'bus' will leave Platform whatever to go to somewhere East, when they mean 'train.' It happens every night. Then last night it got stuck on a loop repeating over and over again 'will Mr Watson please come to the control room.'
Usually these names are a code. At Spurs, whenever there was a bit of trouble in the stands, the announcement used to be 'will Mr England come to the security office' which just told every hooligan in the place that there was a brief chance of something kicking off.
They've dropped that now. Instead they tannoy warnings that the club will not stand for racist, homophobic or offensive chants. The first two, pretty much everyone agrees with. The third, though, is not fair. It is every fan's right to be offensive towards opposition players, managers and supporters and we expect them to do the same to us.
Last night as my team crashed out of Europe to Real Madrid, the fans were in great voice. Non football fans don't understand this. We're losing 5-0 on aggregate, our dreams have turned to dust and we may not be back there next year but still they sing? Well, it's hard to explain but for a club that hasn't tasted this kind of excitement before, it was the end of a marvellous series of matches against clubs that many of us have dreamed of seeing in the flesh for a long, long time. We were, simply, non-blase (is that a word?) about it. We were like big kids being allowed to stay up to see a film on TV that we know has a woman's naked breasts coming up at 27 minutes in (hopefully belonging to Ingrid Pitt).
That's why we sang 'you're just a shit Barcelona' to the Madrid fans. It was a joke and they actually laughed. In Spanish (el chortle, fnarrdida etc). To Ronaldo we sang 'you're just a shit Lionel Messi' - okay, inventiveness disappeared a bit for that one - plus various other songs in honour of the team as well as to Paul Gascoigne and Gary Mabbutt who were in the TV room perched above supporters in the Park Lane end. And they didn't even sing the one that upsets Adebayor - that's how much we were enjoying ourselves.
Champions League? We had a laugh.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm not really interested in the Royal Wedding but have you seen Kate Middleton? At least Di waited until she was the Princess of our hearts before she decided to go anorexic. Must be something about joining the royal family, except for Fergie of course.
And there we go, full circle, back to posh. I should be a presenter on Sky, I really should!
We'll be back after the break....Solly
The alma maters (and I bet that's not really the plural) around here include Benenden, St Paul's, Charterhouse, Roedean and Lancing College, which I'm guessing is a not a bit like Harlow Tech but with dorms.
And this is just the cleaners we're talking about! Boom Boom.
Interesting thing about posh interns is that they have absolutely no sense of UK geography. They can name every pub in Chelsea and pinpoint every ski resort in the Alps on a Google Map but they think Hertfordshire is on the Welsh border. You think I'm joking?
Metro had a front page picture during the mini-heatwave of girls splashing in the surf in Blyth, Northumberland. Because they were in bikinis in sunshine, the girls in the office (they weren't in bikinis, it was the girls in the photo) assumed it was somewhere on the south coast and asked me if Northumberland was near Brighton.
Now I'm as London - or Laaaandaaaan - as they come but even I know that the name Northumberland tends to give the game away a bit. You go North and stop just before you hit Scotland.
They roughly know Essex because of the TV show. And roughly is probably the best way to know Essex. One guy in the office who runs his own company and is at least 30 admitted he'd been to Essex. Once. Epping Forest Country Club before it got shut after yet another drugs bust and suspicious blaze. But he's never been back. He's not been to Manchester at all or Newcastle or Leeds (can't blame him for the last one).
And you should see the blank looks I get when I mention Ilford. Mind you, I can't blame them for that.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Talking of posh, have you seen the sportsmen lining up to tell us to vote against AV? James Cracknell, Sam Wally-Thingy (he's a jockey), Steve Redgrave and various others, mainly ones who do sports where you sit down. Personally I'd like to hear Ledley King's views before I make up my mind.
However, Joanna Lumley is in favour of AV. But David Gower is against. Gower's argument, in a column in The Sun, consists of an analogy between cricket and voting. He says that in cricket 'when you win you win' which is why you shouldn't vote for AV.
That's cricket. Where you play for five days, score more runs than the opposition, take more wickets than the opposition, but can still end up with a draw.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Talking of sport (see that second segway?) I always thought of myself as a half decent footballer. Strangely, a lot of the lads I played with didn't agree. I always put that down to the fact that, like Martin Peters, I was ten years ahead of my time.
Well, those ten years have caught up and overtaken me now. Walking back through the park after lunch at the outstanding King's Head (just off Borough High Street) a ball came over the fence of a basketball court where a bunch of local Bermondsey urchins were playing football. 'Excuse me sir, can we have our ball back please' they said. Having been at first stunned by being called 'sir' by these kids - I thought everyone in London said 'mister' or 'geezer' for a start - I then flicked the ball up and lobbed it over the fence. Except I didn't. The ball hit the overhanging branches of a tree, bounced back halfway out the park, chased by me trying to catch it, which I eventually did. Then, puffing a bit, I walked back and chucked it over. Except I didn't. First attempt didn't clear the fence. Second one did though.
I know they were laughing when my back was turned but at least they didn't do it to my face.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
According to Andy Townsend - yes him again - Spurs defeat last night would leave a 'sour taste in the mind.'
I feel it's my duty to bring these to you where I can.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stratford station, or Stratford International as it's trying to call itself, needs to sort out its public address system if it is to be the pride of Transport for London in time for millions of Olympic visitors next year. And that's as well as sorting out the Jubilee Line.
Every night as I wait on the platform they announce that the next 'bus' will leave Platform whatever to go to somewhere East, when they mean 'train.' It happens every night. Then last night it got stuck on a loop repeating over and over again 'will Mr Watson please come to the control room.'
Usually these names are a code. At Spurs, whenever there was a bit of trouble in the stands, the announcement used to be 'will Mr England come to the security office' which just told every hooligan in the place that there was a brief chance of something kicking off.
They've dropped that now. Instead they tannoy warnings that the club will not stand for racist, homophobic or offensive chants. The first two, pretty much everyone agrees with. The third, though, is not fair. It is every fan's right to be offensive towards opposition players, managers and supporters and we expect them to do the same to us.
Last night as my team crashed out of Europe to Real Madrid, the fans were in great voice. Non football fans don't understand this. We're losing 5-0 on aggregate, our dreams have turned to dust and we may not be back there next year but still they sing? Well, it's hard to explain but for a club that hasn't tasted this kind of excitement before, it was the end of a marvellous series of matches against clubs that many of us have dreamed of seeing in the flesh for a long, long time. We were, simply, non-blase (is that a word?) about it. We were like big kids being allowed to stay up to see a film on TV that we know has a woman's naked breasts coming up at 27 minutes in (hopefully belonging to Ingrid Pitt).
That's why we sang 'you're just a shit Barcelona' to the Madrid fans. It was a joke and they actually laughed. In Spanish (el chortle, fnarrdida etc). To Ronaldo we sang 'you're just a shit Lionel Messi' - okay, inventiveness disappeared a bit for that one - plus various other songs in honour of the team as well as to Paul Gascoigne and Gary Mabbutt who were in the TV room perched above supporters in the Park Lane end. And they didn't even sing the one that upsets Adebayor - that's how much we were enjoying ourselves.
Champions League? We had a laugh.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm not really interested in the Royal Wedding but have you seen Kate Middleton? At least Di waited until she was the Princess of our hearts before she decided to go anorexic. Must be something about joining the royal family, except for Fergie of course.
And there we go, full circle, back to posh. I should be a presenter on Sky, I really should!
We'll be back after the break....Solly
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Fuzzy Logic
Charl. What kind of name is that for a golfer. What kind of name is that, period. The short form for Charles is Charlie, Chaz, Chuck or, at a push Chazarooney. But not Charl for heaven's sake. I wish golfers would go back to the proper names they had when I was a lad. Like Payne, Curtis and Fuzzy.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Candy Cabs. I know it's been said already but could it be any more of a rip off of Carry On Cabbie? I realise that the BBC's remit is to always have at least one gritty Northern drama-com featuring tart-with-a-heart Scousers in the schedules at all times, otherwise it will lose its Public Service Broadcasting charter or something.
But this is rubbish.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Happy 40th birthday to my baby brother, Dave. Or David as we call him. He's an odd lad. The only Solomons to ever go to university so he went twice just to rub it in. Though it was a good way of keeping him out of the real world. Part-time rapper called Triggah, father of two kids which he only gets access to occasionally, and now back working on the oil rigs, he's also the only member of my family to support Arsenal. As I said, an odd lad but good luck to him. I sometimes suspect he'll never quite be totally happy though I hope he will.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A great night at the NAPA Awards, that's the National Association of Press Agencies of whom I'm a member. There is also the wine valley by the same name and, I have found, the National Asphalt Paving Association. But I bet our do was better.
We had Greg Dyke as the guest talker. He spoke openly about his time at the BBC and how he feels Alastair Campbell has ruined the relationship between journalism and politics.
But he was also quite funny. When he was forced to resign from the Beeb, he revealed he got 6,000 emails of support. However, the one he remembers the most is the one that said: 'Fuck off Dyke, I never liked you anyway.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
There are many press agencies all over the country doing a fantastic job. But on occasions they let slip some of the tricks of the trade. For instance, whenever there is a burst of sunshine, all those agencies who are based near a beach try and get their pictures of sunbathing beauties into the papers. You know the kind - girls splashing in Blythe, or cuties in the surf at Brighton or Bournemouth and so on. One agency has a deal with the local lap dancing club. As soon as they know the weather is going to be good, they grab four girls, put them in bikinis and photo them bouncing around on the beach (they then get described in the papers as 'student Lucy, 19' and so on.)
The girls get paid, so does the agency, and everyone's happy.
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Jeez, some of the rubbish I get sent at work. A PR company who shall remain nameless, sent me a release on behalf of their client - a financial institution - that said a survey of the bank's customers revealed that 92 per cent of them were satisfied or very happy. So therefore they're great!
Tomorrow BT will tell me that a survey shows talking on the phone makes your knob bigger and the day after Mars will do a survey to show that there are people who like chocolate.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Have you ever noticed how many people talk bollocks, almost incessantly. And not just politicians, estate agents and journalists. At least 90 per cent of what you read on Twitter for instance, anything ever said or written by Paolo Coelho, even some of the utterings of the Dalai Lama who seems under such pressure to say something wise that he comes up with the first thing that comes into his head.
And, of course, almost anyone who blogs for fun.
Thanks for reading...Solly
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Candy Cabs. I know it's been said already but could it be any more of a rip off of Carry On Cabbie? I realise that the BBC's remit is to always have at least one gritty Northern drama-com featuring tart-with-a-heart Scousers in the schedules at all times, otherwise it will lose its Public Service Broadcasting charter or something.
But this is rubbish.
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Happy 40th birthday to my baby brother, Dave. Or David as we call him. He's an odd lad. The only Solomons to ever go to university so he went twice just to rub it in. Though it was a good way of keeping him out of the real world. Part-time rapper called Triggah, father of two kids which he only gets access to occasionally, and now back working on the oil rigs, he's also the only member of my family to support Arsenal. As I said, an odd lad but good luck to him. I sometimes suspect he'll never quite be totally happy though I hope he will.
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A great night at the NAPA Awards, that's the National Association of Press Agencies of whom I'm a member. There is also the wine valley by the same name and, I have found, the National Asphalt Paving Association. But I bet our do was better.
We had Greg Dyke as the guest talker. He spoke openly about his time at the BBC and how he feels Alastair Campbell has ruined the relationship between journalism and politics.
But he was also quite funny. When he was forced to resign from the Beeb, he revealed he got 6,000 emails of support. However, the one he remembers the most is the one that said: 'Fuck off Dyke, I never liked you anyway.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
There are many press agencies all over the country doing a fantastic job. But on occasions they let slip some of the tricks of the trade. For instance, whenever there is a burst of sunshine, all those agencies who are based near a beach try and get their pictures of sunbathing beauties into the papers. You know the kind - girls splashing in Blythe, or cuties in the surf at Brighton or Bournemouth and so on. One agency has a deal with the local lap dancing club. As soon as they know the weather is going to be good, they grab four girls, put them in bikinis and photo them bouncing around on the beach (they then get described in the papers as 'student Lucy, 19' and so on.)
The girls get paid, so does the agency, and everyone's happy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jeez, some of the rubbish I get sent at work. A PR company who shall remain nameless, sent me a release on behalf of their client - a financial institution - that said a survey of the bank's customers revealed that 92 per cent of them were satisfied or very happy. So therefore they're great!
Tomorrow BT will tell me that a survey shows talking on the phone makes your knob bigger and the day after Mars will do a survey to show that there are people who like chocolate.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Have you ever noticed how many people talk bollocks, almost incessantly. And not just politicians, estate agents and journalists. At least 90 per cent of what you read on Twitter for instance, anything ever said or written by Paolo Coelho, even some of the utterings of the Dalai Lama who seems under such pressure to say something wise that he comes up with the first thing that comes into his head.
And, of course, almost anyone who blogs for fun.
Thanks for reading...Solly
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Stone the Crow
Bloke walking his Jack Russell in the country and he really fancies a pint. Comes to a pub and it says 'no dogs.' So he puts on a pair of sunglasses and wanders in, bumping into things on the way. The barman looks at him and says 'sorry mate, no dogs'. 'But he's a guide dog, I'm blind' says the bloke. Barman looks at the dog and says 'listen mate, that's not a guide dog. Guide dogs are labs or alsatians.' 'Why?' says the bloke 'what have they given me then?' Hat tip: Acker Bilk.
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Poor old Bob Crow. Or not. He's on £155k a year and he lives in what we used to call a council house but which is now referred to as 'social housing.'
Council houses used to be social. You could leave your door open all day and not get Eastern European squatters according to anyone over the age of 50. And thanks to organised crime, the streets were safe. No muggers in those days, you see.
But my point is that Bob Crow is damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. If he buys a posh pad everyone says he's sold out and that's he's a champagne socialist or a bolly bolshevic. If he stays then he's depriving a genuinely poor family of a home.
Of course, as anyone with even the remotest of working class roots will know, the main aim for those growing up in a working class area is to do well enough to move to a better area. That's not forgetting your roots, that's called ambition. When someone like Alan Sugar does it, everyone admires him. When someone like Bob Crow does it, everyone slams him. I'm no pal of the fat lefty but what should he do?
Social mobility gets a good reputation when it's a billionaire. Eastender done good, Alan Sugar, became a committed Thatcherite and represented the social mobility of the new white collar class of the 1970s/80s. Though he then became a Blairite, Brownite and now he's probably either a Cameronite, Cleggite, Samsonite, Twilight or Gobshite for all I know.
I spent the first few months of my life in social housing - first a pub in Stoke then a two bedroomed council house, with my grandparents, in an estate in Stepney (which may well now be called Stepney Green Village in estate agent windows.)
As soon as they could afford to, my parents moved to what was then leafy Essex along with what seemed like several million other people from the East End. Ilford's not so leafy now but it was the height of ambition for many back then.
I can remember when I started school there. As the parents gathered at the gates to meet us coming out from our first day at Ilford Jewish Primary, the mums and dads were all chatting like long lost friends. Basically because many were. The conversations were on the lines of 'I remember you from Stepney Boys Club' or 'didn't we do the knowledge together in Bethnal Green' or 'didn't you extract protection money off me when you were working for the Kray Twins and I ran a nightclub in Mile End?'
Well maybe not the last one but there were lots of tales about run ins with gangsters, relatives who had fought the blackshirts in Cable Street or their dads had gone to Spain for the revolution back in the day. Nothing like a good punch up to bond old East Enders together. My grandad's Stepney neighbour, Charlie, had fought Franco in the Spanish revolution and, like many round there, would not go to Spain on holiday until Franco was dead.
There are those who. like Bob Crow, become very successful yet decide they are going to stay with 'their people' in the depressed part of town where they grew up. They think they are displaying some kind of loyalty or not selling out or some such admirable quality but they're not. Not really. Imagine it. You're living hand to mouth in a council flat with barely enough to cover your Sky subscription and next door is some geezer on £155,000 a year who was on Have I Got News For You? the other week (except you were watching a reality show about Kerry Katona). He would stick out a mile wouldn't he? Of course he could be an inspiration to the poor folk around him in their social housing and may encourage them to get out and look for work. Except that when they do get a job and try and turn up at the office on their first day, they're an hour late because there's a Tube strike.
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According to some research which I didn't write, men with two daughters are happier than everyone else. As they both read this, I have to say that I agree (otherwise they will make my life hell.)
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The trouble with Spurs is that we don't have managers who look like managers any more. Not since Keith Burkenshaw. I blame Gerry Francis. He looked like a cab driver with that mullet and shorts. Christian Gross looked like a bank manager, Glenn Hoddle like a vicar trying to look trendy, that bloke Santini was a geography teacher, you expected George Graham to suddenly try and sell you a dodgy car and Terry Venables was the bloke he worked for back at the dealership, smoking a cigar and wearing a camelhair coat with suede collars. Ossie Ardiles was their fixer and Martin Jol their enforcer. And Harry was the Mr Big controlling the operation. Kenny Dalgish looks like a manager. Managers should look old, like they've been around a bit. Or gone to fat. In the past, there were more managers who didn't have much hair, their cheeks were rosy from boardroom whisky and they wore a tracksuit long after anyone else their age should in any other walk of like. Sir Alf, Revie, Cloughie, Bertie Mee, 'Sir' Billy Nick, Shankly, Paisley, Jock Stein, even Don Howe and Doug Saunders.
Bring back old, bald, managers in track suits. Not bookish dons wearing Paul Smith. And let them smoke in the dugout. You'd be able to tell how much they care by how many fags they get through in 90 minutes.
And don't get them to stand in front of those stupid sponsorship boards. I can remember as a 16-year-old covering Wimbledon v Bradford in the fourth division for a press agency called Hayters as a Saturday job. Dario Gradi was the Dons' manager. There were two reporters and me - who set the phones up for them and filed copy from a local phone box when the fixed lines didn't work. Gradi took us all to the players' bar for the post match press conference (it was a 2-2 draw.) And he paid for the drinks. That's class.
Cheers all....Solly
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poor old Bob Crow. Or not. He's on £155k a year and he lives in what we used to call a council house but which is now referred to as 'social housing.'
Council houses used to be social. You could leave your door open all day and not get Eastern European squatters according to anyone over the age of 50. And thanks to organised crime, the streets were safe. No muggers in those days, you see.
But my point is that Bob Crow is damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. If he buys a posh pad everyone says he's sold out and that's he's a champagne socialist or a bolly bolshevic. If he stays then he's depriving a genuinely poor family of a home.
Of course, as anyone with even the remotest of working class roots will know, the main aim for those growing up in a working class area is to do well enough to move to a better area. That's not forgetting your roots, that's called ambition. When someone like Alan Sugar does it, everyone admires him. When someone like Bob Crow does it, everyone slams him. I'm no pal of the fat lefty but what should he do?
Social mobility gets a good reputation when it's a billionaire. Eastender done good, Alan Sugar, became a committed Thatcherite and represented the social mobility of the new white collar class of the 1970s/80s. Though he then became a Blairite, Brownite and now he's probably either a Cameronite, Cleggite, Samsonite, Twilight or Gobshite for all I know.
I spent the first few months of my life in social housing - first a pub in Stoke then a two bedroomed council house, with my grandparents, in an estate in Stepney (which may well now be called Stepney Green Village in estate agent windows.)
As soon as they could afford to, my parents moved to what was then leafy Essex along with what seemed like several million other people from the East End. Ilford's not so leafy now but it was the height of ambition for many back then.
I can remember when I started school there. As the parents gathered at the gates to meet us coming out from our first day at Ilford Jewish Primary, the mums and dads were all chatting like long lost friends. Basically because many were. The conversations were on the lines of 'I remember you from Stepney Boys Club' or 'didn't we do the knowledge together in Bethnal Green' or 'didn't you extract protection money off me when you were working for the Kray Twins and I ran a nightclub in Mile End?'
Well maybe not the last one but there were lots of tales about run ins with gangsters, relatives who had fought the blackshirts in Cable Street or their dads had gone to Spain for the revolution back in the day. Nothing like a good punch up to bond old East Enders together. My grandad's Stepney neighbour, Charlie, had fought Franco in the Spanish revolution and, like many round there, would not go to Spain on holiday until Franco was dead.
There are those who. like Bob Crow, become very successful yet decide they are going to stay with 'their people' in the depressed part of town where they grew up. They think they are displaying some kind of loyalty or not selling out or some such admirable quality but they're not. Not really. Imagine it. You're living hand to mouth in a council flat with barely enough to cover your Sky subscription and next door is some geezer on £155,000 a year who was on Have I Got News For You? the other week (except you were watching a reality show about Kerry Katona). He would stick out a mile wouldn't he? Of course he could be an inspiration to the poor folk around him in their social housing and may encourage them to get out and look for work. Except that when they do get a job and try and turn up at the office on their first day, they're an hour late because there's a Tube strike.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
According to some research which I didn't write, men with two daughters are happier than everyone else. As they both read this, I have to say that I agree (otherwise they will make my life hell.)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The trouble with Spurs is that we don't have managers who look like managers any more. Not since Keith Burkenshaw. I blame Gerry Francis. He looked like a cab driver with that mullet and shorts. Christian Gross looked like a bank manager, Glenn Hoddle like a vicar trying to look trendy, that bloke Santini was a geography teacher, you expected George Graham to suddenly try and sell you a dodgy car and Terry Venables was the bloke he worked for back at the dealership, smoking a cigar and wearing a camelhair coat with suede collars. Ossie Ardiles was their fixer and Martin Jol their enforcer. And Harry was the Mr Big controlling the operation. Kenny Dalgish looks like a manager. Managers should look old, like they've been around a bit. Or gone to fat. In the past, there were more managers who didn't have much hair, their cheeks were rosy from boardroom whisky and they wore a tracksuit long after anyone else their age should in any other walk of like. Sir Alf, Revie, Cloughie, Bertie Mee, 'Sir' Billy Nick, Shankly, Paisley, Jock Stein, even Don Howe and Doug Saunders.
Bring back old, bald, managers in track suits. Not bookish dons wearing Paul Smith. And let them smoke in the dugout. You'd be able to tell how much they care by how many fags they get through in 90 minutes.
And don't get them to stand in front of those stupid sponsorship boards. I can remember as a 16-year-old covering Wimbledon v Bradford in the fourth division for a press agency called Hayters as a Saturday job. Dario Gradi was the Dons' manager. There were two reporters and me - who set the phones up for them and filed copy from a local phone box when the fixed lines didn't work. Gradi took us all to the players' bar for the post match press conference (it was a 2-2 draw.) And he paid for the drinks. That's class.
Cheers all....Solly
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Don't be crawl
Does Ernie from Sesame Street look like Elvis? Only, according to The Sun, Express and Telegraph, this stink bug looks like the King. According to The Daily Mail it looks like Ernie. And according to the website of the photographer who took the image, neither. He named the shot 'Samurai Bug.' I thought it looked like a Beatle (geddit).
Actually it's the spit of a guy called David Burner who co-runs a press agency called Caters. He also owns the copyright to the picture and kindly gave me permission to use it.
Actually it's the spit of a guy called David Burner who co-runs a press agency called Caters. He also owns the copyright to the picture and kindly gave me permission to use it.
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So we had April Fool stories earlier this week. Since then Metro has run a story about a woman who dresses a kangaroo up in child's clothes (a story which, in the US, was presented as an animal cruelty case) and a man and son whose feet face the wrong way. I'm sure they are playing a joke on us all, every day.
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Later this week I will be attending, as owner of a news agency, the annual NAPA award ceremony - which is the National Association of Press Agencies rather than the Californian wine region (though one suspects both are basically just excuses to have a piss up).
The conversation will inevitably turn to how poorly we get paid by papers and a bit of backstabbing of those within our profession who are doing well. Though not for me. I know it sounds a bit righteous but I always feel a sense of pride when I see another journalist succeed. The NAPA awards have been presented by old hacks-done-good. Last year was Michael Parkinson, for instance and both Kelvin Mackenzie and Derek Jameson have done the honours too. This year it's Greg Dyke. Both Alastair Campbell and Piers Morgan have express an interest in doing it in the future if commitments allow and other alumni of the school of press agencies/local papers include everyone from Mark Knopfler to Nick Ferrari.
It seems strange to be charitable in an industry where this is not the most helpful of qualities but life's too short to get gnarled by jealousy. And if you are in a tight knit profession, it is much more positive to hope everyone does well rather than everyone does badly.
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Is it just me or did Boardwalk Empire turn out to be the biggest anti-climax since I went to see the film of Naked Lunch and found out it wasn't what I'd hoped it would be?
I mean, with Steve Buscemi starring, Scorcese directing at least one episode, and a plot involving gangsters, violence and sex, what could go wrong? Well, I think the fact that the ingredients are all a bit predictable is one. Then there is the fact that the same channel - Sky Atlantic - is repeating The Sopranos from the beginning and suddenly you realise that Boardwalk doesn't have anywhere near the same depth of characters, storylines, humour and pathos or The Sopranos. It simply can't live up to the original and seeing the two just days apart makes you realise how much better one is than the other. It's a shame. Like many, I really, really, wanted to love Boardwalk Empire. I'm still watching it in the hope it's a slow burner but I am fast beginning to think it is never going to ignite.
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I'm too depressed to comment about football but at least I know how it must have feel to have been an Arsenal fan in Europe for the last 14 years. It doesn't help knowing Ray 'Butch' Wilkins has suddenly become a Spurs fan, talking about the team as 'we' and tripping over his words more than he ever tripped over a football. Blimey, with him and Jamie Redknapp and Glenn Hoddle doing the 'expert' analysis, it was a bad night for the English language as well as English football.
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The Sky series Spartacus. It's hilarious. No, really. Why hasn't anyone told me about this before? It's one of the funniest, hammiest, ludicrous, sweariest things I've ever seen. A real pick me up after the footie.
And there's me with the first names Mark Antony as well.
Thanks for lending me your ears...I salute you...Solly
Saturday, 2 April 2011
I kid you not
April Fool. April Bloody Fool.
Did you know that the Panorama spoof about spaghetti trees was broadcast in 1957? There's a reason why this is such a famous April Fool. It is because there has hardly been a funny one since.
Not that there weren't enough people trying.
Jeez, is there anything less funny than the annual collection of 'jokes' played by newspapers, PRs and advertisers for one day every year.
For a start, who are they fooling? For another, it just doesn't work. Let's take newspapers first. On the tube a long line of solemn faces glanced at the story about edible editions of Metro being produced and simply turned the page to read about Britain rolling out the red carpet for a Libyan mass murderer.
The Sun had the side-splitting tale about gorillas with iPads so it could use some lame pun about 'ape' and 'apps.' The Mirror had some crap about the government taxing fresh air and even had the gall to print, the next day, one of those 'Were you fooled by our brilliant April Fool?' type pieces.
I'm sure someone, somewhere, was fooled but it's probably someone who reads while moving their lips and whose dad is also their uncle. There were others too tedious to mention but I guess most were designed to finally give the young, trendy, long-haired goons on art desks something to do.
Even the Independent did one about Portugal selling Ronaldo to Spain to clear their debt.
Then came the PRs who sent out their hilarious and wacky releases to prove that they really are very funny people, honest guv. Holiday companies offering yeti safaris for instance and another about the latest Ryanair surcharge. Though as Ryanair send out releases all year round about standing on planes and charging for toilets and the like, all their releases are treated as April Fools no matter when they get sent.
Again, there were others about royal weddings and the like that were so crap I've already forgotten them.
And then advertisers. Now this is the most perplexing. Advertisers spend their whole lives trying to come up with inventive, innovatve and often funny ways of engaging with the public. So why does all this go out the window when they do an April Fool. There were a couple I remember seeing and thinking 'you wallies.' BMW tried one about a new model for the royal wedding called the WILL. No wonder people think Germans don't have a sense of humour. And French Connection did something about couture for cats which was not funny or clever. And they're not even French, so you can't blame a childhood of watching Jacques Tati films for that.
Perhaps the only one which may have come close, because it was from an unlikely source, was New Scientist whose website did a story about how masturbation can cure restless leg syndrome. At least I think it was a spoof. My legs are awfully still.
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The tradition is that no practical jokes can be played after midday so when the news came in later that day to say that the Daily and Sunday Sport stopped trading, then it was clearly not a joke despite the comments about going 'tits up' of course.
I have documented on previous blogs my various dealings with David Sullivan, the man with the fashion sense of a Butlin's redcoat and with a penchant for 'men be taller' shoes.
First and foremost, it is never a good day from a professional point of view when journalists get made redundant. It's hard enough to find work out there in a shrinking market in which news suppliers want to pay less now than they did 15 years ago.
I know that doesn't just apply to this industry but it's the one I work in.
A lot of journalists who have worked for the Sport - most I suspect - try and use it as a stepping stone or launch pad into national tabloid journalism. I did. And it worked. There are now a number of high ranking executives, specialist writers and national newspaper reporters, subs and editors who passed through the Sport's offices.
The Sport will not be missed in many quarters. Most people don't like it but don't read it, unless they buy it to disguise their copy of the Daily Mail of course.
Behind the nudge nudge element of its pictures and headlines, there is something darker, too.
There is a certain amount of distasteful coverage of sexual assaults and rape trials which are presented as titillation while the very specialised kind of personal service featured in the small ads surely finances sex slave trafficking and more besides.
I worked there when it was just The Sunday Sport, almost 24 years ago. I wasn't much cop doing the stories they expected. But I did a good job making up the letters page.
It is the only place I have ever been sacked from - although I came close a few times elsewhere, which suggests they may not have been entirely in the wrong to do so!
But I bear no grudges and I hope the hacks left without a job go on to find work elsewhere.
----------------------------------------------------------
I have mentioned a few times how Epping Forest, which I live near, is famous for dead bodies. I was half joking but then a couple of days ago in a lake behind the clubhouse where my son plays cricket for Buckhurt Hill under-12s, a man's severed arm was found. Literally, though! Shut up?
The rest of him wasn't which means there is either someone walking around with a missing arm or other bits will crop up elsewhere. Probably to be found by a dog walker. They always are.
I'm not sure how they could tell it was a man's arm but being Essex I'm guessing that if it was female it would have been orange, the nail extensions would have been immaculate and there would have been a tattoo of some meaningless Chinese proverb on the insider of the wrist.
---------------------------------------------------------
I think I'm going to vote against AV. Which means that I'm doing something I thought I'd never do and that is siding with the Tories. It's not just that I want to stop more LibDems getting in (which I do, the treacherous bastards) or minority nationalists and the like.
But not enough people in this country vote when the system is really simple so why on earth are they going to vote when it's ten times more complicated.
----------------------------------------------------------
So is it Moussa Koussa or Musa Kusa. The BBC, the papers and various other sources can't seem to agree. But he can take his place alongside Sirhan Sirhan, Boutros Boutros Thingy and others as having those funny foreign names that make us all laugh. I say laugh but as more details emerge about the atrocities he has, no doubt, been involved in, then perhaps that isn't quite the right emotional response.
But it's the crazy name, psychotic guy link.
Not that we're much better. I can remember a boy at school, in the year above us, whose name was Steven Stevens. And rumour has it his middle name was Steven too. And then there was Gary Gurry who I'm sure some of my old Ilford schoolmates can vouch for. Not that they were psychotic of course!
The barman at my old work boozer, the Mutant Arms, thought for years that my real name was Solly Solomons, so I'm not one to talk. Of course my real first name is Solomon.
Cheers...Solomon Solly Solomons
Did you know that the Panorama spoof about spaghetti trees was broadcast in 1957? There's a reason why this is such a famous April Fool. It is because there has hardly been a funny one since.
Not that there weren't enough people trying.
Jeez, is there anything less funny than the annual collection of 'jokes' played by newspapers, PRs and advertisers for one day every year.
For a start, who are they fooling? For another, it just doesn't work. Let's take newspapers first. On the tube a long line of solemn faces glanced at the story about edible editions of Metro being produced and simply turned the page to read about Britain rolling out the red carpet for a Libyan mass murderer.
The Sun had the side-splitting tale about gorillas with iPads so it could use some lame pun about 'ape' and 'apps.' The Mirror had some crap about the government taxing fresh air and even had the gall to print, the next day, one of those 'Were you fooled by our brilliant April Fool?' type pieces.
I'm sure someone, somewhere, was fooled but it's probably someone who reads while moving their lips and whose dad is also their uncle. There were others too tedious to mention but I guess most were designed to finally give the young, trendy, long-haired goons on art desks something to do.
Even the Independent did one about Portugal selling Ronaldo to Spain to clear their debt.
Then came the PRs who sent out their hilarious and wacky releases to prove that they really are very funny people, honest guv. Holiday companies offering yeti safaris for instance and another about the latest Ryanair surcharge. Though as Ryanair send out releases all year round about standing on planes and charging for toilets and the like, all their releases are treated as April Fools no matter when they get sent.
Again, there were others about royal weddings and the like that were so crap I've already forgotten them.
And then advertisers. Now this is the most perplexing. Advertisers spend their whole lives trying to come up with inventive, innovatve and often funny ways of engaging with the public. So why does all this go out the window when they do an April Fool. There were a couple I remember seeing and thinking 'you wallies.' BMW tried one about a new model for the royal wedding called the WILL. No wonder people think Germans don't have a sense of humour. And French Connection did something about couture for cats which was not funny or clever. And they're not even French, so you can't blame a childhood of watching Jacques Tati films for that.
Perhaps the only one which may have come close, because it was from an unlikely source, was New Scientist whose website did a story about how masturbation can cure restless leg syndrome. At least I think it was a spoof. My legs are awfully still.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The tradition is that no practical jokes can be played after midday so when the news came in later that day to say that the Daily and Sunday Sport stopped trading, then it was clearly not a joke despite the comments about going 'tits up' of course.
I have documented on previous blogs my various dealings with David Sullivan, the man with the fashion sense of a Butlin's redcoat and with a penchant for 'men be taller' shoes.
First and foremost, it is never a good day from a professional point of view when journalists get made redundant. It's hard enough to find work out there in a shrinking market in which news suppliers want to pay less now than they did 15 years ago.
I know that doesn't just apply to this industry but it's the one I work in.
A lot of journalists who have worked for the Sport - most I suspect - try and use it as a stepping stone or launch pad into national tabloid journalism. I did. And it worked. There are now a number of high ranking executives, specialist writers and national newspaper reporters, subs and editors who passed through the Sport's offices.
The Sport will not be missed in many quarters. Most people don't like it but don't read it, unless they buy it to disguise their copy of the Daily Mail of course.
Behind the nudge nudge element of its pictures and headlines, there is something darker, too.
There is a certain amount of distasteful coverage of sexual assaults and rape trials which are presented as titillation while the very specialised kind of personal service featured in the small ads surely finances sex slave trafficking and more besides.
I worked there when it was just The Sunday Sport, almost 24 years ago. I wasn't much cop doing the stories they expected. But I did a good job making up the letters page.
It is the only place I have ever been sacked from - although I came close a few times elsewhere, which suggests they may not have been entirely in the wrong to do so!
But I bear no grudges and I hope the hacks left without a job go on to find work elsewhere.
----------------------------------------------------------
I have mentioned a few times how Epping Forest, which I live near, is famous for dead bodies. I was half joking but then a couple of days ago in a lake behind the clubhouse where my son plays cricket for Buckhurt Hill under-12s, a man's severed arm was found. Literally, though! Shut up?
The rest of him wasn't which means there is either someone walking around with a missing arm or other bits will crop up elsewhere. Probably to be found by a dog walker. They always are.
I'm not sure how they could tell it was a man's arm but being Essex I'm guessing that if it was female it would have been orange, the nail extensions would have been immaculate and there would have been a tattoo of some meaningless Chinese proverb on the insider of the wrist.
---------------------------------------------------------
I think I'm going to vote against AV. Which means that I'm doing something I thought I'd never do and that is siding with the Tories. It's not just that I want to stop more LibDems getting in (which I do, the treacherous bastards) or minority nationalists and the like.
But not enough people in this country vote when the system is really simple so why on earth are they going to vote when it's ten times more complicated.
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So is it Moussa Koussa or Musa Kusa. The BBC, the papers and various other sources can't seem to agree. But he can take his place alongside Sirhan Sirhan, Boutros Boutros Thingy and others as having those funny foreign names that make us all laugh. I say laugh but as more details emerge about the atrocities he has, no doubt, been involved in, then perhaps that isn't quite the right emotional response.
But it's the crazy name, psychotic guy link.
Not that we're much better. I can remember a boy at school, in the year above us, whose name was Steven Stevens. And rumour has it his middle name was Steven too. And then there was Gary Gurry who I'm sure some of my old Ilford schoolmates can vouch for. Not that they were psychotic of course!
The barman at my old work boozer, the Mutant Arms, thought for years that my real name was Solly Solomons, so I'm not one to talk. Of course my real first name is Solomon.
Cheers...Solomon Solly Solomons
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