Surely not

Is it perhaps possible that those fine upstanding custodians of European football, UEFA, could be, whisper it, lying to us?

After all, this is a worthy institution led by the strike force of Juventus and France legend Michel Platini and…eh, David Taylor. Mr Taylor, as I’m sure you will recall, was the former SFA chief who masterminded the years ahead of it’s time deployment of Berti Vogts as Scotland manager. Who would dare question the vision of this assistant?

Let us not make this a parochial assassination of Taylor alone. Platini simply must have been kidnapped and replaced by an imposter. This cannot be the same man who, in his pomp at Juventus and the French national team, brought awe and wonder to the game. All we see now is an unkempt and erratic controversy merchant, whose vacant and humourless rhetoric makes Sepp Blatter of FIFA look like a stand-up comedian. Oh, hang on…

We should make nice instead. This blog can’t be certain, but when it gazes upon Platini and Taylor together (David magnificently taking winners and/or losers medals out of a big bag and then handing them to Michel, who then hands them over to a player or manager, oh the synchronicity), it is unable to be reminded of another tragic comedy double. Who said “unctuous lickspittle”? Actually, perhaps this is a diatribe against Mr Taylor. Only God can judge us. Or perhaps a High Court Judge.

We are digressing somewhat. No change there. Our theory is that UEFA are fabricating teams in a desperate attempt to get the usual also-rans from “the greatest league in the world” (Everton, Manchester City, Tottenham Hotspur) further than the usual embarrassing first round exit. Here is a sample, with the fake names in bold, of the ‘made-up teams’ involved from yesterday’s draw (incidentally, some of these names are an absolute nightmare when running a spell check):

Politehnica Timisoara v Partizan Belgrade
Banik Ostrava v Spartak Moscow
Man City v Omonia Nicosia
AC Bellinzona v Galatasaray
Racing Santander v FC Honka
APOEL Nicosia v Schalke 04
Litex Lovech v Aston Villa
FK Austria Magna v Lech Poznan
Slavia Prague v Vaslui
Slaven Koprivnica v CSKA Moscow
Cherno More v VfB Stuttgart
Feyenoord v Kalmar FF
Hamburg v Unirea Urziceni
NEC v Dinamo Bucuresti
Young Boys v Club Brugge
AS Nancy v Motherwell

(The reason that Young Boys and AS Nancy are included in this list is not because they are considered fictitious, but to highlight the inevitable Bay City Rollers and latent homophobic puns that are bound to pepper the sport pages of the Daily Record and The Sun any day now. Oops, tool late. Today's Record has the headline "Why Well Fancy Changes v Nancy Boys", whereas their website is rather more coy.)

Aston Villa’s home tie against mid-80s action movie star Litex Lovech sounds like a home win but it’s almost certain that Dinamo Bucuresti won’t be relishing that tough away tie to a large conference and concert centre in Birmingham.

Hamburg boss Martin Jol, however, must be confident of second round progress with a reasonably straightforward opener against venereal disease/fabulous Scrabble scoring, Unirea Urziceni.

“Fhor shure, we should win againsth deesh guysh as the pressh are shaying, but any team that can get you thirty-shix points in Schrabble musht be treated with reshpect, you know what I’m shayin’?” opined the large Dutchman.

For all their damn lies, maybe this is all for the best. After all, the glamour tie of the first round has to be in the shape of FK Austria Magna v Lech Poznan, in the only made-up team vs. made-up team of the UEFA Cup so far. The prospect of a Central European Republic-based acrylic paint doing battle against a downtrodden Polish pawnbroker must put to bed the notion that this competition is but a poor man’s version of the Champions League, once and for all.

How nice

The good people of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (crazy name, crazy town) have the decency to incorporate an additional sign of how to pronounce their name built into their train station stop sign. A special touch because sometimes you just don’t the bother of having to make the effort.

It's hard a thing to admit, but when one reaches a certain age (your humble correspondent having just turned 33) you pine for NEW music that sounds uncannily like OLD music. For there are genuinely few innovative pieces of music coming out these days, as there are only 12 notes that can be played and all that. However, this blog is always happy to be proved wrong in this regard and positively encourages NEWNESS to rear its fangled head.

The point is, that the latest NEW but OLD music of excitement and note arrives via Buffalo Killers. Shaggy, scruffy ruffians to a man dishing out raucous slabs of inflamed blues-infused rock. 'Get Together Now Today' has a sweet, languid groove attached to a cannily catchy tune and is a good introduction to these Cincinnati furries. This track comes straight on when you visit their website.

A more upfront side to the Ohio outfit comes with ‘Take Me Back Home’, which sounds like a pissed-up Free to these ears. This is good stuff that should be played very loudly, which can be done here. This is an mp3 link, so if there is anyone reading who can sue this blog disapproves, it shall be promptly removed. If you like it, support the artist and purchase it via the usual channels, like normal people used to do.

Is Frank Lampard a robot? I think we should be told

The thought of someone like Chelsea's Frank Lampard being at the apex of the English Premier League player's earnings is a curious and not entirely pleasant one. The feeling of disappointment that the climax of this somnabulistic transfer saga did not involve him being reunited with his beloved Jose Mourinho is profoundly felt.

Not simply because it conjurs the unusual, if not impossible image of Mourinho and Lampard meeting at the airport in a loving, yet manly embrace in the manner of a cliched romantic comedy. The real reason is that we are stuck with him. For another five years. Porridge. 

There has always been something of the automaton about Lampard. The strange hairless chest. The weird hair. The puzzlingly unemotional 100 goals celebration, which had the blandest message to the fans I have ever seen. The vest that he was wearing was slightly camp, yet utterly heterosexual, like a British dad glugging Fosters with his wife and kids on summer holidays in Playa de las Americas. Which brings us to the next oddity of 'Lamps'.

The man is a walking contradiction. His name for a start. He is a Frank Jnr, which makes him sound like a Mafia don's son, but as his father is former West Hammer Frank Lampard Snr, he quite patently is not. He is an Essex boy, but went to a private school.  The way his involvement in a lurid sex tape with Rio Ferdinand and Kieron Dyer has been almost entirely airbrushed from anything written about him. Perhaps, Fun-Time Frankie has a dark secret. He is not one of us. 

To be fair, there is one aspect of 'Lampard v.5y' that runs parallel. He best personifies the madness and over valuation of football players in England in managing to use his mesmering robot powers to coerce Messrs Abramovich and Kenyon into giving a thirty year old a £39.2m five year contract. How fitting then, that he is a supporter of the Conversative Party. But while proclaiming his allegiance to the Tories, and this is where the contradictory and shadow nature of the one man cabal that is Frank Lampard re-emerges, he has still to vote in an election.

New video

I've been taking slackness to a whole new level. I am relying on contributions now. This is a new video, from a very good friend of mine, who must take all available credit:

http://www.grapheine.com/bombaytv/index.php?module=see&lang=uk&code=10901bfc2a3690b20980747f51cd8b70

Been a bit slack

The best couple of days, a bit busy and that. And now it's the weekend, again. Here as usual, is some good music to be checked out by a local band called Figure 5. I saw the boys at Indian Summer last year and thought they were phenomenal. They deserve to be massive. They are in they what I like to call the 'Yob Rock' canon, but a million times superior to like of cloggers such as The Fratellis. This is the sound of rampant beery scallywags on the way to Argentina to watch Scotland in the World Cup 1978. Listen to them whilst drinking from one of those old Tennent's tinnies that had a dolly bird on the label.

http://www.myspace.com/figure5

Caught a bit of the Olympics opening ceremony last night, it was like watching a broadcast from an alien planet, such was the intricacy and ingenuity of the organisation and choreography. Seb Coe must be absolutely shitting himself, because what I saw yesterday will not be topped in That London come 2012.

And finally, this is not as rude as it sounds from the web address:

http://www.instantrimshot.com/

Chin chin

Let us not mock them. For they truly are cretins.

Genius at work. Why have Uncle Watty and Cheeky Chappy Ally not been given a golden handshake and a picture of a Spitfire for this highly amusing descent into amateurishness? It is because, unlike Paul Le Guen, they are old school, Scottish and part of the fabric of Scottish football? Of course not. Long may this latest inglorious chapter in the utter disaster that is Rangers Football Club continue. If the 'Teddy Bears' were a horse, you'd shoot the poor bastard.

"Call the police there's a madman around"

This isn't a Pet Shop Boys-related post, but Crivvens, Jesus jumping Christ on a sandcastle, there truly was some uber-madness in the streets in the West End (Girls) of Glasgow on Saturday.

This really is more like a police request for further information relating to an incident. Can anyone help?

Was indulging in a spot of the old ultra-drinking with some fellow ruffians on that night. We parked the jalopy, with our cargo in the boot off University Challenge Avenue and went to Tennent's for refreshments prior to our engagement at a party.

En route, there was a man defacating in the street. Not a regular occurence I'm told around these parts. He pointed his finger to his mouth and made a shushing sound. We headed to the pub perplexed, but didn't think more of it.

It was only later, enjoying a cigarette at the corner of Byres and Highburgh, that we saw the same man, well beast really, strutting up the road, filled with intent (no longer full of waste matter, we would imagine) with no shoes, no socks, no underpants or trousers on. We watched aghast.

While this was all very amusing, nay perplexing, it later begged the question, how did this man get into his house? Unless he was holding his house keys tight in his hand, he would have had to ask someone to let him. How exactly do you explain your way out of that situation? Also, who answered the door? There would be very different response be it wife/girlfriend/husband/boyfriend, brother/sister, mother/father, friend/flatmate, I would wager.

If anyone knows anything more about this, or even better, if you were the beast himself, please do not hesitate to contact this confused correspondent. This is a feacal fiasco and no mistake. We demand satisfaction.

Al rite der Derth Vader la'

Enjoy your weekend and here is a band with a great name for you to check out:

http://www.myspace.com/ringodeathstarr

Domino (not pizza or Keira Knightley or even that bloody awful one with Brigitte Nielsen)

Me and the Mrs were out on the lash last night for a spot of Quiz Night fun. We went to The Rock, but it wasn't on as the fella that does it is on holiday. What's that all about?

A taxi to what used to be called Air Organic, which is now BigSlope (where do they get the names from?) The quiz was on, but not until the "back of nine" the barman wearing a Devo t-shirt said.

I thought Devo rocked when I was a toddler. My dad used to play them a lot in the late 70s.

I've never been fond of that phrase "the back of..." when referring to the time. I never know if it means 9:06 or 9:47. The Mrs informed me it's nearer 10:00. Silly O'clock, more like. Anyway.

It was a bit pricey in there, so we went into The Grove which is just down the road. No domino action as you might expect in an old yin's boozer, but instead grunting 60-somethings berating at the horse racing that was on the idiot box.

So bollocks to that, I thought and had a swifty in Ben Nevis (no, not that one), it's a pub called Ben Nevis.

Just made in time for the quiz. Our team, which was just me and the wife, was called 'Tea And Biscuits' and we got 37 points. The winner, whose name escapes me, got 48, so not a bad effort.

There is something majestic about a pub quiz. It's thoroughly British and should be applauded.