Don't call us we won't call you

A few months back I happened to switch over to Channel Five's Wright Stuff with the conveniently name Matthew Wright. During the course of the show one of the panellists launched into a tirade concerning cold callers and tele-marketers constantly blocking up their phone. They then proceeded to read from the newspaper in front of them a list of tips to avoid such nuisance calls. Unfortunately, this wasn't a topic up for wider discussion. Had it have been then I would have been first on the phone advising that if you wish to stop the phone from ever ringing then simply register with a Recruitment Agency. They'll never ring back.
Recruiters in such agencies are the best bosses, the best life coaches you've never met. They are like a teacher who invites you into their office to give you words of comfort shortly before an exam. They are Mickey to your Rocky. Brierley to your Botham. And yet unlike these father figures once you leave the room they want nothing more to do with you.
You spend one hour filling in a form in a drafty reception area, another hour sitting in a small room with a ZX Spectrum in front of you being asked if the "Glass is Half Full" or alternatively asking you whether you agree, strongly agree or are just not sure that "finishing second is the same as failure". By this stage your brain is so shot that you just want to write " well it depends , if someone had a gun to your wife and kids head then I guess finishing second would be construed as failure but if it was the olympics then at least you get a silver medal."
After the form filling and the aptitude test you are then welcomed into a suite to go through your application. They will then read from the form "I note you don't drive and you have a phobia of chickens. Let me just check. Ok a job has just come up at a KFC in Edinburgh. It's a 300 mile round trip but we will pay a 16th of your expenses. " That tedious job you wanted so desperately to leave doesn't look so bad now.
You point out a job you saw in the window that you might be suited for and they immediately try to skirt over it as if they've reserved it for a friend.
" A vacancy has come up for a washer up, any thoughts?" Yes, plenty, but in terms of work I was looking for something more permanent.
" Well they might take you on full time." You ask if they have anything in the field of office work.
" Well we might have something come in next week but they go quite quick."
It's not the bloody Next sale. Isn't there a priority system for these things? Surely once a job comes in that matches my skills my name will be put forward. And just as you are about to give up the ghost a nugget of salvation is thrown forth. " As regards references " she says as you move eagerly forward in your chair " do you think you'll have a problem getting references from your employer in China".
You put down your pen, your clipboard and move closely before whispering in their ear;
"I said fucking Cheltenham."

The God Delusion

Book Review

Richard Dawkins writes about his perspective on what he suggests is nothing more than a figment of the imagination. In a scholarly, scientific standpoint which largely uses the argument that proof and evidence is the only thing that can be truly believed in, Dawkins discusses the creationists' belief of how it all began, and how wrong it is.

For anyone who has a problem believing that there is a God who is watching over us and controlling things like earthquakes and Tsunami in order to punish humanity for being naughty, or if you have questioned people going to church when something horrific has happened to them, then this book will dispell, from an academic and educated standpoint, how much unproven stuff has come out of religion and God worship in modern and less modern times.

How best to explain this paradigm shift amongst anyone who learned anything from science lessons?

Well, put it this way. My fascination with science fiction meets with mixed reactions depending upon the recipient of my declaration. Some find it logical and completely normal a subject to have an interest in. Others baulk at the mere thought of such a juvenile and pointless excursion. People who worship a god, however, are very rarely questioned. Moreover, their actions and sensibilities are protected by political correctness, with the perpetrator of any criticism or questioning worthy of the pillory for discrimination.

As far as proof is concerned, there is no more proof available to support the presence of a god than there is to support the actual existence of the Starship Enterprise, Klingons, Mr. Spock, or Commander Will Riker. It is therefore no more ridiculous a concept for a person to believe in Star Trek than it is for a person to believe in an all mighty, all powerful, all benevolent god - who allows so many horrific and torturous things to happen to our peoples and our children, all under the guise of "loving us". 

As Dawkins points out, scientists are not blindly fundamentalist about their beliefs. This is because most scientists will change their belief the moment evidence is put forward to suggest otherwise. When science disproves or questions the bible and the beliefs of god worshippers, they slide back into the "faith" bunker and shut out anything real, preferring to belief something that is not real, never was, and never will be. They continue to perpetuate the false teachings of the bible, or their holy book, regardless of the facts staring them in the face.

Dawkins goes into more detail, and eloquently puts the case over for the absence of god. This leaves himself wide open for anyone who wants to come forward and prove that there is a god. Nobody has come forward yet to prove Dawkins wrong.

Anyone for Tennis? So long as it's British.........

If ever I was famous to be invited to go on T.V's Room 101, one of the things I would have consigned to the nightmarish room, apart from Piers Morgan, would be Wimbledon. Not the area in London or the re-born football team but the annual Tennis extravaganza.
I am not against Tennis. I can appreciate the sporting endeavour, the history, I can even just about stomach the endless cavalcade of middle aged women called Jan who constantly shout "Come on Tim" whilst emptying the contents of a tub of face paint.
No, what really raises my ire is the way in which the BBC seem hell bent on getting as many positive references to British Tennis in as possible, whether it is relevant or not. Anyone visiting the Earth to take in a day's viewing on the BBC would naturally assume Great Britain to be some fallen super power in the sport. Longing for a return to the days when everyone had a tennis court in their garden and trophies were won on great regularity.
Don't believe it. Anyone who can remember tennis, P.T.H (pre-Tim Henman) will remember just how shit we were and to some extent still are at this sport. You only need to look at who fills the seats in the BBC's commentary booth for that. Chris Bailey's major claim to fame, apart from having nice hair, was that he once took a set off Goran Ivanisevic. Andrew Castle is there I understand because he once won a game of Swingball in 1987.
The BBC seem compelled to sell the sport of Tennis at any cost. If the BBC production team cannot get a positive sound bite they practically go into convulsions. But it just doesn't make any sense. The lean years of the 1980's and early 1990's was the time to sell the sport not now when you have a crowd who can still remember the heroic runs of Tim Henman and occasionally Greg Rusedski. And yet they still try to shoe horn in as many positive references they can.
For example the BBC will dispatch a reporter to do an interview, probably Gary Richardson (the Richard and Judy of investigative journalism), with an unranked Croatian player who has not only won their first match ever at Wimbledon but had never even played at Wimbledon or even been to England before. Instead of wrapping up the interview with the customary - " Do you know much about your opponent? Have you had a chance to see them play yet?" No, instead of that they will say " Andy Murray's got a great chance this year? What do you think?"
What ? I'm sorry ? Is the purpose of the interview not supposed to be about me and my game?
Now there's a strong chance that this player has never played Murray or is ever likely to , so how can he possibly comment. In terms of a relevant question it is like asking a recently released detainee from Guantanamo Bay whether he thinks Gran Canaria is a good holiday resort. And yet the Croatian player will stand for a few moments trying to politely mask his admonishment before saying - " Well he's got a great chance." To anyone else this is a fairly non - commital admission. I don't really know the answer but I don't want to look dull on national telly. But the reaction in the studio is something approaching fever pitch, with Sue Barker positively grinning like a Cheshire cat - " Well Mario seems to think Andy's going to win."
And yet at the back of all this hyperbole is poor Andy Murray who has yet to open his bag of balls let alone play a match. They sit discussing crumbs of comfort as one player is left in the women's draw on the opening morning whilst on court 14 Marat Safin has just completed a ten hour epic which scarcely raises a mention. When Roger Federer equalled Bjorn Borg's achievements of five Wimbledon singles titles, instead of the viewer being allowed to bask in the enormity of what had just happened, all you could hear in the background was the BBC commentator talking about an upcoming British Davis Cup tie against the Sandwich islands. The one's I really feel sorry for are Boris Becker and John McEnroe who are brought in to provide a perspective of what its really like to win at Wimbledon, to elaborate on how the pressure on you grows as the tournament progresses and how you deal with it as an athlete. And yet these great figures in the game are reduced to providing expert analysis on Lilly Butterworth's chances in the forthcoming challenger match in Newport Pagnell. You know when you are on a sticky wicket when the commentator has to resort to finding any opening they can to prevent the viewer from switching channels to watch Bargain Hunt. " Well she won her first service game in the opening set, let's see how she gets on in this one." She went on to lose 6-1, 6-0.

As Gazza wrote in his biography (Daft as a Brush) of the Belgium match-

" In the bath afterwards we were all in high spirits, me especially. Shilts told Steve McMahon and me to calm down. McMahon told him to fuck off."

More than an historic moment in Enlgish football, this victory in the second round of Italia 90, over much fancied Belgium, began a series of fixtures that defined my love for the sport of football. Young enough to harbour very possible dreams and ambitions of one day emulating Platt's sublime twist volley in the dying embers of this encounter, from a devilishly perfect weighted lofted pass from Paul Gascoigne, this result meant so much, for so many reasons.

Had England lost that tie, had David Platt not swivelled ans swung, the very fabric of my interest in football may never hav woven itself so tightly into my life. 

The family home featured a garage, separated from the house by a lawn, at the end of the back garden. As young teenagers my brother and I adopted and adapted this facility for our recreational purposes during the latter years of the 1980s. It was the perfect location to watch Italia 90 from, apart from being in Italy itself. As the summer of 1990 drew near, the tournament was hugely anticipated. For England, a stewing, scorched, bruised pride bubbled angrily on the surface follwing an appalling piece of South American gamesmanship had robbed England of a plae in the semi finals of the Mexico 86 tournament. Bobby Robson, England's coach in '86 and again in '90, was on the end of the usual slaughtering from the English sports media throughout the qualification stage. He resisted, somehow, the huge pressure they exerted upon him. Robson knew he had put together a fine squad who were on the precipice of greatness. As Italia 90 began, the BBC launched a masterpiece of an introduction to their coverage. Pavarotti's nessun dorma played in each broadcast. A piece of music which, for anyone who was listening at the time, will never fail to produce goose bumps and shivers up the spine, even now. If ever a piece of music ever matched so perfectly an experience of a football tournament, it is nessun dorma. Its imprinted on my mind, alongside images of Pearce's tears, Gazza's tears. Oh dear. For now, I want to recall the happier bits. Snacks and drinks prepared, into the garage sports bar. Six of us gathered around to suffer the drama. 

Superstitiously pessimistic, we knew England's talented squad were a match for any team. When they gelled together, this sqaud had the experience and the skill to challenge all opponents. Bobby robson had selected Paul Gascoigne into the squad shortly before the tournament. Gazza shone out, particularly in the pre tournament friendlies at Wembley. Gazza booked his seat on the plane as a result. He was a raw, enthusiastic, happy, sad, excitable young man and always stunningly magnificent at football. Gazza was, and remains, the best player, since Bobby Charlton, to have worn an England shirt. No player since Gazza has made the international game seem so like a playground kic around than Gazza did. He had evry attribute in buckets. Speed, strength, skill, agility and abounding energy and determination. He was univerally popular who forced everybody for and against him to chuckle. His story would unravel itself like a greek tragedy, as the tournament progressed, but his contribution was immense and integral to both team morale and on pitch performances when it mattered most.

Platt started the match ont he bench. Robson tweaked his defence, adding fortification and composure at the back, replacing Des Walker with Mark Wright. Wright was a calm, collected, stroller of a defender with superb positional awareness.

The inclusion of Gascoigne - no hungrier footballer you will ever see. Hungry for victory, hungry for the ball, hungry hungry hungry. He never switched off. He was so wired up you expected his head to blow off his shoulders - added a level of flair to England that has never yet been replaced. A unique talent. A unique man. Bless him.

Waddle and Barnes were two fo the classiest palyers at Italias 90, although Barnes hada reputation of failing to deliver his vclub form with the all conquering Liverpool, on the world stage.Waddle was a magician eith the ball at his feet. A dribbler, a passer, a wide man. Impossible to get the ball off and, for me, the player of Italia 90, alongside Baggio and Giannini of Italy. Lineker was as direct as they come, a man who simply loved scoring goals more than anyone.

Belgium had reached the semi finals of Mexcio '86. At italia 90 they combined that legacy with new talent in the form of Enzo Scifo. They were well organised and disciplined, with a decent turbo charge where needed.

We'll skip the details and move onto the end of the play.

Victory Sprint

t was a warm evening. The lads punctuated the half time intervals by football against the garage door. The TV blaring. The final minutes of extra time. We prepared our minds for penalties. Who will take the first kick? We're perched, ready for the final play. Free kick to England. Inside the Begian half. Gascoigne chips at an angle, into the penalty area, to the right of goal.The ball floats upwards, en route to destiny, to the corner of the six yard box. Time slows. Time stops. We're looking ahead of the ball. Whos on the end of it? The Belgians fail to react. No heads go up. A misunderstanding born out of Gascoigne's teasing delivery. Too good a cross for the keeper to come and punch. Defenders confused. David Paltt has two eyes focused on the ball like a prone eagle. Platt is positioned in an impossible orientation in relation to the approaching ball. Hisbody is facing the corner flag, his head is jack knifed looking back at the ball.The ball begins its descent, arcing towards Platt, still twisted for position. He can't know where the goal is from that position, as he contorts his neck and bosy into a more promising shape. The ball travels over and past Platt's shoulder. He twists, sticks out a right boot, and connects. First time, on the volley. The perfect piece of one touch control. The ball pings off his boot, looping past the burgeoning mullet perm (so popular with the whole of Europe in those days and, some would argue, still now) of statuesque Preud'homme, to take the lead, seal victory in one sublime moment of football dreamland.

Often I hear men describe the birth of their children as their happiest moment. Well, 'm afraid, they must have missed Platt's winner against Belgium, because I have never beeen happier than I was at that moment. within seconds I wssd through the garage door, onto the street, running with my arms in the air. Two minutes later, untterly exhasuted, I was half a mle from home, still running.

Exhausted I turned round, in my moment of personal ecstasy, shared with people I couldn't see the nation wide, and walked home, my beating heart pumping almost through my ribs, and my legs turned to jelly. That moment was so beautifl that it suffices to say it cemented my love for football forever. 

Italia 90, and the matches that followed for England, have never been matched. Germany 2006 was close to being equal, but for me, Italia 90 was the end of an era in domestic football. In the years that followed, the soul would be torn from the game. At least I can say I was part of the game at its most passionate.

England 1 Belgium 0 aet

June 26th 1990 (21:00) Bologna, Stadio Renato Dall'Ara

GOALS             119'  1-0  David Platt

YELLOW CARDS  85'  Paul Gascoigne (ENG)      

REFEREE  Peter Mikkelsen (Denmark) 

LINESMEN H. Kohl (Austria) S. Takada (Japan)

ATTENDANCE   34,520 

Platt's teeth are so long he struggles to close his mouth

 ENGLAND                             
1 GK Peter Shilton
2 DF Stuart Pearce  
5 DF Des Walker                     
6 DF Terry Butcher (c)               
12 DF Paul Parker             
14 DF Mark Wright                     
 8 MD Chris Waddle                    
16 MD Steve McMahon             
19 MD Paul Gascoigne                    
 10 FW Gary Lineker                    
11 FW John Barnes               
       Substitutes
17 FW David Platt               (+73) 
21 FW Steve Bull                (+76) 
       Coach: Bobby Robson                   
 

Welcome to the blog Santiago García and John Limoges.

Stories, anecdotes, comment.

Retain the spirit of Cagliari 1990.

Morning Sophie, any messages?

By John Limoges

What a terrific website

Absolutely brilliant website

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The brainchild of little known indie soca, calypso and bossa nova band, Apex Restart, Deepdale Rudge was conceptualised during the transitional phase of the late 1980s and early 1990s. The musical ensemble consisted of four main players, each of which contributed their own personal wealth of experience to create what Jonathan King - the DJ - described as a soca, calypso and bossa nova brit pop fusion. Pete Tong described their 1993 white label as dire eclectic tripe, but it managed to reach the ears of 107 of Lord Byron's entrants in the summer of 1994, at 1107pm BST, when it was first played on the club's record player and sound system. Percussionist Michel (the hispanic male version) mentions this event in his autobiography, "Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man", with over exuberent sadness that the track was cut short by 40 seconds when the DJ successfully mixed in Def Con One from Pop will Eat Itself. Rudge launched with 2 memorable fanzines - on folded foolscap - in black and white, in the early 90s, as a rebuke from a breed of fans keen to have their say independently, and at little cost. A third edition was released although it wasn't as good as the previous 2.Renowned for innovation, Rudge's first edition was well received, particularly when it contained a voucher for a free pint of Becks on entry to Byron's on any Saturday night that season. By popular demand the second edition was released, although many fans baulked at the exclusion of the free Becks voucher. Times had changed, and in a massive error of judgement, Rudge Mach II free gift was a complimentary game of Arabian Derby at the Pleasure Beach any day in December. Fans turned on the editorial team, forcing them into the local underground, where they have survived for a decade and a half. Until now.....