THE BLOG IS BACK

THE BLOG IS BACK

My blog has had a bit of a rest recently as I’ve been concentrating on finishing the first draft of my novel, currently entitled: “Cowboys and Indians”.

For those of you who can read (this probably excludes most of our Facebook brethren) you can follow this link: http://www.authonomy.com/books/35262/cowboys-and-indians/ and read the first ninety pages on the Harper Collins website, Authonomy. Please feel free to leave a comment as I welcome advice and criticism.

Below is a synopsis of it with the “Strap line”.

Cowboys and Indians is a Black comedy set in South Armagh during the Troubles. Double agent "Fishknife" has one final assignment to perform to erase his past and pocket £5.5m.

John Harris has unique skills. Aged 17 and disaffected with life, he opts for a career as an IRA terrorist.

Diffident and cold, he soon becomes the perfect killing machine. Then he meets Ellen, the niece of the head of the PIRA and falls in love her. He is led to believe that she - and their child - were assassinated by Special Branch.

But when he finds out that he has been used and lied to, he “turns” and becomes a double agent working for the MI6 sanctioned Force Research Unit.

Given the codename “Fishknife”; his nom de plume becomes the harbinger for death and destruction across the province in a British Government sanctioned blood-fest.

But then the Good Friday Agreement makes him redundant. He passes the time in his native Derry working as a Life Coach for former terrorists, writing erotic fiction under a pseudonym and his Saturday nights as a ‘70s disco DJ.

And then he receives the phone call he has been waiting for.

To claim the £5.5 million in a Gibraltar bank account, he must assassinate Sir John Stephenson, whose report is about to reveal who he is and expose the depths to which the British Government sunk during The Troubles.

Before, that is, they can assassinate him.

Well, that’s it folks!

GERONIMO – WE’VE GOT HIM – OR WAS IT CAPRICORN 2?

So what about old Bin Bag’s despatch?  Good news, wasn’t it? Well of course it is some form of pay-back for September 9^th and July 7^th but you don’t have to be a political analyst to work out that this is not closure; satisfaction maybe.

            Of course the world now anticipates a huge backlash from the crazy house of cards upon which Mr bin Laden sat. But to take one man from the top of the Islam fundamentalist hierarchy will do no more damage to al-Qaeda than pulling Martin McGuiness or Gerry Adams from the streets of Belfast would have done to the IRA; and how easy would that have been?

            That is, of course, if you believe that Mr bin Laden is actually dead; which I don’t.

            Conspiracy theorists are usually regarded as whacky paranoid loners with too much time and technological know-how on their hands; I only tick two of those boxes, so go with this for a minute.

            Bin Laden’s “death” is a win-win situation for everyone with the possible exception of the Pakistanis. For Obama, it is the shot in the arm which his flagging popularity desperately needs; just look at those scenes on the streets of New York and Washington to witness a modern day lynch mob in action. Good job, Obama! Take another four years! And aside from the sweet taste of revenge, it demonstrates that obtaining Intel under duress – aka torture- is justified. He might even be able to pull a few troops home from Afghanistan. Ironically, “disappearing” bin Laden could do for Obama what 911 did for George Bush – keep him in the White House.

            And then bin Laden himself; what of the Saudi-born adventurer who cut his teeth with the CIA funded Mujahedeen before becoming radicalised and attaining the status of the World’s-Most-Wanted-Man? He had nothing more to gain. His World Vision for Islamic Dominance lies in tatters with the CIA fuelled pro-democracy insurgence spreading like a cancer throughout the Arab world. The Arab Spring is doing for al-Qaeda what Gordon Wilson did for the IRA. If he had serious political aspirations, he’d still be in the caves of Tora Bora.

            No, Mr bin Laden was offered terms, and he wisely took them. He was never going to be paraded in front of the world press or stand in the dock to account for his crimes against humanity. Everyone knew where he was for at least the last four years but no one did anything about it. Even the bounty hunters were warned off. Until, that is, last week when the Pakistanis decided to cash in their most valued asset and go public; then something had to be done about it. Bin Laden’s last reported location even suggests that he may already have been in American hands; just a short hop in a Black Hawk from Bagram Air Base.

            I believe Mr bin Laden will be under the protectorate of the CIA and left to live out his remaining years painting model passenger jets or assembling jig-saws of the Twin Towers somewhere where he will not be found; free to do anything in fact, except write his memoir.

            You may ask about those newspaper pictures of Obama and his inner circle in the aptly named “Situation Room”. You may see the casually dressed twelve in the “…Gee, this turn of events took us by surprise” manner of those suddenly summoned to witness the green light for decisive action that lead to that “Geronimo” moment. See them sitting, grim faced, hand to mouth (Clinton) or behind backs (Biden), watching the video feeds from the Navy Seals Six’s head-cams, evidencing the final moments play out in the life of their most feared adversary. Was this not what happened? Surely the invitation to the press to watch them watching is evidence enough? And wasn’t it a good enough reason for Obama to have missed the Royal Wedding?

            But that scene is eerily similar to another one – albeit perpetrated by Hollywood – in which the inner circle of JFK’s administration observed the moon landing; except the “moon landing” actually took place in a huge warehouse in a remote region of the Sierra Nevada desert. Remember Capricorn One?  Conspiracy theorists would say that there was more than a grain of truth in this: If you can’t actually get your rocket to the moon the moon will come to you – so the next best thing is to fake it. Just where did that shadow come from, and is there actually sufficient wind on the moon to make the Stars and Stripes flutter?

            If I’m wrong about this, there will be a video popping up pretty soon on Aljazeera, telling us that he is alive and had just popped out for a six-pack of Carling when his human rights were infringed, his property violated, a subsidiary wife and much valued courier murdered, and a Black Hawk dumped in his back yard.

            I mean, do we seriously believe that the analysts at Langley narrowed it down one house-stroke-complex simply because a $1m property ought to have a satellite TV and a terrestrial phone line?  You could target almost every house in Wilmslow on that basis. And as for the politically correct burial at sea? Too much information and too little evidence.

            So if this was, as I believe, “Capricorn 2” – and frankly I wouldn’t blame the Americans for one minute if it was - no one, Jews apart, really wants to catch and deal with war criminals these days.  

WILL THE REAL LONDON VIRGINS PLEASE STAND UP?

THE VIRGIN LONDON MARATHON IS 30 YEARS OLD NEXT SUNDAY – WANT MAKES IT SO SPECIAL?

At Mile 26, just about 400 yards short of the finish line of the 2010 Virgin London Marathon, Nick Martin pulled up with severe cramp, unable to run any further. Seeing this, fellow runner Mike Charlton, a 6’6” an ex-Royal Marine dressed in a pink tutu, stopped and offered a helping hand. Charlton was within throwing distance of completing his fifth marathon in five weeks in five different countries. He said later:

            “I must admit that I had absolutely no idea who he was, he was just another runner in need of a little help on Sunday, it was the least I could do. The London Marathon is not about times, it's about people. Thirty-six thousand runners with a story to tell, and the millions of spectators willing you to the finish. I couldn't leave him; it meant more to me to help than it ever would have to sprint to the line.”

            Sunday 17^th April is the thirtieth anniversary of the London Marathon, an event, like many other foot-races, which was born in a pub: the Dysart Arms in Richmond. John Disley CBE, and Chris Brasher CBE who died in 2003, were both former Olympic medallists who had run the New York Marathon in 1979. They returned inspired by the carnival atmosphere and determined that London should host a marathon that would reflect the magnificence of the city, and all that is inspirational and aspirational about being British. Brasher wrote an article for The Observer entitled “The World’s Most Human Race” which became the springboard for a lengthy and difficult gestation which led to the inaugural race on 29th March, 1981.

            And now, thirty years on it is an event which is still massively over-subscribed, draws hundreds of thousands to the capital simply to watch, and embodies everything which is good about the human condition: endurance, selflessness and compassion. It is simply known as ‘The Marathon’. There are many harder marathons; marathons run at high altitude over precarious terrain; marathons run across the Sahara or the Antarctic. And there are ultra-distance marathons: marathons which make road marathons look easy; marathons run back-to-back over several days – even several weeks. No sooner than someone comes up with the ultimate running challenge, someone else comes up with something harder.

            But whilst these extreme events may still be the province of the elite or the insane (and we should really slip in the “self-publicists” here) the fact remains that each of the thirty-five thousand or so runners who cross the finish line on Pall Mall next Sunday are also in some way ‘elite’. This, in no small way, explains the draw of the London Marathon: it is a race for ordinary people.

            Let me go further: ten years ago, I achieved my running zenith: I managed a creditable performance in the highest marathon on earth: The Everest Marathon. I’ll not bore you with the details, but I felt rather proud of what I’d achieved (sorry – one detail – I finished just behind a runner who had run the “London” that year in 2 hours 18 minutes).

            When I returned, and had sufficiently divested myself of the stench of the furthest reaches of the Third World, I walked into my local pub proudly wearing my “Reebok Everest Marathon” T shirt. I only wore it the once. I was bombarded with questions: “Did you run all the way to the top?” “Did that double glazing firm sponsor you?” “What was the weather like?” “Did your mobile work?” “Do you want to buy some raffle tickets?” Of course the question that really irked me the most and reinforced the triviality of my achievement was: “Have you ever run the London Marathon?” No amount of explaining that you had to trek in freezing conditions for three weeks to reach the start…or that it was -30 degrees and you had to dig yourself out of your snow-clad tent on race day…or that one runner was gored by a rampant Yak whilst another slipped and almost fell three thousand feet to his death in the Dudh Khosi river…none of this did anything to dispel the widely held view that: “…well, if you haven’t run the “London”, then you’re not a proper marathoner! Now, would you like to buy some raffle tickets?”

            And I suppose this is why the London Marathon is so special: it’s about community, it’s a carnival for the people, a huge rainbow of an event; it’s just as hard for Tsegaye Kebede or Paula Radcliffe at the front, as it is for Joe Bloggs from Swindon at the back running in a giraffe suit.

            And that, to be blunt, is why I would never want to run London. Crowds so dense that you are unable to jog for at least the first mile; the jolliness of the thing and the notion that I am a part of the Greater Good of Humanity, moving together towards some Laudable Goal is an anathema as to what running is for me. For me, running has always been about measurable and tangible achievement; it is about times, about solitude and isolation, long stretches of wild country where you never see another living creature. I have only ever run one road half marathon; I finished in a time of one hour and fourteen minutes; this, I decided, was a time that I was unlikely to improve on so I never ran another one.

            But for most, running is about fellowship and a shared experience; working towards some common end-point. Tracey Phillips, 45, has four children, and this will be her fifth “London”. She hasn’t trained as hard for this race as in the past and doubts that she will beat her personal best: 3 hours and 58 minutes. “Actually”, Tracey from Moss-side in Manchester told me, “I just want to finish this one; hopefully I’ll get a nice bit of mouth-to-mouth from a fit ambulance man at the finish!” Jane is running for “Refuge”, a charity for victims of domestic violence. “I was going to run in a bear costume”, she said, “But my husband said if he sees me bare I’ll be the one who’ll be battered…think he mis-heard me.” For Tracey, who is running with friends Fiona and Carol, it is all about the colour and the banter with other runners along the way. “It’s a bit like clubbing really, but everyone’s going in the same direction. I got asked out three times last year. Mind you, it was all by blokes running in bananas suits.” Tracey hopes to raise over £1500 for Refuge.

            And giving is another reason why “London” is so enduring: charities have done extremely well from The Marathon; half a billion pounds have been raised since 1981 from an event which may have never have got going were it not for a stroke of luck. With the necessary approvals in place – including a petition to Her Majesty to hold the changing of the Guard one hour earlier – Brasher and Disley hit a major obstacle: they anticipated being £75,000 out of pocket. Luckily, in stepped Gillette who had just dropped their sponsorship of cricket, which was about as popular as, well, cricket, and promised to stump up £75,000 per event for the next three years.

            The inaugural race was a massive success enhanced by American Dick Beardsley and Norwegian Inge Simonsen crossing the finish line together holding hands. While this was terrific for publicity - The Daily Mail daubed it: “The Hand of Friendship” - it didn’t sit well with everyone. At the finish line, the President of the Amateur Athletic Association declared that: “…if they ever do that again, I’ll disqualify both of them for impeding or assisting!”

            An hour and a half later, the “Wild Man of Running” ex-world 10,000 metre record holder David Bedford - currently Race Director - crossed the finish line. Bedford’s race preparation was, to say the least, unusual. He had no intention of participating until around 10pm on the night before the race when he was challenged to run by a punter in his nightclub. By this time, Bedford had consumed several pints of beer. He recounted on BBC Radio 4’s “The Reunion” how he rang Brasher at midnight to ask if he could run: “He said ‘don’t be silly – but I suppose I can’t stop you’. I eased back from the beer then and went on to Pina Coladas. Thought I needed to make myself a bit more healthy. I then had a curry at 3am and managed to get some sleep.” Never mind hitting the wall, the wall hit him when he reached mile seven: “…the king prawns started to get their own back and I was caught losing the rest of my curry into a drain.” Brian Johnson, who was commentating for the BBC observed this too: “…there’s Dave Bedford, not as fit as we’d expect him to be.”

            But the best anecdote from that first race has to be the story The Daily Mail ran three days later. A Japanese runner who spoke no English was spotted running through St. Albans. Apparently he believed the London Marathon to be a 26 day event and didn’t know that the race was over. Having read about his plight in the paper and spotted him running, a St. Albans man dragged a waiter from a Chinese restaurant in the hope that he may be able to communicate with the Japanese runner. The date was, of course, April 1^st.

            Back in 1981, the year that Brandon Flowers was born, Bobby Sands died and MTV came into existence, the sight of a runner was still somewhat pass-remarkable. Bedford recalled: “Marathon runners were few and far between in those days. The only people who ran marathons at that time were serious club or elite athletes not quite good enough to continue their track careers. Suddenly, after 1981, it snow-balled.” It had been left to John Disley to design the course. “We used the Thames as a handrail and only actually closed two bridges. It was quite easy to organise a marathon in the East End of London – nobody ever went there; there was no work there. You could run round the Isle of Dogs ‘til your heart’s content without interrupting anything.”

            But for the quintessence of the London Marathon spirit, look no further than the last of the six aims for the race, laid down all those years ago by its founding fathers. It simply says: “To have fun and provide some happiness and a sense of achievement in a troubled world”.

            Whilst Bedford’s race preparation and tight white shorts may have long been consigned to a different era, this goal is as germane today as it was thirty years ago.

           

           

Why Does Everybody Hate the English?

Or how to get "Simcerity" when it alls goes wrong. 

I came across a comment on Facebook last Saturday, following England’s humbling defeat in Dublin. It was made by a ‘friend’ who I actually know and have even had a coherent conversation face to face with, as opposed to the hordes of cyber-whackos on Facebook who inform me that they’ve just had a monster dump or are off to bed; so I thought I’d have a go at answering it.

            It read thus: “I find it funny that everyone is so chuffed that England lost. If you hate the English so much why do you all live here ?????”

            Before the pedants amongst you – and I pride myself as being in their number - tell me that this is actually a question, it is referred to as ‘a comment’ on Facebook.

            To answer this question/comment, you have ask another: is this in fact the case, or is my friend simply suffering from acute paranoia in the face of yet another of England’s recent spectacular sporting humiliations? What she is referring to – I assume - are the indigenous British Islanders who live in England and not the principalities, republics or provinces of their ancestry. Those with great expectations of what life in England can offer. Exiles from the parochial dullness of their own countries - those who will support anyone other than their adopted country of domicile on match day. In other words, the Celts and the ex-colonials.

            There is a huge body of evidence, both anecdotal and factual which supports this.             

            Recently, Marc Lievrement, the French coach was quoted in the Times: “We don’t like the English.” Gosh! Now that comes as a real surprise, Marc; five little words which confirm what we’ve suspected all along. It was the fact that he said it and kept his job, which was the real surprise. Imagine if Martin Johnson said: “We don’t like the Scots”? Or, “…we really don’t like anyone from west of the Severn bridge.

            Go with this for a moment: what if Andy Flower, currently shepherding that other under-achieving English national team towards some sort of international respectability, said: “We don’t like the Pakistanis”?  There’d be public outcry.

            Lievremont wasn’t finished: “We don’t like black people; we don’t like them and it’s better to say so than to be hypocritical.” He also went on to say how little the French like the Jews, and got all misty eyed about the Italians and Celtic conviviality, suggesting that they are all buddies because they don’t like black people either. But it was his comment about the English that was the real take home message.

            Of course, it back-fired on him at the end of the week when England won at Twickenham; the sound of chickens coming home to roost mingled with raucous English celebration long into South Western London night skies.

            But Lievremont is not the only England basher: a few years ago, the chief executive of the Australian Rugby Union, John O’Neill, was quoted saying: “It doesn’t matter whether it’s cricket, rugby union, rugby league – we all hate England.” He went on to suggest that the only reason that France were awarded the soccer World Cup was that no one would vote for England, and France was the only other country in the running. Don’t sit on the fence, John: say what you really think. He kept his job too.

            Okay, so the evidence supports my friend’s claim, but why does everybody hate the English? O’Neill explained this to some degree by referring to their “…born-to-rule mentality”. And here, I believe, he has a point. Without wishing to pour oil on burning waters by mentioning Tony Blair or Piers Morgan, the past is littered with historic figures whose barbaric subjugation of the provinces has left wounds which will fester, for ever, on the playing fields and in the stadia of the kingdom they unified. The aftershocks of transporting our criminals to the sunshine and oranges of Australia, Cromwell’s activities in Ireland; what Edward 1^st did to the Scots, and what Thatcher did to the Welsh miners, will be felt long after seismic events in Japan become a distant memory.

            Take the legendary half-time team talk by Scotland captain Gordon Brown (Broon frae Troon - not Clarkson’s one-eyed Scottish idiot) at Twickenham in the early ‘70s:           

            “Remember Culloden, lads?”

            “Aye”, came the reply from brother Peter, “We bloody lost that one too!”

            As for the French, despite their proximity, they are no more a natural ally to the English than Tom is to Jerry.

            But leaving history aside, there is something else which makes English rugby so difficult to like: arrogance.

            Back to Facebook: I found other comments which support this: “…going down the Black Horse to watch England give the paddies a good slap.” Really? And “…come on England: bash those thick micks.” Not that thick, it transpired. And, worst, of all: “We’re 80 minutes from the Grand Slam – Ireland, don’t even bother to turn up!”

            Now I’m sure that these comments are polarised and those who wrote them - like Lievrement -  now regret them, but it does expose a certain mis-placed cockiness that serves to fan the flames which England so frequently go down in.

             It doesn’t stop there either: it extends right the way up to the management and coaching staff. Johnson’s men went into the most important game since the last World Cup final woefully under-prepared. Sure, they had beaten a poor Welsh side, roused themselves sufficiently to make Lievrement eat his words; they had flooded a porous Italian defence and ground out a win against a manned-up but inept Scottish outfit; however none of this made anyone, other than the English themselves, see Johnson’s team as serious contenders to lift the Webb Ellis Cup on 23^rd October. Southern hemisphere sides are not quaking in their boots, and that’s who England will have to beat.

            Against Ireland, England didn’t think it was worth bothering with a plan B. By the time they realised that Ireland could easily read the inside ball, the long, deep pass behind the predictable line of drifting dummy runners, and the blunt attack of two massive but easily corralled centres, the game was up. Then Youngs prevented Ireland taking the quick throw and was yellow-carded. Johnson marked his arrogant and petulant behaviour by banishing him to the bowels of the stand. No swan diving for Ashton, either – an act which is tantamount to brandishing the middle finger to the opposition - as wave after wave of do-or-die Irish defenders enveloped him, sensing that this, if not their championship, was at least their day.

            Of course, in the lead-up to last Saturday, there was much talk in the England camp about how Ireland should not be taken lightly; how lessons had been learned from past complacencies, of how Dublin was a hard place to go and win. In 2003, in Dublin, when England won their last Slam, Johnson  - correctly I believe - refused to move his men at the request of a provocative ‘jobs’ worth’ before the national anthems. He declined to be pushed around; this galvanised England, who deservedly won. But that was Woodward’s team, an England team more focused and better prepared than any before or any since; a team high on confidence whose winning mentality was based on proven performance rather than hope – or arrogance. Certainly a team with a back-up plan.

            How far England has come under Johnson remains an unanswered question. Whether last Saturday’s woeful performance is down to selection – they played markedly better when the bench was emptied in the second half - or attitude, remains to be seen; as does the question as to whether England have over or under-achieved in this season’s Six Nations’.

            So those of us exiles who live in England, but take great pleasure at the odd Celtic victory or even the very occasional Grand Slam, can be vindicated thus: England, by virtue of sheer numbers, should be the favourites to win the Six Nations every year; but they don’t. Yet there is an expectancy from the management, players and supporters which sits perilously close to a “born-to-rule”, or “born-to-win” mentality.

            And so my suggestion to those, who, like my Facebook friend find England bashing distasteful, is in two parts: first, use this rancour to your advantage - as England did against the French - but second and more importantly - try a little bit of humility; in other words - to quote current management-speak: - manage your expectations, then you might receive a little “simcerity”, when England lose.

            That way perhaps, we all just might - yes even us exiles - get behind an England team in New Zealand if all of ours have caught the early plane home.

    

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE CRIMINALLY STUPID

Ever wondered how often someone says: ‘Life hasn’t worked out quite as I’d planned; nah, think I’m going to try my hand at house-breaking’?
Very rarely, I’d say; at least not in an off-the-cuff, I’ll give it a go sort of way. The route to crime is, I’d guess, a dysfunctional upbringing leading to the gradual de-construction of normality; the severing of the societal umbilical cords, followed by the slow realisation that your employment prospects are absolutely zero. If you’d applied yourself a bit at school you might have got a job as someone who signs off the paperwork on the toilet door claiming that you’d cleaned it; not that you’d fancy that much. Maybe you didn’t meet that charismatic headmaster who you would have told to ‘f**k off’ when he found you smoking in the playground; you know the one…instead of administering a sound thrashing and a month’s detentions – which was what you deserved – he smiled, understood you, and put you on the road to becoming the next Richard Branson.
But crime does pay – it pays admirably for those who are good at it, measure the risks, and are prepared to accept the consequences when it all goes wrong. Crime, in reality, is no worse a career path than banking or estate agency. Unless you kill - or worse, maim someone – you’ll be no less popular than a corporate big-wig at Barclays. And no one will have much sympathy for your victims if greed and stupidity can be attributed toward their loss.
Take land banking, for instance, today’s new faceless crime. Thousands of gullible people have given away their savings or inheritance, mesmerized by the promise of huge, speedy returns from land development. The BBC recently reported that twenty schemes are currently being investigated by both the Financial Services Authority (FSA) and the City of London Police. Billy McNaught, a 75 year old former soldier from Yorkshire was a victim of such a scam. He was reported to have parted with over £100,000 - inherited from his mother and wife - to buy eight strips of ‘green belt’ land with no access, and with as much chance of getting planning permission as an application for a nuclear power station on Balmoral village green. His strips were later valued at a collective worth of £75. Mr McNaught didn’t deem it necessary to get a solicitor involved in the transactions.
‘Three years ago’ he said, ‘I could buy whatever I wanted. And now I don’t even turn my central heating on any more.’ Well, my heart bleeds for you Billy, but no one coshed you on the head and stuffed your money into a sack bearing the word ‘swag’: I’m sorry, but you did it to yourself.
On a flight to Malaga the other day, I noticed a teenager opposite me laboriously two-fingering out an essay on his laptop. Beside his device was a piece of paper - someone else’s work - which he was blatantly copying. I observed him making a few changes, of course, but in the casual everybody-plagiarises-so-can’t-be-arsed manner that Gadhafi junior did for his doctoral thesis at LSE. Stealing someone else’s words and ideas is no less a crime than stealing someone’s Stradivarius, or de-frauding pensioners from their savings. But to be any good at crime, you have to have a nose for sniffing out the crossroads where naivety meets opportunity. And that brings me on to stupidity.
The thing about stupidity is that it doesn’t discriminate between the morally corrupt and the morally upright. You can be honest but stupid - such as Billy - or dishonest and stupid such as the bloke who attempted to sell the £1.2m Stradivarius he had stolen for £100. Why, in the name of Zeus, risk jail for a gain that’s worth half the price of what a tank of unleaded will cost in a week’s time?
But then a few days ago, I too fell into the stupidity trap: I had my push bike nicked. I had paid a visit to my solicitor, parking it in front of the bay window outside his secretary’s office. His business premises are within a substantial detached Victorian property in affluent and leafy Wilmslow. The house is set back from the road and my bike was hidden from passing view, or so I thought. When I came out, no more than ten minutes later, it had gone. Stupidly I had left it unchained, assuming that it would be safe as: a) I was only going to be a few minutes, b) this was Wilmslow, not Toxteth and c) it was broad daylight. Nobody had seen a thing. No one had much sympathy for me - least of all the police - as I had clearly been stupid to assume an unsecured bicycle wouldn’t attract attention, even in Wilmslow. I gave them the details, got a crime number and thought that was the end of it. The insurance would pay up and all it would cost me was the hundred pound excess and the inconvenience; annoying and costly, but hardly the end of the world.
You can imagine my surprise, when a few days later I received a call from the Greater Manchester police informing me that they had found my bike. Not only did it match my description, but it also matched the serial number I had given them. My joy knew no bounds when they informed me they had also caught the little scroat who had nicked it. Things got even better when they generously offered to send a couple of officers out to me with the bike for my positive identification, and to take a statement. The thief was in custody, and they needed urgent confirmation that it was my bicycle in order to charge him.
Half an hour later a large police van arrived. My bicycle was unloaded by Officers Green and Deans who proudly awaited my confirmation that another unsolved crime was about to be cleared up. The only problem was that it wasn’t my bike.
‘It has to be,’ claimed PC Deans, frustration showing in his voice as the case for the prosecution evaporated before his eyes. ‘Look, here’s the frame number you gave us.’ It was the same number, but it wasn’t my bike. You see, my bike, a distinctive white Specialised ‘Hard rock’ mountain bike, was identical in every way down to the after sales trip computer and the fitted lights except that it didn’t have a metal pannier rack and two saddle bags affixed to the rear wheel. I had bought a rack and saddle bags some time ago some time ago, but never fitted the things as reading the instructions had given me a headache. Was I losing my mind? It clearly was my bike, but I sure as hell hadn’t fitted these adornments…or had I? No, someone else had, but why?
I put this question to PC Green:
‘Apparently, he’d been using your bike as a getaway vehicle, sir. We apprehended him leaving a house which had just been burgled. Saddle bags were full of costume jewellery; nothing worth much – he’d overlooked the really valuable stuff. Denies it of course, says he was given the saddle bags to “look after” by a friend. Presume he fitted them himself.’
‘Must have, I suppose’, I replied. PC Green unclipped the saddle bags. ‘Better keep these as evidence then.’ Neither of us had an appetite for dismantling the pannier frame and so it stayed on the bike.
As I wheeled the bike to the back of the house leaving PCs Green and Deans to persevere with their endless paperwork, I reflected that not only had I been a victim of a crime through my own stupidity, but that I’d also profited from crime due to someone else’s. Those frames aren’t cheap; I’d paid around fifty quid for mine.
I asked PC Deans what would happen to the perpetrator: ‘It’s down to the CPA [Crown Prosecution Service]’ he said, ‘if they think there’s sufficient evidence, it’ll go to court.’
‘And if not…?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid; case closed.’
What? Even after being apprehended exiting a freshly-burgled house with two saddle-bags full of loot and his dabs all over my bike? How much public money would have been wasted should one rogue, guilty in the eyes of the law of nothing other than stupidity, be returned, unprosecuted, to the streets.
This, I’d say, is nothing short of criminally stupid.

Can you tuck this down here for me, love?

Who's standing in for Richard Keys and Andy Gray? Lots of choice at Sky, then: There's him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, or him. Oh, and Claire Tomlinson. The departure of Keys and Gray has left Sky Sports in absolute chaos. Don’t be fooled by the conspiracy theory that this was the long-awaited banana skin to get rid of the “Eric and Ernie” of Sky Soccer. It wasn’t; just take a look at what’s replaced them.
With a redundancy package commensurate with an £1.8m annual salary, they may be tempted to put their feet up for a bit, until the heat dies down. After all, Jonathan Ross is back in business after his little faux pas with Russell Brand. One source that cannot be named for legal reasons said: “Keys and Gray… have now announced plans to retire to a SAGA cruise ship together, in order to smoke some cigars and make dirty comments to ship waitresses collecting their soup”. Do waitresses collect soup?
Perhaps the definition of irony is being sacked for sexism by the man that owns The Sun. Today's Page Three beauty is 17 year old Penny (36-24-36) from Newcastle. She says: "Sky were right to sack Andy Gray. It's wrong for men to leer at young girls." You could suggest, Penny, that in this era of political correctness, it’s wrong that young girls still bare their breasts for tabloid money. You can’t have it both ways, love.
Seriously though, and I’m not defending sexism – Lord no – have a look at the “Did You Smash It?” re-mix on YouTube; it’s an amusing pastiche of a conversation which most blokes will have had at one time or another. At worst, it’s an innocent but crude puffing-out of chests between males and, by definition, is not intended for female consumption.
A source at Sky Sports told me: "There's a constant nudge-nudge atmosphere around Richard and Andy. They were always leering." Not any more, they aren’t.
This all began when Sian Massey, a 25 year old female linesman, was officiating in the match between Liverpool and Wolves on 22nd January, at Wolverhampton, which Liverpool won 3-0. Keys, said: “Somebody better get down there and explain offside to her.” Gray replied: “Can you believe that? A female linesman. Women don’t know the offside rule.” Keys then said: “Course they don’t. I can guarantee you there will be a big one today. Kenny [Liverpool manager Kenny Dalglish] will go potty. This isn’t the first time, is it? Didn’t we have one before?”
Later, Kelly Cates, Kenny Dalglish’s daughter, mocked the two presenters’ comments in a message on the social networking site Twitter. Cates, a former Sky Sports News presenter who now works for ESPN, wrote: “Phew am exhausted. Just read about something called "the offside rule". Too much for my tiny brain. Must be damaged from nail polish fumes.”
Now, to live in a world without banter and mickey-taking is to live in a very dull world indeed. But the question is, just where do you draw the line between an innocent bit of fun and comments which degrade and humiliate? The answer must surely lie in “intent”, and I, for one, don’t believe that either Gray or Keys’ comments were uttered with the intention of inflicting suffering. They were thoughtless and ill-considered. In an effort to be funny and add a little colour to what is, let’s face it, a pretty drab subject – namely soccer - they offended the political correctness mafia more than their ‘victims’.
Perhaps if Gray had said “most women don’t understand the offside rule” and “I’d like a small mike in my underpants to make my penis fell less inadequate”, he’d have got away with it.
But I suspect that the next time Gray utters the words: “Can you tuck this down here for me love?” it’ll be in a nursing home and the nurse will have to empty it.

THE POTATO HAS LANDED, AND THE ONE-ARMED BANDID.

Okay, I’ll put my hands up and confess that my blog ‘No Country for Fat Men’ was ever-so-slightly 'tongue-in-cheek'.
But most who commented agree that something must be done, for the good of the game, about the absurd amount of time wasted on scrums going nowhere except into the turf.
What I would really like to see is the clock stopped AT ALL TIMES when the ball is not in play, as in NFL or basketball. Play four quarters of fifteen minutes: think of the amount of beer you’d sell. Why should playing time be wasted on ineptitude or cheating, and, I’m sorry, but making the game attractive rather than attritional is important for its future survival.
Another thing, penalties should not be awarded from failed scrums; these are totally arbitrary, as there’s not a referee on the planet who has the slightest clue as to who is truly responsible when a scrum collapses. It’s absurd that matches should be decided on this. By all means, award free kicks, but get rid of this stupid rule which permits the option of another scrum. It is, after all, called a ‘free kick’, for goodness sake, not a ‘free scrum’.
A great advert for the contest-ability of scrums was the one-handed delivery of the ball by Morgan Parra, directly to his second row's feet on Sunday. This was the rugby equivalent of contemptuously driving past a police car at 110mph with a beer in one hand and a phone in the other. Even Dave Pearson thought so.
I'd like to congratulate England on such an emphatic win over Italy. But effective as England were, Italy’s cat-flap defence was truly appalling. Perhaps they are not aware that it is permitted to pass the ball back inside in Rugby Union, and that there is no restriction on the number of tackles that can be made? Sadly for Ireland – and here I reveal my true colours - this too could also be pointed out to Gordon D'Arcy; there's a rumour going around that Paul Wallace is going to come out of retirement to replace him at 12.
But finally, I long for the day - and please God let it be against Ireland - when Rugby's version of 'Potato Head Rooney' drops the ball swan-diving over the try line - it will happen soon. It could even be in the World Cup Final, should England somehow get there, which would make Ben Kay feel a whole lot better.