He shoots, he scores!

Once again, the World Cup is upon us, a phenomenon easily recognized by ubiquitous England flags, a plethora of pointless memorabilia and an alarming tendency on the part of devotees to talk in meaningless cliches.

Meanwhile, every commercial enterprise which can squeeze in some connection, however tenuous, is making use of World Cup fever to bring in the punters. Thus Hatton Country World decided this week to anticipate England's first fixture with a match between two opposing teams of guinea pigs.

The idea, apparently, was to predict the result using animals; this is always a crowd-pleaser during the football tournament and guaranteed to draw the visitors. The ancient Romans, of course, had much the same idea, only with more entrails.

Twenty-two of the little animals were selected for the England-Italy match, dressed in tiny team strip and given a ball full of grass to play with. (The final score, for anyone who may unaccountably be interested, was England 0 - Italy 1.)

However, much as often happens in the human game, events on the pitch have been overshadowed by the headline-grabbing priapic antics of one of the squad.

To the surprise of staff, some of their carefully-segregated females were recently discovered to be pregnant. Further research revealed that a lone male had somehow found his way into their pen, where he clearly made the most of the opportunities on offer:

"We don’t know how long Randy was in the female enclosure but it could have been several weeks which would have given him time to go round the entire female population."

The park, according to reports, is currently home to around 300 guinea pigs housed in an assortment of anthropomorphic settings to entertain youngsters, though one might have thought that, after the first hundred or so, guinea pig fatigue must surely set in for even the most obsessive child.

Now, thanks to Randy's contribution of up to 100 potential pregnancies (outstripping - one hopes - even Tyneside bus-stop Lothario Keith MacDonald), the population looks set to double over the next few months.

Staff are now looking to build an extension to the guinea pig farm to accommodate Randy’s huge brood.

Hence all the media publicity, presumably; it will surely take a fair few entrance fees to house and feed them all.

Unless, of course, the management have other plans. From Wikipedia:

Guinea pig meat is high in protein and low in fat and cholesterol, and is described as being similar to rabbit and the dark meat of chicken.

Wake me up when it's over...

Déjà-vuvuzela

Blog posts and articles continue to proliferate on the abomination that is the vuvuzela but we're not exactly in unknown territory here. If you're considering a device to make as much noise as possible in the stadium with the maximum of annoyance, look no further than the once-popular football rattle.

The Spouse once owned the sixth Blue Peter Book, which gave clear instructions for making your very own wooden football rattle (in the days before 'elf'n'safety took away the hammers and saws). It's hard to imagine Peter, Valerie and John waving the things around, I admit, but it's a testament to the rattle's ubiquity at the time.

So where did they go? Où sont les cliquetis d'antan? Banned on safety grounds from the stadium; if you diligently followed Blue Peter's instructions, you ended up with a swinging sharp-edged block of wood weighing about half a pound, putting a whole new slant on 'You'll have someone's eye out with that!'

But even outside the grounds, they lost their appeal, went out of fashion. They're still freely available but, to the modern eye, they're back there with the Dansette and black and white television, part of ancient history.

So if the Vuvuzela is getting you down, don't give up hope. Even if it invades the UK, this too will pass. After all, when was the last time you saw anyone with a football rattle?

Oh Vuvuzelas! It's the Scummy Gnome again!

Some of us learned a new word this week. Vuvuzela. Sounds delightful, doesn't it? But though it trips off the tongue so euphoniously, the reality is somewhat different.

If you haven't already experienced it, imagine an angry wasps' nest amplified hundreds of times and you have some approximation of the sound of thousands of these things being blown continuously in unison. In an impressive display of lungpower, fans manage to keep up the racket for the duration of the match and, according to a sleep-deprived BBC reporter, for hours afterwards.

Unfortunately, for the next few weeks the Tavern too will reverberate to the sound of trumpets (one begins to feel sympathy for the inhabitants of Jericho) as the Spouse and the Urchin merrily tune in. I'm looking forward to getting a lot of reading done, if I can only shut out the noise of these migraine-inducing infernal instruments.

So I hereby announce that I'm officially adopting 'Vuvuzelas!' as my expletive of choice for the duration of the World Cup. And I may even accompany it with a brief rendition of the Scummy Gnome Song, as seen in Simon Barnes' Times column today; the one that goes:

Scummy gnome!

Scummy gnome!

Scummy football, scummy gnome!

(repeat ad nauseam)

Which is, I suppose, an improvement on the Earwig Song: Earwig-O, Earwig-O, Earwig-O - (H/T Witterings from Witney at Mrs Rigby's excellent post on the subject).

Update: there's no escape - even the Badgers are getting in the World Cup spirit (H/T John Ward)

Afghanistan: Eng-er-land expects...

From the BBC:

The prime minister has told troops in Afghanistan he wants the British public to "revere and support" them for the "incredible work" they do.

David Cameron, who spent the night in Camp Bastion, said they could go home with "heads held high" once Afghans could manage their own security. The PM said he wanted to give troops "proper support" by doubling their operational allowance, which currently stands at £2,380 for a six-month tour.

And then, the coup de grace:

Mr Cameron delivered a message from the England football team, who said the troops were "the real heroes".

Translation: a bunch of overpaid athletes, some of whom won't get out of bed for less than £120,000 a week, pay tribute to British soldiers in the front line risking their lives on a daily basis for what a top-flight footballer would regard as loose change.

Of course, football is symbolic warfare, complete with banners and tribal chants; it has even been claimed that the black markings on the old-fashioned balls were a subliminal attempt to recreate the eye and nose sockets of an enemy skull. The language is partisan, the sentiments uncompromising.

But unlike real warfare, football comes packaged in handy 45-minute segments with television coverage and plenty of post-match analysis. It's a bit like the distinction between a joust and the medieval battlefield; one a riot of colour and spectacle with refreshments on offer, the other, a bloody mess.

With one difference; the tournament was also a training-ground for war and the knights who took part might find themselves fighting for real at any time. England's World Cup hopefuls are far more precious - no chance of them risking serious injury, let alone death. Let someone else do that, another young man at the peak of fitness with trained reflexes and a desire to serve his country.

There's not much difference between England's footballers and the soldiers in Afghanistan - except that, unaccountably, some of them are paid 200 times more.


Update: I'm not the only one struck by this ugly contrast today - this is from NickM at Counting Cats in Zanzibar, in a post containing the excellent phrase 'Bread and Roonies'.

Watch with Mother Nanny - World Cup Special

Worried about your waistline while you watch the football? Concerned you might be piling on extra pounds as the tension mounts? Fear not, help is at hand!

The Food Standards Agency is justifying its existence (and annual budget of £135million) with advice to help you stay healthy through the World Cup, inviting you to 'check out our tips on how to make some healthier choices about what you’re going to eat and drink while you’re feasting on the footie'.

First target is having friends round to watch the match - 'there are lots of tasty and healthy options you can tuck into as you cheer your team on. Why not serve a vegetable curry with boiled rice or a tasty chilli with plenty of kidney beans?'

Or if it's snacks you're after, you could try fruit, low-fat crisps (remember to compare those labels!) or 'low-fat dips (less than 3g fat per 100g) with vegetable sticks for dipping'. Come on, you know it's good for you!

Perhaps you're off to watch the match in the pub instead - 'You could walk to the pub instead of taking the bus [because you'd never drive there in a nasty polluting car, oh no no no!] or use half-time for a brisk walk and some fresh air'.

And watch out for all that dangerous alcohol: 'with many hours of football to watch, it can be easy to over-indulge. It's recommended that men drink no more than 3 to 4 units, and women no more that 2 to 3, a day.

Don’t feel pressured by those around you to drink more than you want to. Skip a round or opt for a soft drink – how about try [sic] a sparkling water with a slice of lemon or lime?'

Pubs, it turns out, are full of hazards: 'Enjoying the match at your local pub can be great fun, but the snack and meal choices tend to be limited. Bar snacks are often high in salt and fat, particularly saturated fat.' You don't say!

And the same demons are lurking round every corner on the way home: 'You can still make a healthier choice if you opt for a takeaway — but remember not to eat them too often as they can be high in calories, fat, saturated fat and salt'. Thank goodness Nanny is there to save you from your own ignorance!

So as England kick off their quest for World Cup glory, you and your friends can happily sip your mineral water and nibble on low-fat-humus-dipped carrot sticks, secure in the knowledge that the Food Standards Agency is leading you by the hand to the sunlit uplands of glorious state-sponsored health.

Cleaning Up - World Cup musings 2

As those living in England - sorry, Eng-er-land! - cannot but be aware, there is some sort of football competition in the offing. Shops abound with retail opportunities - World Cup tie-in beer, crisps, flags and all you need to ensure a fun-filled four weeks on the sofa.

And the sofa itself, of course - retailers are falling over themselves to persuade us to buy new furniture and state-of-the-art television sets in time for the sporting extravaganza, together with England shirts to wear as we watch. There's even a handy viewing timetable complete with pull-out red and yellow cards courtesy of a local estate agent.

But one of the most bizarre tie-ins appeared in my mailbox this week, inviting me to

Kick off the World Cup

with this

Exclusive

Offer...

So what are they trying to sell me this time? Drinks? Pizza? A reclining leather armchair with built-in beer cooler? No, the advert is for dry-cleaning - three items for the price of two.

I have to admit, this one's got me puzzled. I mean, even allowing for the combination of high excitement and abundant comestibles, there's surely a limit to how much dry-cleaning a televised football tournament can generate. And in any case, there's a celebratory air to the advert that is, I feel, hardly justified by a visit to the local dry cleaner.

It's sad to think that retailers are prepared to stake money on a Pavlovian reflex - put the words 'World Cup' on it and it will sell, no matter how mundane, boring and unconnected with football it is.

Flying the flag - World Cup musings 1

Good news for the baboons of Knowsley Safari Park - it's nearly World Cup time again!

These simple primates delight in displaying their red and white car flags to their fellows or using them to adorn their sleeping sites. Groups of young males congregate at the drinking hole draped in the national team's insignia and vocalise raucously for hours.

Fortunate for them, then, that England's retail industry is gearing up to meet the demand. Following a trip to the supermarket (Buy it now! World Cup themed coke, crisps, biscuits [are we getting a pattern here?], breakfast cereal and, for all I know, toilet paper lining the aisles), I return to find an e-mail from Amazon offering me a cornucopia of football-related purchasing opportunities.

The merchandise ranges from the obvious (televisions and dvd recorders) through the predictable (England shirts, beer fridges) via the tacky (England cufflinks, a CD of 'Classic Football Songs) to 'they saw you coming' (car flags, beach ponchos and inflatable PVC armchairs - yours for only £15).

As austerity bites, a fortune will be spent on ephemeral tat made for multinational corporations by third world sweatshops, all in the name of supporting 'England' - now that's what I call 21st century patriotism!



Update: it seems the Merseyside baboons have learnt a thing or two since their first brush with fame in 2006 - some of them now have ASBO's (Antisocial Baboon Orders). We look forward with interest to their exploits during the next few months.

Johnny Wants A Burger

The scene is an upmarket Lebanese restaurant somewhere in the stockbroker belt. A large party is shown to a pleasant table on the terrace, where they settle in for a convivial evening meal.

The waiter arrives to take their orders but there's a problem. One of the party doesn't like the menu and wants a burger and chips. “You can’t, John," they tell him, "It's a Lebanese restaurant. They don’t have burger and chips here.”

But John isn't giving in: “That’s what I want,” he insists. The waiter is apologetic but firm; "Everything we have is on the menu. We serve only Lebanese food.” But it seems this won't do, so the waiter is sent back to ask the chef to produce a burger.

We're all familiar with the notion of the child who refuses to eat what's on offer, but the striking thing here is that the spoilt protaganist is not a toddler or even a stroppy teenager, but an adult in a position of responsibility - captain of England's football team, no less.

This edifying tale, related by Alison Kervin in the Times, sums up the situation which has led to the recent bonanza for the gossip columns - a tribe of young men who expect their every whim to be indulged as a matter of course. Her story ends with the chef arriving in person to give the party a piece of his mind, only to capitulate instantly when he realises he's dealing with John Terry.

Update - If you type 'spoilt child' into Google, the search engine obligingly produces a number of images depicting John Terry and his team-mates.

Addicted to Statistics

What is it with football and statistics?

The sports pages of the newspaper are not my usual stamping ground but, contemplating a follow-up piece to a post on Kaka, I have been reading up on the details of the £80m price-tag attached to Cristiano Ronaldo.

In fact, it’s all so ridiculous that I can find little to say on the matter, but I was amazed at the way readers are bombarded with pointless figures. Why on earth, for example, should I want to know that Manchester United’s football pitch measures 116x76 yards, or how many Wayne Rooneys you could sign up for £80m? And as for ‘how many Ronaldo minutes per successful dribble’, whatever that may mean! (It’s 36, if you must know.)

Amidst all the doom-mongering that surrounds GCSEs and the dumbing-down of the nation, there exists this small anomaly; that people who applied themselves in the most rudimentary manner to the acquisition of knowledge at school can effortlessly reel off arcane statistics ad nauseam when discussing football.

These statistics have become a liturgy; the secret knowledge that binds a club’s supporters together in a tribal group. As such they must surely play a part in the emotional blackmail that keeps fans paying out as ticket prices and subscriptions rise inexorably to feed the ravenous maw of professional football.

Frank Lampard - the Sage of Stamford Bridge

A guest post by Polly Peachum

A rare foray into the word of Premier League football this week as we hear that Chelsea's Frank Lampard is said to have scored over 150 in an IQ test, putting him in the same league as Carol Vorderman (154).

Lampard has always been something of a favourite in Peachum's Tavern, the Artful Dodger being a lifelong Chelsea supporter; when the Urchin and his friends first discovered that players could be bought and sold, they saved their pocket money for weeks in the hope of putting in an offer for Lampard in the next transfer window.

Now we hear that he's not just a pretty face (and a nifty pair of feet), the question is why does he keep it so quiet? Surely a bit of Cantona-esque philosophising is called for - seagulls and trawlers, all that sort of thing. For those of us who only watch Final Score to see what colour shirt Garth Crooks is wearing this week (I like the pink one best), a bit of intellectual diversion would be very welcome indeed.

And on a more serious note, is he hiding his light under a bushel because even the dizzy heights of the Premiership are not immune to the anti-intellectual bias that is the scourge of our classrooms? Does he risk arriving in the dressing room to find his bag emptied out on the floor or his kit in the shower? Would they call him 'boffin' or 'swot' and laugh at him behind his back?

Instead of treating him as some kind of curiosity, why not make the most of this opportunity to show that academic ability is nothing to be scared of? There are thousands of boys out there underachieving at school; Lampard could be just the role model they need - "Sing it Loud, I'm Bright and I'm Proud!"

Man City+Kaka+£100m = fantasy football

So you’ve got a spare £100m burning a hole in your pocket. What do you do with it? Invest to revitalise recession-hit industry? Start a charitable foundation? No, you buy a footballer. For £100m, he’d better be pretty damn' good!

Those in the know tell me Kaka is, indeed, a gifted player, but for that sort of money I’d expect him to dash off the odd string symphony in his spare time while solving Fermat’s last theorem and finding a cure for cancer.

How did things get this far out of proportion? An average salary of £1.1m (in the Premier League) to play a game while the country slips further into economic crisis is performing a full violin concerto while Rome burns. Perhaps that’s no coincidence – bread and circuses distract the populace from the worsening situation.

The emotional blackmail of a lifetime supporting a club means fans won’t boycott. Instead, they cough up for ever-pricier tickets, TV subscriptions and merchandise, like parent birds struggling to feed an overweight chick.What will it take to make them finally crack? Perhaps Manchester City are about to find out.

For comments on the issue (and a lesson in the value of proofreading headlines) see Paul Kelso's Telegraph blog.