Telling It Like It Is

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Slide Away

As seen on another blog that I would link to if it wasn't "members only".

Oktoberfest

As of 4.30pm this afternoon, I'm on holiday, and it feels like it's not a moment too soon.

For some reason, I feel knackered, so it'll be good simply to be away from 6.15am wake up calls if nothing else.

Mrs Wife and I are heading to Skegness tomorrow to see her relatives, so a lengthy road trip is in the offing. But at least we'll have a selection of quality tunes to see us down the road, amongst them the latest offerings from Oasis, Glasvegas, Elbow and Santogold, plus whatever Mrs Wife deems necessary for entertainment.

After a few days in sunny Skegness (well, hopefully sunny), we'll head north again, stopping in York for a night to break up the journey and see a bit of culture - if a cathedral and some wax works count as culture anyway.

Then it's back to Montrose to watch the Gable Endies shaft the Sons in the Division Three title race, a match that will also act as a mini blogmeet, with Dumbarton fans The Tomahawk Kid and Big Rab likely to be visiting Links Park.

The same night, I'll be down in Edinburgh for a reunion commemorating the tenth anniversary of starting universary. I can scarcely believe a decade has passed since we first left home in search of education, enlightenment, sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. I predict a messy night in store involving cheap spirits and chicken kebabs, all consumed in the vain hope of recapturing lost youth.

Schadenfreude

Schadenfreude
Pronunciation: Sha-den-froy-da
Function: Noun
Usage: Often capitalized
Etymology: German, from Schaden (damage) and Freude (joy)
Date: 1895
Definition: Enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others.

Greety pus
Pronunciation: Gree-tee pusssss
Function: Noun
Usage: Colloquial
Etymology: Scottish, from greet (cry) and pus (face)
Date: Late 20th century
Definition: A face that looks as though the wearer is struggling to hold back tears.

Never in my life have I been so determined to see a football team from a country I've never visited record a victory as was the case last night.

Due to my participation in a football match with my own team, I missed the first 15 minutes of England's humbling at Croatian hands (or feet) last night, turning on the television just as John Motson picked over the bones of the visiting side's second goal.

I watched in barely-controlled glee as half-time arrived with Croatia's lead in tact, and laughed out loud repeatedly during the half-time analysis, where you would have been hard pushed to find four better greety puses than those worn by Messrs Lineker, Hansen (traitor), Shearer and (especially) Wright. Wright's defence of his stepson Shaun Wright-Phillips' performance would have been heartbreaking, had it not been so amusing.

During this analysis, Hansen said words to the effect of "We've all [ie the pundits] played in massive games when things have gone wrong."

Well, Wright certainly has - he was a member of the last England squad to fail in its bid to reach a major championships, scoring four as England recovered from conceding a goal inside nine seconds to beat mighty San Marino 7-1 in 1993.

And so the second half got underway with Beckham taking up his customary position in front of the cameras on the right. I then watched in horror as England were awarded a definite penalty and a lip-licking Lampard struck it into the net.

This horror escalated as Beckham delivered a perfect cross to Crouch, whose finish under pressure in slippery conditions was magnificent (it's REALLY easy to talk up England's players when you know the final outcome, isn't it?)

Thankfully, Mladen Petric saved the rest of Europe from the ordeal of seeing England flounder at yet another major championship. And Scotland rejoiced.

Maybe it's small minded to take such pleasure from England's misfortune. I don't care. To misquote Renton from Trainspotting, I truly haven't felt this good about a football match since James McFadden scored against France.

One of the real highlights was the increasing desperation that crept into John Motson's commentary as the final whistle drew closer, culminating in a final, helpless "Pleeeeease" as Beckham delivered a final ineffective corner. And with the match finished and Croatia celebrating an historic win, suddenly Motson and Lawrenson seized on an ingenious escape route - Andorra, who had lost their previous 28 internationals, might just find an equaliser against Russia with three minutes remaining!

As I write this, the inevitable has happened - Steve McLaren has been made the fall guy for the FA's haplessness and his players' hopelessness. Already, names such as O'Neill, Scolari, Allardyce and Capello are being bandied about. At the moment, I don't care. It's just great to know that England's "Golden Generation" is going to achieve exactly the same on the international stage as their gifted forebears Carlton Palmer and Tony Daley - absolutely hee-haw.

The end of England's qualifying dream could also spell the end of a few of the players' international careers. Beckham may struggle to find favour with a new manager. Robinson and Carson will have to work hard to rebuild their reputations. David James is surely yesterday's man. But big decisions on the futures of Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard will almost certainly be shirked. Gerrard looked pedestrian last night, whilst Lampard, despite inexplicably being named man of the match last night, has struggled for England in recent years.

As for the proposed return of the Home Nations tournament - will England fancy it now that Scotland are immense and they are so patently weak? In fact, I'd be prepared to put money on both Scotland and Norn Iron having a right good go at England if the tournament was resurrected.

Bring it on.

Scouse and Home

Concluding the series entitled "What Groanin' Jock Did On Holiday", I will now recount our final day in Liverpool last week, following our time at the Grand National.

As with the previous days, we awoke to find Liverpool bathed in roasting sunshine. Regular readers may be aware that I am a huge fan of The Beatles. And, having never been to Merseyside before, I was eager to take in as many Beatles sites as possible.

Our first port of call was The Beatles Story at Albert Docks - essentially the 'official' Beatles museum. It gave a very good walk-through history of the band, from their beginnings in the 1950s as a schoolboy skiffle band, through the Beatlemania days and into their years as the most imaginative and boundary-pushing band ever.

As a self-confessed Beatles geek, I knew the ins and outs of the story before we went, but it was a great chance to see genuine artefcats from the band's history and to see footage of them performing.

Mrs Wife and I also took the opportunity to walk around the 'Cavern Quarter', the cobbled streets in and around Matthew Street where The Beatles took their first steps towards immortality. And it was here that I had my photograph taken with the statue of John Lennon, just like any other geeky tourist. (Liverpool has countless statues of the band, and most of them bear no resemblance whatsoever to John, Paul, Ringo and George - at least this one looks almost realistic.)

Afterwards, I decided that an ideal way for me to spend my afternoon would be to attend Everton's match with Charlton Athletic at Goodison Park. None of the others in our little party is a football fan, so I was prepared, and quite happy, to attend the match alone, but Mrs Wife decided that to accompany me and to see her second live match. (Her previous visit was to Hampden in August 2002 to witness the nadir of Berti Vogts' reign as Scotland boss, when a national side containing Kevin Kyle and Scott Dobie lost 1-0 to Denmark in front of 28,766 fans.)

Thankfully, we managed to get tickets high in the balcony of the main stand, so we were in the shade and had a great view of the match. Although the encounter was a typically scrappy end-of-season affair between a side aiming for Europe and another desperately clinging to its Premiership place, it was entertaining nonetheless.

However, I feared that, with ten minutes remaining and no goals, it might be enough to dissuade Mrs Wife from future football trips. Thankfully, a late burst of action saw Joleon Lescott open the scoring after Andrew Johnson's shot was saved, Darren Bent equalise with only minutes left and James McFadden, a second half substitute, score a contender for goal of the season in injury time to give the home side the win.

All in all, our jaunt down south was a great weekend away. We may have lost money betting on the races, but the combination of great weather, great company and great football undoubtedly made it a roaring success.

So now I'm turning my attention to deciding where to go on our remaining holidays this year - Mrs Wife and I are looking to head off for our anniversary and again in September. Thoughts and suggestions welcome....

A Grand Day Out

In the continuing series entitled "What Groanin' Jock Did On Holiday", I will now recount the day Mrs Wife and I (accompanied by some close friends) spent at the Grand National, the highlight of the British steeplechase calendar.

In truth, none of us is a horse racing fan. In fact, none of us had ever been to the races before.

But when we were mulling over ideas for a weekend away, Mrs Wife and her friend reminded us that they had originally considered attending the National in 2006 for Mrs Wife's hen party (Mrs Wife was then known as Miss Fiancee).

So, leaving all of the arrangements to Mrs Wife, I agreed to go to the races for the first time.

I'd never been to Liverpool until last week, so the train journey south into the land of Morris Dancing, clotted cream and Premiership football was a journey of discovery in itself. Passing through towns and cities including Preston, Wigan and Warrington reminded me of how heavily populated England is in comparison to Scotland, and how much the north of England's history is tied to its industrial past - every town we passed through had a huge mill or factory dominating the horizon, although many of them have now been closed or are awaiting demolition.

As I mentioned in previous posts, the weather last week was stunning - unseasonably warm for April. (As my birthday falls at the end of the first week of April, I can generally remember the weather around that time - it was snowing in Dublin as I turned 19, this year it was scorching in Liverpool).

It seems, at first glance, that there isn't much to see in Liverpool itself - a couple of cathedrals, the Liver Building and the Albert Docks were about the extent of it. But we made the most of the chance to explore the area around our hotel on the night before the big race. The city centre was teeming with well-dresses ladies (in their own heads at least) and gentlemen, as the Aintree Ladies' Day takes place on the Friday before the Grand National. The extravagant costumes put Mrs Wife and her friend in a state of some alarm....

But come Grand National day itself, all was well. The trains from Liverpool Central to Aintree were jam packed, but everyone was in good spirits. There was a buzz all around the race course, as racegoers enjoyed the sun and prepared to lose their money betting on the favourites.

Between us, our four-strong party wagered almost 100 pounds on the main event - not one of us picked up a single penny at the end. Thinking I was playing it safe, I put each way bets on the winners from the previous two Grand Nationals - although both finished, they failed to make the first four.

This failure was compounded when Mither sent me a text message to say that she had backed the winner at odds of 33-1 - because she liked the jockey's silks.....

But even parting with cash couldn't put a dampner on an otherwise excellent day. We enjoyed an excellent dinner at a city centre pub before heading to Matthew Street, epicentre of Liverpool's Cavern Quarter and home to its most popular pubs and clubs.