A Guardian Angel?

Acting under advice from my wife I'm going to let the subject of the parking vigilante drop. She says it's bad for my blood pressure, and also rightly points out that the activities of a self-appointed traffic warden telling people they can't park in his street don't really matter as I've only been down that road twice in the last five years. Once I went to the climbing centre, once to the sport pavilion. Neither of them are my natural habitat so she's probably right. Anyway, hassling motorists is probably the only thing giving meaning to his life. Without this hobby he may die, she says. Personally I don't have a problem with that.

Talking about death, I met a man who has died three times today. Or, to be more accurate - I met a man today who has died three times. I was eating a scone, talking to my wife and minding my own business in Tesco. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, scone halfway to my mouth, expecting to see an acquaintance. A friend would not have interfered with my eating.

"I've got diabetes." a complete stranger said. What do you say to that. "Congratulations" didn't seem appropriate. That was the start of a long story of diabetes, pain, death, how he used to be overweight (he kept looking at me for some reason when he discussed weight). Anyway, he eventually left.

Now, at this point I have to confess that I don't sit comfortably within the confines of the standard NHS Body Mass Index chart. The "X" that marks my spot on the chart misses the dark red "Life Threateningly Obese" zone and finds a convenient space in the margin to call its own. I am, I confess, about two feet too short for my height. But I don't need a passing stranger to tell me this. I have noticed.

Then blow me, he came back for another go, in case I had missed the point earlier on, or in case I was in danger of enjoying my scone.

My wife thinks he was a guardian angel sent to warn me about my health.

Me, I think I'm going to stop eating at Tesco.

Is it really a week?

I didn't mean to leave it this long. As it is, I have nothing to say at the moment. I'm thinking of a rant about car parking vigilantes but have to go and a mend a fence now so will be back to this later. (That's a real fence, not a metaphorical one in case you are wondering. I long ago reached the point of tactlessness where it would take all day if I wanted to be nice to people I have upset.)

Data Protection

Just had an interesting email from someone I will refer to as "a national charity" because it sounds grand. They have sent me details of someone I can ask for money (which sounds less grand). They sent me his name, address and email address but told me that due to data protection legislation they can't give out personal phone numbers.

Interesting law...

It allows me to knock on the door and ask for money. I can burgle the house (an avenue of find-raising that we haven't fully explored yet, though it would fit in well with the car boot sales we do). I can even stalk him.

But I can't ring him.

Unless I have a phone book and the ability to read.

An antidote to depression

I had a depressing day on Sunday. However, I had a look at this site and it cheered me up. Not too keen on the event that seems to consist of jumping on the stomach of a fat man (for reasons obvious to those who know me) but the others look fun. Apart from the ones I can't understand. This clip is even better.

I don't usually go shopping late on Friday afternoon but it's been a disjointed week and that's how it worked out. There are several times in a week I try to avoid - Saturday afternoon is another and opening time on Sunday is also bad.

First thing on a Sunday is more like the opening of a chariot race than a supermarket at our local Sainsburys. I've never known why. It isn't like they sell anything rare. Or as if you are going to starve if you don't shop just then, There are plenty of shops around Nottingham that stay open late for people who are too stupid to shop in the six and a half days the normal supermarket opens. Perhaps, as a bit of social engineering, we should close the shops for a week and cleanse the gene pool of everyone who is too stupid to shop a week in advance. Or footballers as they are better known.

Saturday afternoon, you can understand that. They've had a whole day with each other, the kids are playing up and they have just been to B&Q for tiles and grout so he can see his Sunday is spoken for...

People are bound to be grumpy, and that is why shopping on Saturday afternoon has come to closely resemble the lineouts of the days of my youth. Though it would make it more interesting if shops built some 10 foot shelves and introduced lifting.

Finally, back to the point. Why is shopping on Friday afternoon so fraught? It should have a holiday atmosphere as people do their last jobs before the weekend. Instead, grim-faced women shout at children and try to ram you into the displays. They can't all be in a hurry to get off to their place in the country for the weekend (this is Tesco I'm talking, not Waitrose) so what's the problem?

There was an excuse today when you look at the price of flowers, but this happens every Friday regardless of whether we are being ripped off by the cost of red flowers or not. Single red rose - £6, £35 for a bunch of red roses and £15 for a bouquet with some red flowers in it, just going to show that not all criminals appear on Crimewatch. I paid £3.99 for a bunch of pink roses, proving that not all Scrooges appear in Dickens. £35! Bah, humbug!

Weather (what else) and the benefits of Rugby League

I was on the phone to Nottingham's matchday organiser earlier today - the professional team, not the kids. He was coughing and sniffing and so was I as we both have colds. Being men, as my wife pointed out, we both have really, really bad colds. The subject of our conversation - going to stand outside for three hours on Sunday in the freezing cold. Am I the only one that thinks there is something wrong there?

Last time I went to sell programmes it started snowing as we opened the first box and carried on until kick-off. I was so cold I couldn't even feel the coins in my hand when I was giving change.

It's hard not to contrast this with Rugby League. Super League has just started. The Outlaws Open Age team will be starting in April with a visit to Featherstone Lions. The Juniors will be starting in May. You have to admire a sport that takes place in summer instead of the middle of winter. Unless it's cricket, the sporting equivalent of Horlicks. There is very little to be said for a sport where you can play five days and nobody wins.

The only thing I need to fear during the RL season is sunburn whereas death from exposure is a constant threat during this year's Rugby Union season. It wasn't so bad at Ireland Avenue, our old ground, as you could walk around and restore your circulation. Now we play in a football ground and have to sit in a concrete and plastic stand as the cold winds gradually remove your ability to move and your will to live.

Sport, weather and Wales

For the last three weeks we've had waterlogged, frozen or snowbound pitches. We've been struggling to find anywhere to train. So have other people. Phone lines have been monopolised by coaches looking for space to train. The result is that we've done more travelling than usual and less training. No wonder the nations of the Southern Hemispere dominate the world of rugby.

Less easy to answer, of course, is the question of how the Welsh manage.

According to the Met Office site Swansea averages 140 mm of rain in December and Ysbyty-Ifan averages 280 mm (averages from figures taken between 1971-2000). Watnall, our nearest weather station shows Nottinghamshire averaging 71 mm in December.

To a mere non-scientist this suggests that the Welsh lose more practice days than we do and are therefore rubbish at rugby. Unfortunately a couple of hours researching in front of the TV at the weekend tended to suggest otherwise.

Somewhere there must be a doctoral thesis seeking to prove a correlation between Grand Slams and weather. If anyone finds it can you let me know.

The best laid plans...etc

Last night we made the ground available for parking as Nottingham Forest staged an FA Cup replay against Derby. As a local derby it was a nice little earner. Not only that but as Forest scored in the 1st and 14th minutes we started rubbing our hands at the thought of another profitable match with Forest entertaining Manchester United at home.

Then Derby scored three times. When's the last time that happened? And why did they have to do it when we could have done with the money?

Meawhile, on the way home I remarked on the fact that the snow had nearly gone and that we should soon be back to normal, including training and playing on our currently water-logged pitches.

As I write, the garden is covered again, both kids are in the park (school cancelled) and all matches are off at the weekend.

Fortunately I do not have to make a living by being clairvoyant. Bearing in mind my track record perhaps it's worth mentioning that I have great confidence in Wales and their prospects in the coming Six Nations.

Fingers crossed I'm about to make it three out of three...

The Gentle Giant Problem

We've come up against several gentle giants over the years - one who was so gentle that after half a match at prop, on a surface like liquid Bournville, he came off looking like a Persil advert. We have another at the moment. I won't mention any names because that would be embarrassing and the latest thinking is that we should be nice to kids. So I'll just call him JR.

Now, JR isn't as bad as the other case I mentioned above but he is a bit on the gentle side. His mother was telling me on Sunday she thinks she may be to blame for him not being aggressive enough at rugby as she has always tried to bring him up not to kill his siblings (who are normal size). He isn't normal size; he's so big that his feet have their own post code.

All joking aside though, I'd probably have done the same; rugby is great but not at the cost of fatal injuries to the rest of the family. Social Services can be so picky these days...

For the moment the programme of helping him shake off these years of conditioning consists of shouting abuse to wind him up. It's a crude technique but you have to start somewhere. Later I intend gaining access to his i-pod and inserting subliminal messages (kill, kill) into the song lyrics. Failing that I'm going to record some Sugababes songs over his favourites. Don't know about you but that would make feel like being aggressive. I've just got to make sure he thinks the opposition did it.

The important things in life

My 13 year old came home last night and asked if he could go sledging. I immediately thought of the Shane Warne story, but decided it turns out I was thinking of the wrong thing. He wanted to hurl himself down a hill in the local park sitting on a plastic tray. Funny how we use the same word for different things.

He's currently got a boot print on his upper thigh. If this was CSI I'd be able to tell the size and probably the make. This, it seems, stops him going to the gym but doesn't prevent him sledging. The other one did a hamstring at the weekend, which allows him to spend hours lying in the bath but no time at all standing at the sink.

Oh the joys of family life.


In case you are interested -

Shane Warne : I've waited two years for another chance to humiliate you.

Daryll Cullinan : Looks like you spent it eating.

If you want more sledging try here or here. But be prepared for rude words because there are Australians present.

Weather Report

Sorry about the recent lack of activity - the planned Christmas break became a week, ten days...

...and eventually stretched to a month of idleness.

As I sit and write it is snowing outside my window. The garden is looking particularly picturesque and the ruinous shed is taking on the look of a Christmas card. All it needs is an unfeasibly large robin to perch on the roof and it would be perfect. Apart from the fact that the weight of a robin would probably be enough to bring the whole thing down. What with the fox excavating underneath and the storm taking the roof off I really ought to do something.

However, first I have to write one of my all-time favourite match reports. Paviors 5 Nottingham 10. Not a classic by any means, but how many times do you get to write a match report that still has you smiling next day?

It started well, when I turned up and found the police dog trainers were in action on the field next door. I've always fancied a go at being the man running away with the padded arm. It's always seemed like fun. This is probably a sign of a childhood blighted by Blue Peter but we all have different ambitions. On top of that, although I'm not much of a one for male jewellery I do think an alsatian on the wrist looks pretty macho. Far better than a bracelet for instance, and though it lacks the resale value of a Rolex at least nobody would look at it and claim it was a cheap Turkish knock-off. With alsatians what you see is what you get.

Anyway, it then got better when the match started, particularly the second half when the referee decided to use a different set of laws. Let's put it this way, if he'd suddenly produced a red nose from the pocket of his shorts I wouldn't have been surprised. There's always been a touch of surrealism about our matches with Pavs, like the time we won because they hassled the ref so much he misread his watch and ended the match ten minutes early (while we were hanging on to a slender lead). This was no exception as the ref awarded a penalty on their ten metre line. No problem. Unfortunately he seemed to like the idea of penalties so much that he awarded another, and another...

We hardly touched the ball but every time we did Pavs got a penalty.

Eventually, they scored. You often see talk of solo tries, but this was the first time I've seen a ref score one.

At that point I had a good look round to see if a film crew from "Refs do the Funniest Things" was on the pitch. It wasn't.

Other things happened too. But this is already long enough.

Please note - the match report will contain no criticism of the ref, but I had to write something to relieve the pressure throbbing in my head. It's a difficult job and I couldn't do it even if I was fast enough to keep up. Which I'm not. It's just a matter of some regret that a circus performer seems to have obtained a whistle and a ref's shirt.

Design your own referee here.

[No refs were hurt in the making of this anecdote]