Oh it’s been a huge televisual feast this last week alright. Last night it was the Baftas where we witnessed in the starry audience Avatar Director James Cameron surrounded by a territorial army of acolytes and flunkies. His retinue of minions picked up a couple of the early cheap awards for best lipstick and best outrageous skin colouring on an imaginary animated animal. And didn’t he look smug as he and new trophy wife anticipated an avalanche of Baftas falling into his arms. He doesn’t normally do less than 7 gongs at these events don’cha know? That’s to enable him to deliver the longest, most excruciating, humility-free acceptance speech where he praises every one of his many talents. Sadly Cameron was trumped by his ex-wife and fellow Director Kathryn Bigelow who garnered six of the big awards for her film The Hurt Locker. Cameron’s faced looked as tightly-pinched as a cat’s a**ehole as he bravely clapped (very slowly) whilst Biggers went up to collect HIS, sorry her, awards for Best Director and Best Film. Don’t you just feel proud to be awkward-arse British? Perfidious Albion, I love you. Continue reading
Well I’ve so many things to write about and seemingly no time in recent weeks to get some postings done. So I’ve decided to have another splurge of pre-Xmas blogging. A couple of years ago I did 50 postings in the month of December which was great fun but I hardly saw my wife and family. I’m not going to attempt to do that many again but I will try and catch up a bit; maybe one a day is a bit more realistic. The first subject up is Tiger Woods. Wo ho what a story eh. The golden boy, the paragon of virtue, the world’s most iconic sportsman, the greatest golfer there has ever been, the highest earner in world sport, the untouchable Tiger is…banging cocktail waitresses and his car into a tree and a fire hydrant (unable to choose between a wood and an iron no doubt) whilst being clubbed by his irate missus. Such fun.
Well it’s already been one heck of a weekend for sport; Adebayor’s got his dream move to Manchester City as Mark Hughes continues to build a team around the talents of a galaxy of exceptionally sulky strikers. He might have just the 10 (!) at his disposal but surely it’s only a matter of time before Thierry Henry joins the sour puss Gorton gang. Meanwhile down at Lord’s the England cricket team are terrorising the mighty Australians at the tourists’ spiritual home and banker fixture. And for the second Test in a row they’ve managed to really piss off spikey Aussie captain Ricky Ponting, providing a delicious added bonus. And finally at the Open in Turnberry Tom Watson defies the years to lead the field going into the final day. Can he become the oldest winner ever of the old claret jug… well we shall see but his demeanour and performance on the first 3 days – particularly some of those outrageous long range putts – has been a joy to watch. But not nearly as much as seeing Woods, Poulter and Montgomerie all miss the cut and storm off in a triple salko strop. Ah the sporting hissy fit. I thought we’d lost it when the pouty master signed for Real pain in the arse Madrid but the sporting gods have been kind to us. Sulky days are back again. Whose bottom lip quiver makes your day?
Er.. not quite. After all that pre-Dubai Desert Classic stuff about him becoming a rival (indeed the only one!) to Tiger, what happened?
Well Tiger won the event and a really awful Aladdin’s lamp of a trophy, hauntingly overtaking ‘the big easy’ Ernie Els at the final 18th. That was his 7th victory in 8 starts this season. The guy’s just phenomenal and proves it week in week out. So where did our Ian come? I make it joint 39th. Way to go E! Here’s the deal: Tiger has a points lead over the world’s no2 Phil Mickelson as big as Mickelson has over the guy ranked 1000th in the world. He is that far ahead of everybody in the world, including IP – in fact, a bit further of course.
I did a posting about Ian (Poulter; pretty in pink) back in the summer. He wore an outfit that even Katie Price might have been embarrassed to wear, at the Scottish Open, to promote his new clothing range. He spent so much time doing promotional stuff that week he forgot about winning the tournament that was so within his grasp. I have a thing about that kind of footballer’s attitude – I earn £100k a week who gives a sh*t about the frigging FA Cup – that I have to react against it a little. Like they care what I think. It doesn’t matter; I still feel it.