Moonshot FC

“10-9!!” I screamed out. I was playing the famous ‘One Touch’ game we had created for ourselves on Allendale Close. It was the summer of 1995 and the sponge ball we were using had seen better days but due to the moany old gits it’s all we were allowed to use. The game consisted of two players, two goals and alternatively taking a touch. Two touches and it was a penalty against you. A difficult game us lads all made look easy as we played it every day! Kicking a bit of sponge around was just about all we needed back then to entertain ourselves. As I was walking back to my house to grab a drink, I saw a man staring at me from around 20 yards away. He had a rasta hat on and dreadlocks all the way down to his waist. He had this expression on his face like he’d seen something that intrigued him. He waved his arm at me to come over, so I started walking towards him wondering what he wanted. “You’re gonna play for my team” he said. “I’m Kelly, Errol’s uncle and I’ve been watching you play, my team Moonshot is one of the best around and you’re going to play for us”. I was a bit shocked, and I already played for a team and my school side. “Where do you play?” I asked. “New Cross, come and meet me Tuesday at 5pm and I’ll take you there”. I didn’t want to say no, and I knew Errol well so trusted his uncle. I also knew Errol’s mum Joan (Kelly’s sister) and she was lovely. “Ok, I’ll see you then” I said apprehensively. Kelly put his thumb up and smiled widely and off he went. I walked the 20 odd yards it was back to my house and went and told my mum. She said if he’s Joan’s brother then I bet he’s nice. That’s the thing, he was nice. I could tell straight away. His calm persona was evident, but he had this confidence that shone through, I believed what he said there and then. Tuesday came along and Kelly was there waiting for me. He greeted me like we were long-time friends and gave me a high five. I asked him where his car was and he said, “Nah I don’t have one man, we are getting the train”. It was a 20 odd minute walk to Lower Sydenham station to be get on the line for New Cross station. Kelly started telling me how good I was, and he’d seen me play before on Allendale Close and asked his sister who I was because he thought I was a great player. Inside 5 minutes of talking to him I felt like Diego Maradona. I felt I was better than anyone and I was prepared to run through a brick wall to prove it. Kelly told me all about the team he’d acquired. It was a 6 a side team and he’d been looking for a few more players. He told me he doesn’t tolerate bad attitudes and only picks the best out there. He wasn’t wrong, 5 minutes inside meeting the players for training I saw how good they were. Wow! Left foot, right foot, bang! It didn’t matter where these guys were on the pitch. They scored. Didn’t miss. My old behaviour was to hide, not want the ball, I can’t compete with these kids. This time was different though. I had someone who believed in me and had tapped into my insecurity and made it null and void. I got the ball, beat a player and bent it into the top corner. Kelly started slapping his knee repeatedly whilst laughing “I told you lads he was proper!” Dan, the only other white kid there smiled at me. He also had that look in his eye that he could be anything he wanted via Kelly’s encouragement. Paul, who was a small little striker came up to me and nudged my fist “nice goal, man”. I felt like I belonged, none of the lads were jealous or mean. They accepted me and training was going really well. It was hard going but I loved it. It was amazing playing with such great players. Robert, a young gangly lad shouted out “Lee don’t miss ya know” when I scored again. It was true, I hadn’t missed a shot all night and couldn’t believe how well I was playing. By 8pm we were on the train home again. Kelly telling me how well I did and about this tournament he’d entered us in that weekend. “You’re going to play and you’re going to win it”. I believed him, I didn’t have one doubt in my mind. “It’s in North London and I have to get the team from New Cross so meet me at my sister’s house at 8am Sunday” Kelly walked me home and when I got in I saw him turn around and walk off in the same direction we’d come from. I didn’t know where he lived at this point but later found out it was near the station where we got off in Lower Sydenham. He walked an extra 40 minutes just to make sure I got home. Kelly rang my home phone Friday and said one of his players can’t play and do I know anyone? “You know what I’m looking for Lee, you’ve seen the guys play but I trust you to find me someone, man” “My mate Marvin might be able to play” I said tentatively. “He’s a great player, Kelly. Big and strong and skilful too” I added. “Yeah man he’ll do, bell him up and let me know”. Kelly sounded happy I’d found someone, but I wasn’t even sure Marvin would play. I wasn’t lying, Marvin was brilliant. Arsenal wanted him to sign YTS with them, but Marvin wanted to follow in his dad footsteps and become a singer like his dad, Maxi Priest. I rang Marvin and thankfully he was well up for it. He met us on the train Sunday morning and off we went! Marvin instantly got on with the guys once we’d all met. Before we got on another train to North London, we stopped off in a sweet shop in New Cross to grab a drink for the journey. The shop owner was being a bit fidgety as Kelly and 8 kids all bundled into his shop. Not once did it cross any of our minds to steal anything, but we got accused of it anyway. “Some of you get out and wait, I know what you’re trying to do!” He was an old Asian dude and didn’t trust any of us instantly! Kelly took offence “why you chatting shit man?” It was the first time I saw Kelly look angry. I guess it probably wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of stealing in his life by the way he responded. “You know what mate, we came in here to get a drink, pay you and then leave”. The shop owner wasn’t listening. His head was moving quicker than someone trying to catch a fly with chop sticks trying to watch us all at once. Kelly sat on the freezer near the entrance and slid it open. He then gestured to us all as we walked out to grab something. I guess it was his way of punishing the man for accusing us for something we hadn’t done. I was too scared to take an ice lolly or whatever it was a few of the lads grabbed. The shop owner knew they’d taken something but stayed behind the counter. I think he probably regretted his stereotypical view after all! “Fucking bloke” Kelly muttered. We arrived at St John’s Wood and entered the massive sports hall. It was literally packed of other teams. There was a range of age groups competing. From U13’s up to U’18’s. We would be playing in the U’17’s tournament. A couple of our players qualified for U16’s they were that good. We cruised through the group’s stages, smashing every team and hardly conceding. I was amazed at how Danny could score from such tight angles; it was a joy to watch! One thing I did notice was most of the players were aggressive. Being indoors you had walls to be smashed up against when shielding the ball and every side we played seemed to be bigger than us. We were through the quarter finals and Kelly called us over. “Now this Tournament starts, that was a warmup you get me?” He continued “We are the best team here and they all know it, I know it and so do you” his eyes moved quickly across our group so we all met him with eye contact, albeit brief. “Now this team are good we got next, unbeaten so far like us but unlike us, they will be beaten today”. I felt on top of the world, this man I only met a week ago had me feeling like I’d never, ever felt before. I didn’t want it to end, all the self-doubt I’d lived with, all the pressure I’d endured to be the best I could be. It got to me, hindered me. Made me freeze on the big stage constantly. Made me ill even! Not today though, I was the player I knew I could be deep down. I didn’t make mistakes, I kept the ball, I scored goals, I set up goals. Not once did I feel I couldn’t. 4-0. Marvin got 2 goals, I got 1 and Paul scored which must have been his 12th already that day! Semi-final time. Kelly was smiling as we came off. High fives galore. He was shouting with his arms above his head “unbeaten still, won’t be beaten”. He knelt down and looked into my eyes. “I knew you was good but not this good, what you doing man, wrecking lives out there with those skills” I smiled and said thanks quietly but inside I wanted to throw my arms around him! We got to the final, but it wasn’t easy. Only the top teams were left of course. We won 3-2 and we got kicked off the park. Kelly was going mad at the ref but they can only do so much. Some of us were limping at the end and Kelly was concerned although he tried to hide his worry. My right thigh was dead after a big kid smashed his knee into it whilst I was in the corner. The Ice Hockey smash wasn’t enough for him, he wanted to cripple me no doubt. “Fucking pussyhole” as he left me writhing in agony. I never usually went down but this time I stayed down. I could see Kelly run onto the pitch as I lay flat on my back. The other sides manager was meeting him on the halfway line. There was around 16 men and boys all grappling, and the ref was in the middle of it somehow. It all eventually calmed down and Kelly got me some ice. I told him I was fine and I’m pretty sure he believed me. The team we had to play in the final hadn’t conceded a goal yet and they all looked about 25! “Lee come here mate” Kelly seemed serious. “I got a plan for the final bruv. I know you started every game but I’m not going to start you for this one”. I wanted it to be because of my injury but I knew it wasn’t. He knew this team were massive, big and strong. I was 5ft 6 and weighed 9 stone. Marvin was selected in front of me. This would usually be the point where the doubt creeps in, convince myself I’m not that good and just go into my shell. Kelly sensed it “Listen the reason you ain’t starting is because you’re going to come on fresh and win the cup for us”. Subconsciously I knew this wasn’t the real reason, but it didn’t matter, I believed him. I always did. Half time and it’s 2-2. I was so nervous watching, I felt helpless. The team we were drawing against were shocked they’d conceded. They knew we were good but it hurt them to concede. Paul and Robert got us back in it after they bullied themselves into a 2-0 lead. I was ready to come on but Kelly didn’t tell me to. He waited and waited. I was starting to think I’d never get on but with 5 minutes left he looked at me and said “Now you go win it, just like I know you will”. The trust I felt was immense. He was telling the truth I thought. On I went. Their whole team stared at me with anger. The game was faster than any game I’ve ever played. So intense. End to end and a real battle. I wanted the ball, the boy who hid usually and didn’t want it in fear of making a mistake wanted the ball. I dropped into defence and got it off our keeper. As the ball rolled to me I glanced over my shoulder to check if I was marked, I was. I lose it here we lose. “MAN ON” my whole team and Kelly shouted. I dropped my shoulder left and shifted the ball right and started to move up the pitch. I jumped over two tackles that would be red cards if they caught me. We had 2 v 2 and Danny was pulling out wide on the right. He wasn’t calling for it, he was clever and didn’t want to alert the defender he wanted it so soon. I kept going, I wanted the defender to commit but he wasn’t a fool. I looked up and saw Danny nod forward ever so slightly. He wanted it in behind his man, right against the corner flag almost. Anyone else I’m going alone but I’d seen him score from there all day. I played it with the outside of my right foot. As it left my foot I knew we’d won as the pass felt perfect. Danny used his body to get there first and from almost the bar line he smashed it across the keeper and the ball smacked the far post and flew into the opposite corner. The cheer was so loud! We had a minute to hang on and quickly got back to defend. The whistle went and we’d won 3-2. We’d done it, just like Kelly said. I’ll never forget that feeling. We were all going crazy! Teams who’d been knocked out were watching and applauding us. Kelly was close to tears, a permanent smile on his face. Eventually we got each other’s attention and we hugged whilst jumping up and down! “I told ya Lee! I told ya bruv” he kept saying it. He told us all, we all believed him. His belief in us allowed us to perform to the best of our ability. That’s what great coaches do. Kelly gathered us all up, told us how proud he was and he never had any doubt. He then proved it by admitting he entered us in the U18 tournament rather than the U17 we were eligible for. We all looked at each other and muttered “no wonder those teams were so big!”. We all laughed but Kelly quickly got our attention again “that’s how great you are, I knew you’d win it, that’s why I put you guys in there” Now I really felt like Maradona! How did he have the confidence to do that! I was truly shocked. The train home was great. We all spoke about the matches and had a laugh. Kelly again walked me home from the station but this time when I said bye he kept walking past me. I stopped before opening my front door and he said “where you going?? You’re coming with me to see Joan! You think you can play like that, win that trophy and not tell my sister!” I smiled and joined him. He walked straight into Joan’s house and immediately starting shouting “Jooooannnn…get down here, Lee is here”. Joan came down the stairs smiling like she knew we’d win it too! Kelly then took me in the front room and started to tell Joan and her Partner Michael how great I was and in detail, explained how we won each game! They both just smiled throughout and genuinely seemed so happy for us. I eventually left and thanked Kelly for all he did for me. He made me feel I could be the player I always wanted to be. I’ve had over 40 football coaches in my life, but Kelly was the best, always will be. All it takes sometimes is encouragement and if that doesn’t work, encourage them again. Self-belief is everything. Thank you, Kelly.

Augustines – Rise Again

I’ve never seen a band play live more than once…apart from Augustines.
Kentish Town For

I’ve never seen a band play live more than once…apart from Augustines.
Kentish Town Forum just 10 days ago was my 11^th time of seeing them live.
I first saw them on 1^st October 2012 in Shepherds Bush, London.
I had listened to their album a few times and decided to give them a go, especially with the tickets being so cheap. I had no idea what to expect but after the first song had finished, I sat there, mouth wide open and realised I had just witnessed something very special.

They had it. I didn’t know what it was at the time but this incredible talent, humility and the ability to make you feel part of something was all there.
By the end I was on my feet, singing and clapping along furiously, annoyed at myself that I chose seating rather than standing!
I had almost lost my voice from all the singing but it didn’t stop me from talking about them all the way home. The next day I had to know more, what was their story!
I started researching the band online because this wasn’t just some average musicians; as all Augustines fans know, I knew they were different from the rest.

I welled up when I read their story. How could a band that’s been through so much be this good?!
It became obvious that what they’d been through they drew strength from and had an obvious bond that was portrayed through their glorious music. They leave nothing on stage, like a boxer who keeps punching until the final bell.
Oxford in May 2014 stands out as one of the best shows. Ballad of a Patient Man was 9 minutes long that night as they just kept going; this wonderful energy between three guys doing what they love was never more evident than on that night.
On Billy’s instructions, we all piled outside to continue after the clubs curfew, how many bands would even do that?
Despite playing for 3 hours they always leave you wanting more, a quite unique talent in itself.
The interaction and relationship they have with their fans is also quite special. I once emailed Billy telling him what the band meant to me and thanking him and of course Rob & Eric for all the great times they had given me. He replied with such a lovely, humble message. I didn’t expect a reply but when you read other fans’ messages, they reply to everyone.
I can’t and won’t accept this is the end. This band has been through worse and always come back stronger. I believe they will rise again.
Todd Howe’s much anticipated film ‘Rise’ I believe will be the start of a new beginning.
The bands greatness captured in a film will only want more people to see them live and I firmly believe they will be back in 2017!
They say “Good things always come to an end” but I don’t think this is the end. Too many don’t want it to be and the Augustines family certainly want the journey to continue.

Are We Alive? Yes, you bet we are.

The Very, Very Long Road To Wembley

7 years old, two feet away from the tele, I sat there watching Gary Bannister’s montage of goals that season. Its 1986 and QPR were in the Milk Cup Final (League Cup). The build up to any final was always great TV back then because football was rarely on unlike now as the greatest game on earth sold its soul to sky.

As Bannister smashed in goal after goal, I recognised the song being played as ‘War’ from Rocky 4. Being one of my favourite films, I was getting pumped up for what would be a great game and victory for QPR.
Wrong!

Being favourites to win that day counted for nothing, we got beat 3-0 by Oxford and when the 3rd goal went in, I couldn’t take anymore. My first real lesson of supporting QPR was being dealt out to me in the most severe way. I remember being confused and quickly shifted away from the TV and started playing with some toy cars. I needed some familiarity to ease this weird pain I was experiencing.
Pain…that’s what it was. The original disappointment of not being able to attend was nothing compared to watching my heroes crumble. I was as envious as a seven year old boy could be that my two older brothers were taken to the game by my Dad and I cried for a while.
As Wembley had a portion of the stadium as standing, my Dad rightly said I couldn’t go as I wouldn’t be able to see. I didn’t get it at the time and pleaded to him but I was short for my age anyway which remains the case to this day (5ft 7″ was all I managed in the end).
So as I crashed my Knight Rider car continuously into the wall I could barely look at the TV.
What happened to Bannister?! I asked myself.
How can this be? Wembley is the place where dreams are created.
To appease my anguish, my Dad repeatedly told me that I could go next time. He genuinely meant it and I knew that.
Little did we know it would take a further 28 years for QPR to get back there!
In that time, the stadium has been rebuilt and as (bad) luck would have it, QPR made a Play Off Final in 2003 only for it to coincide with Wembley being torn down and put back up to cope with the modern game and demands.
So off to Cardiff it was to play…Cardiff. As impressive as the Millennium stadium is, its no Wembley and it didn’t put any ghosts to bed for me. We lost 1-0 in extra time which hurt bad at the time.

You see I never wanted to go to wembley unless it was for watching QPR. I’ve turned down the chance to watch England play, via paying, free tickets or even in an executive box. My desire to see the Rolling Stones there quickly dispersed when I remembered the real reason I wanted to go. Even Oasis, who were massive when I was younger couldn’t tempt me.
When they announced the old Wembley would be torn down a part of me thought I should go as I’ll never see it like that again but I still refrained to keep my dream alive.

Another eleven years has passed since that awful day in Cardiff and QPR finally find themselves at Wembley this Saturday to fight it out for 90 minutes and see if they can get back to the Premier League. They’ve taken their time getting there and have rarely threatened through the usual method of a cup run and a tea bag stays in one longer than us.

My dream will be realised on 24th May 2014.
I got a call the day after the Wigan game at Loftus Road.
It was my Dad. He said “I’m buying your ticket and we’re going to Wembley”
Thanks Dad, we got there in the end.

QPR, Family & The Magic of the FA Cup

Aged 16, I made the decision to go into the morgue.

I didn’t know if it was the right one, but I wanted to say one final goodbye to my Grandad Sid. He lay there very still but looked at peace. I nervously walked round him, not sure what the correct behaviour was. I didn’t cry, he was a hard man, and I held the tears back as I knew he wouldn’t want me to shed any.

It was strange seeing him so lifeless but still so familiar. A proud man who grew up in Shepherds Bush, he was a Grandad to be proud of and he, via my dad, gave me one of my greatest loves in life…Queens Park Rangers Football Club.

It was 1995, February 18^th and that afternoon, QPR faced Millwall in the FA Cup 5^th Round.

My Dad lost his father that week and told me and my brothers he had to go to the morgue to finalise some arrangements before we went to the game.

They made us wait outside for about 20 minutes which just made us even more anxious and made us worry why it would take so long to get him presentable for us to see him. Eventually they let us in, and my dad gave us the option to stay outside if we wished. We went in through and eighteen years on, I am pleased I did.

My dad was heartbroken but tried to not show it. He wanted his sons to enjoy our big day and hopefully a win which would see us get into the quarter finals of the FA Cup. Back then, the FA Cup meant just as much as the league in my eyes, and you didn’t have half full stadiums then as the competition got the respect it truly deserved. It upsets me now that the tops sides see it as a distraction more than a prestigious trophy.

Lots of clubs also price the fans out and gradually the magic has been sucked out of it, sadly.

After we paid our respects, we set off towards Loftus Road.

My Dad moved to South London forty years ago but thankfully made us all QPR fans rather than any local sides. At school, I had loads of Millwall supporting mates, not to mention the ones I lived close to or played football with. It made it a must win game for me.

We have all experienced going into school on a Monday and getting heckled. Being the only QPR supporter in my class made it all the worse for me. Liverpool and Man Utd fans I didn’t take seriously but Millwall and other London supported sides I did as they didn’t support their respective sides from the comfort of their home.

Millwall packed out the away end and per usual made lots of noise. The prize for both sides was massive and for us, boasting a great side then with the likes of legends Les Ferdinand and Alan McDonald, we secretly fancied our chances of going all the way to Wembley if we made it through.

It was a fast-paced affair. Andy Roberts for Millwall played exceptionally well and hit a post in the 2^nd half which had me wincing as soon as it left his foot. A typical London derby of tough challenges pursued throughout and when we reached injury time still at 0-0, the prospect of having to go to the Den in a replay was not what we had wanted or expected.

What happened next, I will never forget.

A corner was given to QPR at the loft end. I was in the upper loft and was just willing us to score but we looked like we could play until midnight and not hit the back of the net.

As the ball approached the crowded penalty box, Damian Webber, Millwall’s huge centre half, inexplicably raised his arm like Michael Jordan ready to slam dunk and struck the ball blatantly with his forearm.

Three sides of the ground in unison shouted “HANDBALL” but we could have all stayed quiet and it would have been given as Webber almost caught it.

My Dad turned to me and started yelling “He did it, he did it!!”

I didn’t know what he was going on about and he quickly explained before Clive Wilson picked the ball up.

“Your Grandad! I asked him just before the corner to give us a hand” My Dad shouted over the crowd.

I felt goose bumps. My Dad and I have never believed in after life but the surreal nature of Webber’s behaviour and with all the emotion throughout the day, it really did feel Grandad Sid had played a part for us all.

The reason we cheered as if it was a goal rather than a penalty was because we knew we had the best penalty taker in the league. Clive Wilson was the coolest man in the stadium and three keepers wouldn’t have stopped his inch perfect strike. We all went mental and Millwall barely had enough time to kick off before the ref blew full time.

QPR drew Manchester United away in the Quarter Finals and although we took eight thousand fans with us that day, we were beaten 2-0. It was my first visit to Old Trafford and the atmosphere was something I will never forget despite the result.

I will never forget Grandad Sid’s assistance either and I reckon he was the major reason I went into school the following Monday with a huge smile on my face.

Thanks Grandad.

One in a Million

The Prince Alfred Pub, Sydenham, the year is 1985.
Skol lager is on tap, the drink to have is light & bitter and a mist of smoke from various lit John Player cigarettes masks the view of the dart board which lives in the corner of the saloon bar. Various ‘human furniture’ props up at the bar, its only 13:00 but its Saturday and the regular drinkers are all on their way to getting well oiled, only muffled voices fill the air with random laughter coming from the public bar area.
Over at the dartboard, Paul Dean and his regular playing partner, Ron Johnson are up against their regular rivals, Eddie Mac and Eric Dobson.
Every Saturday, all four men would play first to 10 sets, best of 5 legs whilst consuming copious amounts of lager. The more they drank, the better they played.
The dartboard was all theirs, steady streams of 4 pints and 4 little bottles would be delivered like a conveyer belt as each one of them took turns. The bar staff had them ready every 20 minutes, anyway, allowing the game to flow.
All four men were of similar ability which made the games very close every week. They would each put in a tenner in the hope of doubling their money and in turn, getting the feeling of satisfaction that a small proportion of alcohol paid for itself.
Nothing beat the sheer feel of getting one over your mates though and winning, that was worth more than the £10.
It was a cagey start; Paul & Ron went behind 3-1 in sets but was confident they could still win once they got into more beers. Eddie, a funny guy originally from Cork, would keep getting his 10 pound note out of the vacant pint glass after a winning double was made. “yee fuckers are not gonna come back from dat, Shall we take it now?”
Eric, a middle-aged Londoner would laugh and coax his partner on, but Paul & Ron would just look at each other and telepathically say “been here before, let’s start sinking and hitting”.
It was turning out to be a classic, at 5-5 all four players had hit a few winning doubles each and double top and double bull were taking a pasting.
Some of the regulars, like Dougie Dave, Percy and Dave Hoof had wandered over to watch as they usually did. Someside bets were laid amongst them, and their vocal encouragement was purely created out of financial gain!
Paul & Ron went 9-5 up courtesy of a brilliant 136 finish from Ron and could see the finishing line. Irish Eddie was a little quieter now and started to concentrate.
Eric & Eddie started to play and when I say play, I mean the best they have ever played. They rattled off 12 legs in a row to make it 9-9 and Paul & Ron started to regret the pace they were throwing the pints down their throats. That pace got them a nice lead, but Eric & Eddie were shrewd, and side boxed a couple of rounds. They looked fresher and when Eddie hit double 16 to make it 9-9 out came the money from the jar again and a little Riverdance jig!
“Eddie, it’s up to 10, not 9” Paul chirped up. Paul was laughing as Eddie armed himself with a pool cue and slowly danced with it whilst singing Danny Boy. Dave Hoof and Percy picked Eddie up and started singing with him, alas making it clear where their money was laid.
Ron turned to Paul and said, “I’m fucked mate, I can hardly see.”
Do not worry, Paul replied. “They think they have won already but they haven’t.”
After 18 sets, the last set would decide the epic battle. It was near on dark outside, but the pub was still buzzing. Various shouts of joy and disappointment at the bar as the football scores on Grandstand
Paul & Ron could hardly stand but were throwing first. A quick handshake amongst the men and Paul was to throw. 41 was scored. He turned to Ron and shrugged his shoulders and then took half a pint down. “Ron, we can still win this, just throw like you did at the start” Paul said.
Eric and Eddie continued their relentless form and won the 1st leg.
Dougie Dave could see his money slipping away from him and tried geeing up Paul & Ron. “C’mon, I won’t be able to stay out if you let these two win, I bet a score on you!”
“Silly c@nt” Ron replied.
Paul spat his pint out at hearing Ron’s response and walked to the oche. “It isn’t over yet Dougie son” and threw a 100. Ron clapped it like he was at Lords and had just seen someone hit a 4. A slow, loud clap but that was all he could manage, that and a little grip on Paul’s shoulders.
Eric slammed his last dart into double top, it was 2-0 and they were one leg away from victory. Paul was propping Ron up now but still insisted they could win although after losing 14 legs in a row, was even having trouble believing himself.
Eddie was off with the cue again; this time singing Maggie and Eric was trying to get him to cool it.
2-1!
Paul hits double bull and a big roar from Dougie Dave behind him meant it was game on, Eddie was full of praise. To hit double bull after 18 or so pints took some doing and he wasn’t singing now, the cue was back in the rack and its dancing days were over for today.
Paul inspired Ron and Ron hit a 140 to leave Paul double top if Eric didn’t clear 60. A single 20 but two missed darts at tops by Eric allowed Paul to make it 2-2.
9-9 2-2. After hours of playing, it would come down to one leg of 501.
The roars from the last winning double meant at least 20 blokes had made their way over to see the last leg. Momentum had swung but it was anyone’s game now.
As Ron threw to start the last leg, the pub was silent. 60 scored and a pat on the back from Paul who looked as focused as you possibly could after such an amount of booze.
Eddie was chalking and told Eric they required 156. Paul & Ron were on 212.
Eric hit a 100 and the place erupted, Dave & Percy could be heard louder than anyone! Paul stepped up and followed it with another century. Again, the pub went mad, it was so close and all 4 players were laughing to try and ease the tension they were all feeling.
Eddie decided to hit single 20 and had two darts at double 18 for the win but he hit single 18 and single 9! “Be Jesus, I should have fookin’ stayed for tops”.
Ron stepped up and hit 52, his last dart screwing left into single 12. Eric, left with 9, hit single one but managed to go into the single bed of 4 and then outside double 2.
It left Paul with 60. Ron was shouting encouragement, but Paul managed only two single 20’s after slipping just under tops and then hit single 10.
Eddie was left with double 2. A bead of sweat dripped off his forehead as two darts hit the wire of double 2 just outside. He kept telling himself not to hit a single 2 but he talked himself into it and did exactly that. A huge “ahhhhhhhhhh” was heard as Eddie had left Eric the dreaded ‘madhouse’ and Ron the chance of taking it if he could get on a double. Ron hit single 2, single 4, just missing the double, and then ‘did an Eddie’ and hit single 2 again!
Blokes watching could not stop laughing. Before this leg, the doubles were getting gobbled up way before double 2 or 1 was required but the pressure was there for all to see.
9-9 2-2 and both teams with 2 left.
Eric bust madhouse with his first dart, Paul followed suit on his 2nd dart. The dreaded madhouse curse made each player bust or miss it twice each. Dougie wanted nearest bull to finish it but was told that was not an option. Eric, swearing to himself then missed with 2 darts and fell into double top with his third. Paul and Eddie bust yet again, leaving Ron the impossible task of finishing this mammoth match.
Paul then had a thought. He said to Ron “none of us are gonna hit this today but if I went over to the board, did a handstand and opened my feet to reveal double 1, do you think it would help?” Ron rolled up and said, “why not eh Paul, you never know”.
Paul was serious and had to clear it with his opponents. They both cracked up and said if it didn’t hit him and deflect in, they didn’t mind. Deep down they saw it as Paul & Ron giving up so were all for it. Paul was trying to ease the pressure though and thought they had nothing to lose if he could manage to do a handstand that pissed!
He strode down the oche, flipped upside down with his head on the floor and placed his feet together. He then asked Ron to tell him when his feet allowed Ron to see madhouse “That’s it Paul, don’t move son” Paul, red faced and a cigarette still hanging from his mouth muttered “we don’t win for hitting me Ron, finish it”
Eddie and Eric were holding their laughter in as they were trying to stay quiet for Ron’s go. The whole pub was silent. Ron flicked his dart from his left hand to his right, positioned himself and tried to focus although he could see the board swaying left to right…he let go….” THUD” the dart landed in the middle of madhouse!!!!
Ron blinked and couldn’t believe it! He ran up to Paul and cuddled his legs! When he let go, Paul allowed himself to get down and was in disbelief!
Ron had done it! Eddie & Eric, usually gutted at losing were rolling up. No one in the pub could work out how Ron had done it, they all thought Paul was going to have 3 arrows sticking out his Achilles! Dougie Dave was singing Ron’s name and collected his winnings from Dave & Percy who were over with Paul. “What made you think of that Paul you old bastard?” Dave asked. “I dunno” Paul said. “I was getting bored, and it just popped in my head, I never thought he would hit it!”
All 4 players arm in arm made their way over to the bar, still crying with laughter!
They drank way into the night and anyone who came into the pub was told the ‘Story of Madhouse.’ It was a Saturday none of them would forget and it was never tried again as everyone believed it was a one in a million.

Expectations of Fatherhood

So, what can I expect?
What do I expect of myself?
I aim to try and work that out now because in two weeks the most incredible human being is joining us in the world, and I am jointly responsible for ensuring this tiny person is safe and well on our planet whilst I remain on it.
Am I scared? A little…
Am I excited? I cannot tell you how much!
So, what should be the very top of my list when it comes to being a father?
There are so many things that spring to mind that I just do not know.
I suppose there are various stages in his life that he’ll encounter and step by step, it’s my job to prepare him for every outcome and making the right choices in his life. You only get one life, a cliché yes but one which is spot on.
My son is lucky. He has a wonderful Mum. The sort of Mum any child would be extremely lucky to have. I know, I am unbelievably lucky to have her as my wife.
Having her in my life makes my job easier. Too often conflicting parenting or constant bickering has a severely detrimental effect on kids which sometimes means the negatives are irreversible as they progress through life.
I am certain parenthood is the toughest job in life and for that reason, you need to be the best team you can be to fight off the tough times and allow the good times to outweigh all the shit life will throw at you.
It will be difficult; we will not always agree but I am 100% confident that the bond I share with my wife will only have a positive influence on our son. When he sees how much we love each other, I hope he aspires to one day be in love with someone just as much as I am with his Mum.
It will all begin in Lewisham Hospital, just like it did for me just over 34 years ago.
From the very moment I meet him, I expect to be drowned by a wave of emotions I have never experienced before. The sheer adrenalin will be pumping, and I am told it is the best feeling in the world.
I have some concerns, nappy changing, supporting his tiny head, trying to work out what each cry means but I guess this will all come with time and practice.
I am not going to shirk any nappies, if I tackle the meconium filled nappy then that should set me up for the latter, grade A smelly ones!
I do not know what will happen in those first few months, my expectations may be wrong, who knows.
I plan to cherish them though as they are only small once and I want him to feel as safe as he can be when he’s in my arms.
I am sure I will just watch him sleep for ages, taking it all in and may even freak myself out a bit.
I can only ensure once he grows up that he knows right from wrong and behaves in a way I can be proud of him.
I will not tolerate the little brat behaviour, but I am bracing myself for the “terrible two’s”.
Even nice kids get them but once they are out the way, he will know what is expected of him and I’m sure he will grow up to be a wonderful person.
I just want to be the best that I can be. I want him to laugh lots, I even want him not to grunt and groan once he hits the teen years (I am asking too much!)
I love him so much already and will not ever get bored of telling him that, whatever age he is.
But most of all, I want him to achieve every dream he has, and I will do everything in my powers to make those dreams come true.

The Cinema Experience

It’s 1991, I’m 12 and its my debut Cinema experience. City Slickers with Billy Crystal was a bit of a random choice but I was excited none the less. The huge screen, the sweets, the drinks. It seemed great and I was with a few good pals also. It wasn’t great, I left before the end and the Beckenham Cinema I passed so many times, didn’t live up to my expectations. No Cinema experience ever has come to think of it

I grew up ‘Disneyless’ my two older brothers saw to that and I thank them every day for it. Instead of Bambi I watched The Warriors. Instead of Sleeping Beauty, I watched Can’t Buy Me Love. Instead of Beauty and the Beast, I watched Youngblood…you get the picture.

Late 70’s and 80’s classics was my film diet in my early years and I loved it. Stand By Me, Ferris Buellers Day Off, The Wanderers, all great films.

My Mum did try and make me watch the likes of Dumbo, but I craved the ‘brat pack’ who all starred in the cult classic, The Outsiders.

So, after watching all these great movies, The City Slickers wasn’t the best choice to open my account with.

Back then, Beckenham’s Cinema was trampy. Ripped seats, poor audio and a funny smell which whiffed through the gaff like a fart that won’t settle down.

Since then, it has had a complete revamp and is a much nicer place to visit. The problem I have is, I don’t want to watch films with fucking strangers!

At the Cinema, every cunt winds me up.

I have been to about 8 different ones ranging from Leicester Square to Charlton. All of them have fucking retards in them. You can’t get away from them either.

In the early days it was the unschooled kids who would sit on the stage directly in front of the screen at Catford, not facing the screen and throwing popcorn at the audience.

Now you have old, scorned women on their night out who think its ok to natter boring shit throughout the trailers and through the film. No wonder they are fucking themselves with dildos most nights, no man wants to go near them dried up old biddies.

You have the Uni tramps who only go on a Wednesday night as its buy one get one free on Orange Wednesdays. Those smelly fuckers with their feet up can fuck right off and go and get a kebab for a quid. This one group of four each shared a large coke, passing it along like it was pass the parcel. I wanted to snatch it off them and poor the drink slowly away down a drain.

At home I don’t think people scoff their faces when a film is on so why people turn into animals in Cinemas is beyond me. First of all, the prices for popcorn, ice cream, drinks and nachos with melted, liquid cheese on are fucking outrageous. Cinema’s will be no more soon if they keep charging five times the amount it should be for every item. Even to watch a film these days will cost close to £30 for two people, that’s without food and drink. Wait two months and you can buy three copies on DVD for roughly the same price. Even better, download it for fuck all and watch it in your own comfort away from moronic behaviour.

I don’t want to laugh with strangers. The last time I went to the Cinema was to see Hangover 2 which must be a while ago as the 3rd Hangover film hit the Cinemas yesterday for the first time. Every prick laughed at every scene. Firstly, the 2nd film doesn’t touch the original so doesn’t warrant a fake belly laugh every 2 minutes and secondly, there was people in there trying to out laugh others! Like the weirdo who tries to get the last clap at the Snooker.

Everyone knows when the credits roll, modern films tend to show a little more so what does everybody do once the first name pops up? Stand up, chat shit and get in my way as I try and watch Mike Tyson sing on stage. I came away feeling pissed off. Money down again and had to listen to absolute imbeciles the whole way through. You get the odd person telling cunts to be quiet, but they retaliate with some bollocks or just snigger with their friends. Once I was in Bromley watching The Green Mile. A great film but over 3 hours long. Some bitches phone rang, and everybody groaned. Instead of turning it off she shouted back “my son is ill at home so don’t moan at me”.

About twenty people in unison shouted back “what the fuck you are doing here then?” She was fucked and didn’t even come back for the end. You see at home you don’t get some disobedient kid kick the back of your chair or some utter fools eat whilst making the most noise possible. Who the fuck needs to slap their lips when eating? Disgusting behaviour. Yes, your drink has gone, the noise of the straw won’t bring it back fatty!

Some men just see the Cinema as somewhere to take new beans. Sit on the back row, make a hole in the bottom of the sweet (not salty) popcorn box and get wanked off silly while they watch a film. This doesn’t happen. Even the kissing on the back row has stopped.

I went to see Transformers 2 a while back at Beckenham. It was a hot summers day and once I entered screen 2, I felt like I had just got off a plane in Dubai. The heat hit me.

I ended up watching the film on the back row with no shirt on, just jeans! I paid for that pleasure.

3D = shit. That’s that done.

I went and watched a film called Lovely Bones about 4 years ago. There was about 6 people watching it, almost ideal for me. I chose to sit halfway up on the aisle. On the way in, the guy collecting tickets didn’t seem all there. I mean everyone who works there seems suicidal, but this guy seemed mental. Once we sat down, the guy who worked there came in about five minutes before the film was due to start. He was flashing a torch like he was looking for survivors after the Titanic had sunk and approached a couple sitting in the front row. I could hear him saying to them. “But your ticket is for row 14, not row 1. Can you move to your seat?” Now this room held at least 200 people so the guy responded, “look mate, I don’t think they have sold this seat, can I stay here?” He begrudgingly let them but then came and did the same to me to get his fix. I basically told him the same thing and you would think he would leave the last couple alone…. he didn’t.

What that guy’s job should have been was to stand on the door and any cunt who tries to come in with bags of sweets, stop them and ask them to empty their Maltesers/M&Ms into a clear plastic bag like the ones you get in the supermarket for your fruit. These bags make zero noise. The number of retards that dig deep into every bag of sweets making unnecessary noise beggars’ belief. Every two minutes some blob pipes up and goes searching for the last of their skittles. The clear bags would solve this problem.

I went to watch Rocky 5 at the Cinema. I had some teenagers cheering Rocky on like Americans do. I wanted to leave but I also wanted to see him knock out Tommy Gun in the street, so I stayed. Ruined it for me though.

It appears I have been to the Cinema quite a bit for someone who hates them. They have improved a lot but we will forever have wankers eating loudly, kicking seats, talking throughout, trying to dominate your arm rest, making you stand as they go for their tenth piss due to downing three litres of coke and the suicidal staff who refuse to smile.

I want to watch Hangover 3, but I’ll wait. Cinemas are dead to me and soon won’t exist unless they drop their prices and have an IQ test at the door.

Cinemas: No fucking thanks.

The IKEA Experience

“Do you work here?”
I was nearing the end of my latest nightmare trip at the wonderland of Sweden when this cross eyed old woman asked me this.
At first, I didn’t have a clue she was talking to me. I was wearing a light blue shirt with dark blue trousers, hardly the bright yellow and shit coloured brown the Ikea family don.
When I say she was cross eyed, her left eye was looking over my left shoulder and her right eye was having a little disco boogie with her pupil so after I glanced behind me and noticed no one was around, I realised she was talking to me.
I somehow restrained myself and muttered “No… I don’t work here”
I can only assume she apologised but I didn’t understand her. I was red with rage and had just spent 5 minutes trying to get the fucking touch screen PC to work so I could find the shelf I needed.
You see Ikea is a place like no other. You get everyone in there and I mean everyone.
Chavs, tramps, posh tight arses and basically every nation around the world could easily have a representative at any one time in opening hours.
Sweden must be laughing their bollocks off. Just like Australians don’t drink shitty Fosters, the Swedes surely can’t kit out their gaffs with this shit.
Us Brits though, our homes all look the same because every fucker goes to Ikea.
It’s similar to Lidls. A tramp paradise of a supermarket which if I ever visit makes me limp just to fit in. Now just like Ikea, if you spend long enough in there, you can find one or two gems at a good price. 99% of the stock is rubbish but if you have time on your hands, the patience of a saint and you’re a little skint, these places are actually ok.
My main beef with Ikea is the layout.
It reminds me of a really shit rollercoaster. Once you’re on, there’s no going back. They have the audacity to call their ‘rollercoaster’ a showroom! What exactly are they showing me? How fucking shit and distasteful their stock and designers are?
You want to buy a shelf? Great, go and find it, pay and leave.
No, no, no… that can’t happen. Firstly, have a look at our bedroom stock, beds created for pimps, wardrobes made for bodies, and bright yellow rugs made for the blind. Now on you go sir, it’s our kitchen range next. All the stuff you don’t want and more and a family of ten tented out like they live in the shop. The chav family have made this particular kitchen their own. Magazines spread out across the table, a guy with his arse hanging out his jeans measuring a unit on the wall and four kids playing ‘Your It’ around the table whilst the mother sits there and natters away to her friend who looks like she has washed her hair in chip fat.
On we go down the long and winding path and I start to realise that the kid’s area where you’re meant to buy things for children, has more children than items. Kid’s running and screaming, throwing toys and cushions everywhere. Their parent nowhere to be seen as they treat a section of the shop like it’s a playground. Yes, that’s right, Mum’s and rarely their Dads bring their kids here to entertain them, this is their trip to the park. I couldn’t believe it. A two-year-old was laying face down on the path, forcing me to walk round it and frantically searching for its parent. His Mum was sitting in some fake bedroom about 30 yards behind me. It was quite apt really as she looked liked a whore and was sitting in the type of room which gets visited by dirty, old desperate men.
By now I’d had enough, the shelf I needed wasn’t to be seen and every time I saw an exit for marketplace I took it only to find yet another room of clattered junk. Glasses, cups, plates, utensils and then randomly, 15-foot-high plants.
I started to feel like a character in Dungeon & Dragons. They famously never made it home and I was starting to think I was going to be just like Uniand the gang and spend the rest of my life here.
Finally, I found an escalator, this must be the end I thought…wrong!
Picture frames, pictures, mirrors shaped like torsos and the posh family who I have had to follow round, wondering whether to get young Timothy this picture frame for his room or the one which is £1 dearer. These are the type of posh mugs who come to Ikea to feel fan-fucking tastic as they surround themselves with every type of scum you could dig out of Croydon. I bet they live in a shithole and that makes them feel like lords. The type who never tell their children off, just a gentle “don’t do that darling” which never works. They will have depressed kids who only dress in black and refuse to go University despite all the pressure in the world to go once they get older.
So here I am, in the biggest warehouse you could imagine and still I couldn’t find my shelf. After bashing the shit out of the PC and getting Maradona’s Mum ask me if I had a job here, I found the isle with my shelf. Now usually it would say, you need this to go with this because we aren’t as cheap as we seem, we just sell everything in pieces, so the chavs think they have a great deal. So I was sceptical to say the least that I had everything I needed to mount the shelf on the wall. I wasn’t going searching around though, if I didn’t have the fittings then so be it, I needed to get out quickly as the sea of brown boxes was getting too much.
I could see light, the checkout was in sight. I decided to go in the self-service part as I had less than 15 items and was paying by card unlike most of the other customers who were paying by Giro cheque.
40p for a huge blue bag and I was away. The poor fella who did work in Ikea showed me how to use the scanner gun. Unfortunately, he had the worse stutter I had ever heard. The type of stammer that makes you fuck your own sentences up for a good few hours afterwards. Two hours after buying the blue bag and listening to his basic instructions I was scanning away, dreaming of the car park. I paid and dodged the fat family filling their plastic hotdogs with the self-service ketchup and mustard and out I went. Not quite sure why the fat family didn’t fancy the fine cuisine they served upstairs. Horse meat balls are meant to be exquisite.
Oh, and the shelf had all the parts. You see, the odd gem can be found at a price.
IKEA – only if you really fucking have to.