A warning: this post is about football.
At about three this afternoon, Norwich announced that their manager, Neil Adams had tendered his resignation. A minor ripple in football was created, and then sport moved on. But of course for Norwich this is major news, an admission on his part, perhaps, that he could not cut it. Hindsight is always 20/20, and so in appointing him as manager last spring, first as caretaker when Chris Houghton was fired, then as full time manager in the summer. Neil had been the youth team coach, he has been involved with the club in various roles, including player since the 90s. But even with that, it was really Roy of the Rovers stuff to think a former player could return the club to the Premier League.
For the most part in football, you get what you pay for, and for decades now, Norwich have gone with the cheapest option. Ken Brown, Mike Walker, Brian Gunn, amongst others were promoted from within, and for the most part failed. Walker did take the club into Europe, which, sadly, at the same time bankrupted the club, but hey, we'll always have those memories to tide over all those grim years since.
The club has a strong enough squad for two clubs, so getting just one out of them should be straightforward, but then things are never that simple. As was stated at the start of the season, just 1 in 7 relegated teams bounce straight back, even with the financial advantage they have. City sit 7th, some ten points behind the old enemy, who finally did something sensible themselves and appointed a manger who knew what he was doing some three years ago. Patience has been rewarded as they have climbed the table. No doubt now as to which club has the upper hand.
So, the club has to make another managerial choice: do they appoint from within once again, or do they go out and find a manager that knows what they are doing, but realising what the job is they want the manager to do, and appoint someone with the skills necessary? We hope so. And yet, they already have someone they can appoint from within: Mike Phelan, ex assistant to Sir Alex at Manchester United, seasoned coach, but with zero managerial experience, so would fit in beside Neil, Brian and Peter who from the five previous managers had not done the job before, but must have sounded like they did in the interview. Of the other two, Glen Roeder was mad, and the other one was the saintly Paul Lambert who ran away to see the bright lights at Villa. He had run away from the mud bath at Colchester to our own bright lights three years previously. Lambert was only appointed because: 1. He was a friend of the chief executive, 2. he was the manager of Colchester who beat us 7-1 on the first day of that season and 3. He liked the bright lights and huge stadium we have.
Whoever takes over the hot seat will have the supporters expectations to meet, as they rose under Lambert, and were then worn down under two underwhelming seasons under Houghton. A positive atmosphere at Carrow Road will help, maybe some realism from them too: promotion is never easy, and they are going to be many bumps. And I suppose it comes to the question that fans of Newcastle battle with, winning is not enough, it is the way you win, must be entertaining, play an exciting way. A manger like Neil Warnock might get you promoted, but it won't be pretty. But then what do supporters want, success or fancy football. Both is probably the answer, but if you have to choose one, it would be successful, no matter how ugly that might be.
I have been watching City since 1972, and have seen us sell all our best players, our best managers go not always to greener pastures, but they do go, and we replace them both with bargains. Spending money is no guarantee of success of course, but appointing from within in the hope things will work out, or just because someone in an interview says the right things, sometimes it just down to experience and whether than can do, and have done that job in the past.
Most of the usual suspects have found jobs, and unless City break their habit about not approaching already-employed candidates (except Lambert of course, and look how that panned out) then it is a shortlist of Warnock. Or Phelan if you promote from within, an untried manager.
Monday, 5 January 2015
Monday 5th January 2015
Sunday.
Last day of Christmas.
On the last day of Christmas, my true love sent to me, the last of the sausage rolls and a small slice of cake.
Indeed.
We woke to find the house and whole village shrouded in fog, all was wonderfully quiet. What to do with the day? Well, the plan had been to go to London to visit St Magnus the Martyr, but their website made clear that normal opening hours would not resume until the 9th, so it could be a wasted trip, and would be the 4th time I had tried to get into the church, and at £86 on the train for us both, best not to risk it.
We celebrate saving the money by having an extra cup of coffee, then go out in the car to snap some misty sunshiny scenes. I am delighted to find that sunshiny is a word, or one Chrome does not underline in red. Yay.
First up we drive along reach road, with the bank of fog out in the Channel lapping over the tops of the cliffs like waves made of candy floss. But the view was not that good, and indeed as we drove into Dover, it cleared, but between the castle and Western Heights there was more mist. I dash up Military Road to St Martin's Battery. Looking back towards the castle, whisps of mist roll into the harbour. In fact the castle looks like it is sitting on the mist, which makes it looks like it is a castle from a fairy tale. Out in the Channel, another thick bank of fog hides France from our view.
We drive on to Capel, and we stop off at one of the overlooks and the view is amazing; the sun had broken through, but the light was still golden in colour, as if from the sunrise. I take a couple of snaps and we drive along Crete Road heading to Castle Hill so we could have a walk whilst having views over the Tunnel entrance, the terminal and Folkestone. I had brought the work boots I wore on my last two stomps around the village, what they were though is a little worn: their treads got clogged with mud very quickly, whoch made walking on anything other than a level surface something of a lottery. Which meant that walking around a Saxon hill top fort was going to be anything other than level. And what with the rain of Saturday, it was muddier, wetter and slipperier than ever.
We managed it up the fort, but then had to get back down again, but before then we could look down to the terminal below, and as we walked around the fort, views over Folestone and the downs opened up.
We think we found a slightly better way down from the fort, so taking tiny steps we slither down, looking like Bambis on ice as we go, but we do it. We walk back along the road to the car, laugh at the mud splattered up the legs of our jeans. We change into our shoes, and drive via the Alkham Valley to Whitfield. I had wanted to go this way as Dover were at home in the cup, and had drawn Crystal Palace, so i was wondering how busy it would be around Crabble. Truth was it was still two hours before kick off, but already Palace fans had arrived, and cars were already being abandoned.
Last port of all was up at Whitfield where we had to fix Dad's tablet again: the internet won't work! That's because you switched on the aircraft mode. We sorted out a few other things before leaving so we could have lunch at home: stinky cheese, crackers and wine, all whilst listening to the Dover game on the radio. Sadly, Palace scored in the first ten minutes, became settled and Dover were not really in it. They lost 4-0.
We took the Christmas tree down, packed up all the tinsel and decorations, before putting all the boxes and bags in the attic. Somehow the afternoon whiled away, darkness fell outside.
And like that the holidays were over, thoughts turn to work and all the upcoming problems I am going to have. Just as well we watched Bill Bailey on TV, as laughter really is the best medicine. Next week, two days working from home, a trip to Denmark and its the weekend again.
Last day of Christmas.
On the last day of Christmas, my true love sent to me, the last of the sausage rolls and a small slice of cake.
Indeed.
We woke to find the house and whole village shrouded in fog, all was wonderfully quiet. What to do with the day? Well, the plan had been to go to London to visit St Magnus the Martyr, but their website made clear that normal opening hours would not resume until the 9th, so it could be a wasted trip, and would be the 4th time I had tried to get into the church, and at £86 on the train for us both, best not to risk it.
We celebrate saving the money by having an extra cup of coffee, then go out in the car to snap some misty sunshiny scenes. I am delighted to find that sunshiny is a word, or one Chrome does not underline in red. Yay.
First up we drive along reach road, with the bank of fog out in the Channel lapping over the tops of the cliffs like waves made of candy floss. But the view was not that good, and indeed as we drove into Dover, it cleared, but between the castle and Western Heights there was more mist. I dash up Military Road to St Martin's Battery. Looking back towards the castle, whisps of mist roll into the harbour. In fact the castle looks like it is sitting on the mist, which makes it looks like it is a castle from a fairy tale. Out in the Channel, another thick bank of fog hides France from our view.
We drive on to Capel, and we stop off at one of the overlooks and the view is amazing; the sun had broken through, but the light was still golden in colour, as if from the sunrise. I take a couple of snaps and we drive along Crete Road heading to Castle Hill so we could have a walk whilst having views over the Tunnel entrance, the terminal and Folkestone. I had brought the work boots I wore on my last two stomps around the village, what they were though is a little worn: their treads got clogged with mud very quickly, whoch made walking on anything other than a level surface something of a lottery. Which meant that walking around a Saxon hill top fort was going to be anything other than level. And what with the rain of Saturday, it was muddier, wetter and slipperier than ever.
We managed it up the fort, but then had to get back down again, but before then we could look down to the terminal below, and as we walked around the fort, views over Folestone and the downs opened up.
We think we found a slightly better way down from the fort, so taking tiny steps we slither down, looking like Bambis on ice as we go, but we do it. We walk back along the road to the car, laugh at the mud splattered up the legs of our jeans. We change into our shoes, and drive via the Alkham Valley to Whitfield. I had wanted to go this way as Dover were at home in the cup, and had drawn Crystal Palace, so i was wondering how busy it would be around Crabble. Truth was it was still two hours before kick off, but already Palace fans had arrived, and cars were already being abandoned.
Last port of all was up at Whitfield where we had to fix Dad's tablet again: the internet won't work! That's because you switched on the aircraft mode. We sorted out a few other things before leaving so we could have lunch at home: stinky cheese, crackers and wine, all whilst listening to the Dover game on the radio. Sadly, Palace scored in the first ten minutes, became settled and Dover were not really in it. They lost 4-0.
We took the Christmas tree down, packed up all the tinsel and decorations, before putting all the boxes and bags in the attic. Somehow the afternoon whiled away, darkness fell outside.
And like that the holidays were over, thoughts turn to work and all the upcoming problems I am going to have. Just as well we watched Bill Bailey on TV, as laughter really is the best medicine. Next week, two days working from home, a trip to Denmark and its the weekend again.
Sunday, 4 January 2015
Sunday 4th January 2015
All things come to an end, and so does the festive holibobs, and tomorrow I put my nose back on the gindstone and on Tuesday fly back out to Denmark.
But first, Saturday.
Saturday.
And verily, did the rain fall from the heavens, and all the land turned to mud. And we watched the rain through the windows, and the cats raised much caterwauling as they asked us to stop the rain so they could go out. We opened the door and put them out, and there was much pouting from the cats.
There really wasn't much we could do, so at half eight I went out to get a barnet mangle. If I did it now I would not have to do it again before next month, or that is the plan. I pulled up outside the shop in Cherrytree, the lights were on and there was already a customer in the chair getting his dose of abuse. I go in, take my seat and get some advance abuse, but then I give it back. Abuse? Yes, well it is all part of the service when you get a haircut, darkening his doorway well before opening time at nine. Its good natured, but for anyone visiting the shop for the first time it would be a shock.
Once I could see my ears once again, I paid the eight quid, got back in the car and drive back home for breakfast, along roads turned to river by the heavy rain.
I listened to the radio, played around on the computer, and got ready for the football to begin. This being one of the most exciting weekends of the football calendar, TA Cup 3rd round. But then they all are, aren't they, as Jools might say. And she would probably be right. However, it is exciting, with all the minows being involved. Would there be upsets and would Norwich make the 4th round. Yes and no as it turned out As Norwich were involved in one of the shocks of the day, losing 2-0 away to Preston with barely a whimper, having the grand total of zero shots on goal.
I switch the radio off and begin to cook dinner: steak and ale pie. Jools had gone to visit Nan, so she arrived home as I was about to dish up, still grinding my teeth and grumbling about the football. Just once in my life, it would be nice to see City in the FA Cup Final, I have been waiting since 1973, so I suppose another year won't hurt.
Steak and ale pie was good, we had lots of steamed veg with it. Lovely.
Not much else to do other than sit on front of the TV, but outside the sky had cleared after the rain stopped, and the nearly-full moon was shining brightly.
We did manage to book our summer holiday, a 15th century water mill beside the Tyne, thatched with heather, perfect for some walking and orchid hunting. Can't wait. Just have to get the work stuff out of the way first.....
But first, Saturday.
Saturday.
And verily, did the rain fall from the heavens, and all the land turned to mud. And we watched the rain through the windows, and the cats raised much caterwauling as they asked us to stop the rain so they could go out. We opened the door and put them out, and there was much pouting from the cats.
There really wasn't much we could do, so at half eight I went out to get a barnet mangle. If I did it now I would not have to do it again before next month, or that is the plan. I pulled up outside the shop in Cherrytree, the lights were on and there was already a customer in the chair getting his dose of abuse. I go in, take my seat and get some advance abuse, but then I give it back. Abuse? Yes, well it is all part of the service when you get a haircut, darkening his doorway well before opening time at nine. Its good natured, but for anyone visiting the shop for the first time it would be a shock.
Once I could see my ears once again, I paid the eight quid, got back in the car and drive back home for breakfast, along roads turned to river by the heavy rain.
I listened to the radio, played around on the computer, and got ready for the football to begin. This being one of the most exciting weekends of the football calendar, TA Cup 3rd round. But then they all are, aren't they, as Jools might say. And she would probably be right. However, it is exciting, with all the minows being involved. Would there be upsets and would Norwich make the 4th round. Yes and no as it turned out As Norwich were involved in one of the shocks of the day, losing 2-0 away to Preston with barely a whimper, having the grand total of zero shots on goal.
I switch the radio off and begin to cook dinner: steak and ale pie. Jools had gone to visit Nan, so she arrived home as I was about to dish up, still grinding my teeth and grumbling about the football. Just once in my life, it would be nice to see City in the FA Cup Final, I have been waiting since 1973, so I suppose another year won't hurt.
Steak and ale pie was good, we had lots of steamed veg with it. Lovely.
Not much else to do other than sit on front of the TV, but outside the sky had cleared after the rain stopped, and the nearly-full moon was shining brightly.
We did manage to book our summer holiday, a 15th century water mill beside the Tyne, thatched with heather, perfect for some walking and orchid hunting. Can't wait. Just have to get the work stuff out of the way first.....
Saturday, 3 January 2015
Saturday 3rd January 2015
Friday.
So, this was the day we planned to head to the bright lights of London. The sun was out, what could go wrong? We had breakfast, then Jools was to take the car to the garage to have some tests as to see why the engine warning light had come on. I said I would tidy up whilst she was out, make sure the camera battery was charged. Jools came back in, the car wouldn't start. I went out to try, but I didn't really expect it to make any difference. It didn't, the starter whined, all sorts of warning lights came on, warnings bleeped.
I tried again, with the same result.
We called the AA.
We went inside to wait.
In an hour, the AA came, we explained the problem. He nodded his head, took the keys, turned the key.
The engine spluttered. Whined. And started. Roar! went the engine. I mean, really, isn't that always the way? He thought the engine was flooded, probably from me starting the engine and switching it off the day before. Oh well. The AA man followed Jools to the garage, and then brought her back, and then we waited for news on what was wrong.
We finished off the sausage rolls I made the day before, we drank tea, we listened to music. The phone went at just gone two: we might need a new catalytic converter. No, two of them, as there are two in the engine, and one we paid three hundred quid for a couple of years back, that one would have to be changed too. However, he could try something else. Something that involved putting 'gunk' into the petrol tank, this might work for a while. But after that, it could cost upto a grand for the two cats and then the labour.
Jools' Dad came to pick her up to take her to the garage, I grabbed my camera, put on my stomping boots and went for a walk.
It was half two by the time I made my way along the street, out onto the track leading across the fields. The shadows were long, the colours everywhere were golden. It was wonderful, my allergies that were easing with all the fresh air about. Sadly, at the copse, the trailer was being made ready for the piglets final journey, they know nothing about what horrors is to come, but then that is where bacon comes from.
Down the dip, up the other side. Now, do I turn for home or press on to the cliffs in the hope of seeing the sunset along the coast. Hmmm, I thought about it, the cliffs won out, as the thought of all those golden colours on the sheer cliff faces. Yes, and the longest of long shadows would be stretching across the high fields up on the downs. There wasn't a breath of wind, away to the west the sun was just over the horizon, flocks of sheep covered the fields stretching away towards Kingsdown a three-quarter full moon could be seen above the French coast, and on the sea, ships were still at shelter.
At the cliffs, they were in deep shadow, once again it was low tide, but this time the waves were just lapping at the rocks at the foot of them. France could just be seen on the horizon, and ferries were still steaming between here and there. I walked down to the Leas, getting there just as the sun reached the top of the cliffs, and the light failed. I snapped away, waiting for one of the ferries to appear beside the cliffs. And it was gone.
Dusk was falling, and I realise I now had to get home. I shivered, zipped up my jacket and walked back up to the monument, then across the fields and back into St Maggies. Darkness was falling, I could just see enough by the light of the moon along the footpaths before I arrived at the Droveway, walking past the Red Lion and down the hill to home.
Phew, a long walk, but worth it.
We make breaded aubergine for dinner, which was fantastic, washed down by a pint of Guinness porter. Lovely.
The days are slipping by, and now just the weekend to go.
We end the day watching a TOTP retrospective from 1980. Lots of good memories, and shock that it was some 35 years ago. I was 15.
So, this was the day we planned to head to the bright lights of London. The sun was out, what could go wrong? We had breakfast, then Jools was to take the car to the garage to have some tests as to see why the engine warning light had come on. I said I would tidy up whilst she was out, make sure the camera battery was charged. Jools came back in, the car wouldn't start. I went out to try, but I didn't really expect it to make any difference. It didn't, the starter whined, all sorts of warning lights came on, warnings bleeped.
I tried again, with the same result.
We called the AA.
We went inside to wait.
In an hour, the AA came, we explained the problem. He nodded his head, took the keys, turned the key.
The engine spluttered. Whined. And started. Roar! went the engine. I mean, really, isn't that always the way? He thought the engine was flooded, probably from me starting the engine and switching it off the day before. Oh well. The AA man followed Jools to the garage, and then brought her back, and then we waited for news on what was wrong.
We finished off the sausage rolls I made the day before, we drank tea, we listened to music. The phone went at just gone two: we might need a new catalytic converter. No, two of them, as there are two in the engine, and one we paid three hundred quid for a couple of years back, that one would have to be changed too. However, he could try something else. Something that involved putting 'gunk' into the petrol tank, this might work for a while. But after that, it could cost upto a grand for the two cats and then the labour.
Jools' Dad came to pick her up to take her to the garage, I grabbed my camera, put on my stomping boots and went for a walk.
It was half two by the time I made my way along the street, out onto the track leading across the fields. The shadows were long, the colours everywhere were golden. It was wonderful, my allergies that were easing with all the fresh air about. Sadly, at the copse, the trailer was being made ready for the piglets final journey, they know nothing about what horrors is to come, but then that is where bacon comes from.
Down the dip, up the other side. Now, do I turn for home or press on to the cliffs in the hope of seeing the sunset along the coast. Hmmm, I thought about it, the cliffs won out, as the thought of all those golden colours on the sheer cliff faces. Yes, and the longest of long shadows would be stretching across the high fields up on the downs. There wasn't a breath of wind, away to the west the sun was just over the horizon, flocks of sheep covered the fields stretching away towards Kingsdown a three-quarter full moon could be seen above the French coast, and on the sea, ships were still at shelter.
At the cliffs, they were in deep shadow, once again it was low tide, but this time the waves were just lapping at the rocks at the foot of them. France could just be seen on the horizon, and ferries were still steaming between here and there. I walked down to the Leas, getting there just as the sun reached the top of the cliffs, and the light failed. I snapped away, waiting for one of the ferries to appear beside the cliffs. And it was gone.
Dusk was falling, and I realise I now had to get home. I shivered, zipped up my jacket and walked back up to the monument, then across the fields and back into St Maggies. Darkness was falling, I could just see enough by the light of the moon along the footpaths before I arrived at the Droveway, walking past the Red Lion and down the hill to home.
Phew, a long walk, but worth it.
We make breaded aubergine for dinner, which was fantastic, washed down by a pint of Guinness porter. Lovely.
The days are slipping by, and now just the weekend to go.
We end the day watching a TOTP retrospective from 1980. Lots of good memories, and shock that it was some 35 years ago. I was 15.
Friday, 2 January 2015
Friday 2nd January 2015
Thursday
New Year's Day.
Bank Holiday.
All is quiet, on new year's day, said the Irish buffoon wearing stupid sunglasses at night. Well, he was right in that New Year's Day was quiet. We had headed to bed straight after the last firework had popped, and so woke to the drab light of an overcast morning, and the birds outside complaining already that we really should put some seeds and food out for them, the cats backed the birds up in this, meowing their displeasure at having to wait until nearly eight in the morning for breakfast.
Jools got up, fed the cats, made coffee. All was better. I put out some food for the birds, the birds tweeted their happiness, the cats watched the birds.
It is not a wall known fact, but New Year is a very important day for football in Britain. Jools might argue, quite rightly, that every day is an important one for football, it seemed to be on almost every day over the holidays, except the Saturday between Christmas and New Year, but then they did play on the Friday and again on the Sunday. So, there has been lots of football.
We did not go out because the car was/is ill. The light that came on during the drive back from Margate was causing us worries. I went out to check the oil, see if any pipes were leaking and all the other stuff the mechanically illiterate can do to rule out the obvious. Nothing could be found, I tried the engine and it started fine. So no worries, but for the time being, we would not risk it, but take it for tests on Friday morning.
We listened to music, all the while the clock ticked down towards kick off time at a quarter to one, which would mean solid football on the radio until seven. So, I pottered around on the computer, listening to the football on the radio. But five it all seemed to have been enough, and thought that although Spurs v Chelsea was the game of the day, wasn't it enough football for the day, so I switched the radio off and followed the game on the BBC website. Spurs scored two goals in 1st half injury time to go 3-1 up, and ran out 5-3 winners upsetting Jose for sure, who blamed the ref, the pitch, whatever. Earlier Arsenal had lost 2-0 at Southampton thanks to two of the worse defensive mix ups possible, and Liverpool failed to beat Leicester, and only scored thanks to two of the most dodgy of penalty decisions.
In the evening, we watched the re run of the New Year's Day concert from Vienna, what better way to spend the new year than waltzing? And then it was time for Cribbage, more music and fresh sausage rolls before bed time. Lovely.
New Year's Day.
Bank Holiday.
All is quiet, on new year's day, said the Irish buffoon wearing stupid sunglasses at night. Well, he was right in that New Year's Day was quiet. We had headed to bed straight after the last firework had popped, and so woke to the drab light of an overcast morning, and the birds outside complaining already that we really should put some seeds and food out for them, the cats backed the birds up in this, meowing their displeasure at having to wait until nearly eight in the morning for breakfast.
Jools got up, fed the cats, made coffee. All was better. I put out some food for the birds, the birds tweeted their happiness, the cats watched the birds.
It is not a wall known fact, but New Year is a very important day for football in Britain. Jools might argue, quite rightly, that every day is an important one for football, it seemed to be on almost every day over the holidays, except the Saturday between Christmas and New Year, but then they did play on the Friday and again on the Sunday. So, there has been lots of football.
We did not go out because the car was/is ill. The light that came on during the drive back from Margate was causing us worries. I went out to check the oil, see if any pipes were leaking and all the other stuff the mechanically illiterate can do to rule out the obvious. Nothing could be found, I tried the engine and it started fine. So no worries, but for the time being, we would not risk it, but take it for tests on Friday morning.
We listened to music, all the while the clock ticked down towards kick off time at a quarter to one, which would mean solid football on the radio until seven. So, I pottered around on the computer, listening to the football on the radio. But five it all seemed to have been enough, and thought that although Spurs v Chelsea was the game of the day, wasn't it enough football for the day, so I switched the radio off and followed the game on the BBC website. Spurs scored two goals in 1st half injury time to go 3-1 up, and ran out 5-3 winners upsetting Jose for sure, who blamed the ref, the pitch, whatever. Earlier Arsenal had lost 2-0 at Southampton thanks to two of the worse defensive mix ups possible, and Liverpool failed to beat Leicester, and only scored thanks to two of the most dodgy of penalty decisions.
In the evening, we watched the re run of the New Year's Day concert from Vienna, what better way to spend the new year than waltzing? And then it was time for Cribbage, more music and fresh sausage rolls before bed time. Lovely.
Thursday, 1 January 2015
A brief look ahead to 2015
Yes, and welcome to 2015. I am writing this in the afternoon, and the first football of the year is taking place all over the Premier League. I mention football, as really, it is pretty much what I know a bit about, and yet, I am not going to make that many predictions for the rest of the season, other than either Chelsea or Manchester City will win the league, and any one of a dozen teams could go down. I really don't mind who goes down, or who wins the title, or who wins the Champions League, or the Europa League, or, well, you see a pattern here. And I believe I have stated this before, but an English club being successful in Europe has no impact on the club I support, Norwich City. And as most of them are on English in that it is where they play their home games, that most have very few, if any, English players, I really am ambivalent whether one of the remaining English teams in Europe win, lose or draw. As long as I'm entertained. As that is what the game is about, then it should be all that matters.
Will Norwich go up? I have no idea to be honest. We have the squad, but at times they lack concentration and are sloppy. But, they could. Or might not. It won't define my life, however. I will write about how they do each week, but, you know, I won't go running up the street naked if we win. Or if we get promoted even.
In Europe, the knock out stages will feature an ever-increasing bombastic match-ups between Europe's biggest and richest clubs. The outcomes of which won't matter a jot for the most part. If a game is on TV when I'm on my travels, I will watch. From next season no games will be on free to air TV channels. So, I will watch even less games, and be even less likely to buy a Ford Car, buy my gas from Gazprom or drink whatever over-gassy beer is sponsoring the competition next year.
In the world game, FIFA will resist publishing the full version of the corruption report. Blatter will be re-elected, of if he is forced to resign, a Blatter-clone will be elected: turkeys won't vote for Christmas and FIFA will never change. Change will only come if their commercial partners press for it, and no sign of that yet. FIFA will also have to announce when the 2022 World Cup will take place, there is now only a really narrow window if it is to be switched to the winter. And if it is, I hope that both the Australian and American FAs sue FIFA for breach of contract. But politics will win out.
Music.
I have no idea about music, other than I know what I like and do not like. Tip for making it big: no idea.
Film.
Once again, we don't go to the cinema much, so, some films will be released, some good, most bad.
UK
This year we will have an election. Probably will result in another hung parliament. Just between which parties. If the Tories win, they will kill off what is left of the NHS, carry on the war against the sick, the old, the disabled and the poorly paid. The rich will get richer, and for the most part this will be unreported by either the press or the BBC. Immigrants will get blamed for taking resources, especially in the NHS, despite a large proportion of the doctors and nurses are themselves immigrants. Lies and damn lies will be told about immigrants, mostly bu either the Express or The Mail. As usual.
As for me: I will be travelling more and more. And work will be taking over more and more of my life, starting from next week. I have to travel to Denmark next week, probably Germany the week after. And then, who knows. And it will be like that until Easter, at which point I will then have to add Holland as another potential destination. And I will be in Holland pretty much until the end of the year and the farm is handed over to the customer. And then the threat the whole circus will begin again if I get a new project.
But until then I will be heading here, there, and here again.
Finally.
A horse will win the grand national.
A man on a bike will win the Tour de France
It will snow this winter
It will snow during the summer
There will a royal baby
Some politicians will lie
A lot
I will write a lot of blogs
I will take a huge number of photographs
Will Norwich go up? I have no idea to be honest. We have the squad, but at times they lack concentration and are sloppy. But, they could. Or might not. It won't define my life, however. I will write about how they do each week, but, you know, I won't go running up the street naked if we win. Or if we get promoted even.
In Europe, the knock out stages will feature an ever-increasing bombastic match-ups between Europe's biggest and richest clubs. The outcomes of which won't matter a jot for the most part. If a game is on TV when I'm on my travels, I will watch. From next season no games will be on free to air TV channels. So, I will watch even less games, and be even less likely to buy a Ford Car, buy my gas from Gazprom or drink whatever over-gassy beer is sponsoring the competition next year.
In the world game, FIFA will resist publishing the full version of the corruption report. Blatter will be re-elected, of if he is forced to resign, a Blatter-clone will be elected: turkeys won't vote for Christmas and FIFA will never change. Change will only come if their commercial partners press for it, and no sign of that yet. FIFA will also have to announce when the 2022 World Cup will take place, there is now only a really narrow window if it is to be switched to the winter. And if it is, I hope that both the Australian and American FAs sue FIFA for breach of contract. But politics will win out.
Music.
I have no idea about music, other than I know what I like and do not like. Tip for making it big: no idea.
Film.
Once again, we don't go to the cinema much, so, some films will be released, some good, most bad.
UK
This year we will have an election. Probably will result in another hung parliament. Just between which parties. If the Tories win, they will kill off what is left of the NHS, carry on the war against the sick, the old, the disabled and the poorly paid. The rich will get richer, and for the most part this will be unreported by either the press or the BBC. Immigrants will get blamed for taking resources, especially in the NHS, despite a large proportion of the doctors and nurses are themselves immigrants. Lies and damn lies will be told about immigrants, mostly bu either the Express or The Mail. As usual.
As for me: I will be travelling more and more. And work will be taking over more and more of my life, starting from next week. I have to travel to Denmark next week, probably Germany the week after. And then, who knows. And it will be like that until Easter, at which point I will then have to add Holland as another potential destination. And I will be in Holland pretty much until the end of the year and the farm is handed over to the customer. And then the threat the whole circus will begin again if I get a new project.
But until then I will be heading here, there, and here again.
Finally.
A horse will win the grand national.
A man on a bike will win the Tour de France
It will snow this winter
It will snow during the summer
There will a royal baby
Some politicians will lie
A lot
I will write a lot of blogs
I will take a huge number of photographs
Thursday January 1st 2015
Welcome to the new year. But before we deal with the new year, we must revisit the old one.
Wednesday.
New Year's Eve.
These days of wine and roses and cake and bacon butties are drawing to an end, and work is creeping over the horizon, with thoughts of my first trip back to Denmark already foremost in my mind. But more of that in my next, forward looking blog.
We are waking up later and later for the most part, we even sleep through the heating switching on at seven, and Mulder dribbling over us hinting it might be breakfast time.Outside the sky looks like it is on fire, as another stunning sunrise is in mid-rise. It will be another glorious winter day, cold but with lots of sunshine.
After breakfast we decide, or I decide if truth be known, to drive to Thanet and visit Margate. It has been some time since we were there, and what with the glorious weather, what could be better than a walk along the sun-drenched prom, even if it was middle of winter? What indeed.
We avoid Westwood Cross, driving back out along Thanet Way before doubling back along through Birchington into Margate, the vista of the wide sandy bay opening up before us: it looked glorious in the sunshine I have to say. We park just above The Tate, walk along the prom then into the gallery itself. The Tate Contemporary changes regularly, so there is something new every few months, and in the time since we were last here, it is all new. We had a fine hour looking at the art on display, watching the video installation.
And then to tea! Like Arthur Dent, we were on the search for tea. Mainly thanks to my good friend in NZ, Tony, as he had a cream tea over the festive period nd posted a shot of it on Flickr:
Well, it reminded me that it is ages since I had a proper cream tea, so the very best place for such on Thanet is at The Mad Hatters in Margate. We hoped it would be open, but it was a short walk into the old town from the gallery. Sadly, it is only open on Saturdays now, so we were tea-less. Or I was. But, there are many other places in Margate to get something to eat.
Before walking back to the seafront, we looked into a couple of retro emporiums to look at what was for sale: I bought a tie and a book of aerial photography of East Kent. Happy with the purchases, we walk to a cafe we know well, G's, and take a table. We have coffee and a pannini, both of which were good.
We walk back along the seafront to the clock built to mark the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria, from there it was just a short walk to the art deco grandeur of Dreamland, still looking down at heel, but work has begun on restoring the wooden roller coaster behind. But that is for another day, perhaps.
Back in the car, on with the heating and off we go, heading through Ramsgate towards Ramsgate, but I did not realise we were heading to the jam that is Westwood Cross. In the centre of Thanet is Westwood, now a major shopping mall, with cinema, casino and pub. And it is always jammed. That people enjoy shopping so much is a mystery to both of us. But by luck, we head out of the traffic towards Cliffsend and home. Away from Thanet traffic is quiet, and with the sun shining, it is a pleasure just to be out and about.
That is, until a warning light went on in the car; something wrong with the engine. I look at the dials and see nothing untoward, but I ease off the speed, and we limp home, once home, Jools books the car in for Friday morning in the garage, and we hope it is just an electrical fault. But we shall see.
More coffee was drunk once we were home, I put on a radio show on the i player. Outside the sun sets one final time this year.
We watch Puss in Boots in the early evening, then see in the New Year playing cards, me drinking port, and on the CD player, a selection of 80s twelve inches plays on. Just before midnight we put the TV on the see Big Ben strike midnight, then watch the wonderful firework display. And it is all over.
Happy New Year, and time for bed.
Wednesday.
New Year's Eve.
These days of wine and roses and cake and bacon butties are drawing to an end, and work is creeping over the horizon, with thoughts of my first trip back to Denmark already foremost in my mind. But more of that in my next, forward looking blog.
We are waking up later and later for the most part, we even sleep through the heating switching on at seven, and Mulder dribbling over us hinting it might be breakfast time.Outside the sky looks like it is on fire, as another stunning sunrise is in mid-rise. It will be another glorious winter day, cold but with lots of sunshine.
After breakfast we decide, or I decide if truth be known, to drive to Thanet and visit Margate. It has been some time since we were there, and what with the glorious weather, what could be better than a walk along the sun-drenched prom, even if it was middle of winter? What indeed.
We avoid Westwood Cross, driving back out along Thanet Way before doubling back along through Birchington into Margate, the vista of the wide sandy bay opening up before us: it looked glorious in the sunshine I have to say. We park just above The Tate, walk along the prom then into the gallery itself. The Tate Contemporary changes regularly, so there is something new every few months, and in the time since we were last here, it is all new. We had a fine hour looking at the art on display, watching the video installation.
And then to tea! Like Arthur Dent, we were on the search for tea. Mainly thanks to my good friend in NZ, Tony, as he had a cream tea over the festive period nd posted a shot of it on Flickr:
Well, it reminded me that it is ages since I had a proper cream tea, so the very best place for such on Thanet is at The Mad Hatters in Margate. We hoped it would be open, but it was a short walk into the old town from the gallery. Sadly, it is only open on Saturdays now, so we were tea-less. Or I was. But, there are many other places in Margate to get something to eat.
Before walking back to the seafront, we looked into a couple of retro emporiums to look at what was for sale: I bought a tie and a book of aerial photography of East Kent. Happy with the purchases, we walk to a cafe we know well, G's, and take a table. We have coffee and a pannini, both of which were good.
We walk back along the seafront to the clock built to mark the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria, from there it was just a short walk to the art deco grandeur of Dreamland, still looking down at heel, but work has begun on restoring the wooden roller coaster behind. But that is for another day, perhaps.
Back in the car, on with the heating and off we go, heading through Ramsgate towards Ramsgate, but I did not realise we were heading to the jam that is Westwood Cross. In the centre of Thanet is Westwood, now a major shopping mall, with cinema, casino and pub. And it is always jammed. That people enjoy shopping so much is a mystery to both of us. But by luck, we head out of the traffic towards Cliffsend and home. Away from Thanet traffic is quiet, and with the sun shining, it is a pleasure just to be out and about.
That is, until a warning light went on in the car; something wrong with the engine. I look at the dials and see nothing untoward, but I ease off the speed, and we limp home, once home, Jools books the car in for Friday morning in the garage, and we hope it is just an electrical fault. But we shall see.
More coffee was drunk once we were home, I put on a radio show on the i player. Outside the sun sets one final time this year.
We watch Puss in Boots in the early evening, then see in the New Year playing cards, me drinking port, and on the CD player, a selection of 80s twelve inches plays on. Just before midnight we put the TV on the see Big Ben strike midnight, then watch the wonderful firework display. And it is all over.
Happy New Year, and time for bed.
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