Gravel Bed

My second England friendly in a week. This one is only two minutes in, and it's so far even more ridiculous than the USA one during the week. England's seemingly randomly-selected opponents this time around are Trinidad and Tobago, whose speciality appears to fabricating a ludicrous stereotype of themselves and acting it out at every possibility. So we've had hula-hula dancing, steel drums yammering out the national anthems, and the crowd are so overenthusiastic and gaga on coconut juice and Lilt (their stereotype, not mine) that they're cheering absolutely everything. Stern John gets hits directly in the face! Hooray! David James just scythed the striker and took his legs out. Yeaaa-ha! The Trinidad team are also slightly ridiculous because their first and second strikers are either ex Southampton players. or current Southampton players, and the rest are comprised of rubbish like substitute Swansea defenders. The other point of hilarity, apart from that the ground is so small even the players can probably see over the edge of the ground if they jump high enough, is that the perimeter of the pitch is cluttered with advertising banners for hundreds of suspiciously un-Carribbean products like Pukka Pies and Bargain Booze. At any rate, the BBC evidently concluded months ago that this wasn't worth bothering with because they haven't sent Lineker or Hansen over there, they're stuck in a studio. The token commentator is someone I've never heard of, and the token pundit is Mark Bright, who, if he isn't dancing on the bottom rung of the pundit ladder, is definitely within touching distance of the ground. Trinidad and Tobago are rubbish, mind, the commentator has pointed out one particulary player, who appears to be called Cupid, and he is seriously awfu. Like, pub team awful.

Since last writing on here, I've discovered I have fans, Well actually no. I have discovered that other people who do exactly what I'm doing right now, only better, have read some of my previous self indulgent shit. I imagine it's like when I go on music message boards to remind myself that I'm a little bit less of a fuckstick than I thought I was 5 minutes previously. But anyway, a big HELLO! to those three people, especially the guy from the New Statesman whose name I've already forgotten. They've all referred to my intoxicated Eurovision ramblings and probably aren't reading this, but just incase. HELLO! Now post some comments you ignorant shits.

Today, in contrast to last week when I stated that I would have gone to Barry Island but didn't, today, although deciding I wasn't going to leave the house, did, and went to Barry Island just like I didn't four days ago. I've been to Barry Island many times before, I'm probably in double figures. I haven't been in over two years though, the last time I went was with Grace and we sat on a bench and listened to my portable tape player and then went in a bar and I tried to start a conversation with a man with a Levellers t shirt and Grace used my phone to make a racial slur at one of her friends.I think that was the time I was subjected to unjustified homophobic abuse in the toilets of The Dolphin, althought I might be mistaken. Other times I've been to Barry Island have seen me having seagull shit sprayed liberally over my clothes within minutes of arrival, smoking a cigarette in the middle of the sea with my trousers legs rolled up, being drunk enough to wrestle Anna on the sand at a stupid time of night, before swimming in the ice cold sea in nothing but shorts and a Mercury Rev t shirt, before being accused of urinating in the sink on the train home (irrational accusations and abuse are generally the order of the day) and left my 'Avrl Lavigne' wallet on the train. There's also been trips into the murky depths of the Acropolis Nightclub (now titled something else) and death defying madness just by getting on one of the rides at the 'Pleasure' Park and getting strapped in. I've never had anything less than baffling fun there, even though Barry Island is an inherently, and obviously inadequate place to have a good time. Today was the first time I'd even been on my own, and although I still had some mumbly humbling fun, taking photographs of misspelt signposts, sitting on what I've decided to label 'my' bench, even though I've only ever sat on it three times. I even considered going on the rides and playing the brand spanking new expensive swanky swashbucking buccaneer crazy golf, but thought better of it. Why would anyone play crazy golf alone? I don't think I could pretend to like that. The route there and back was a shambles, with there being no trains runnings as is the case every time I get a train anywhere, The driver of my replacement bus service was a chain smoking imbecile, who clearly wasn't aware of the magic of air conditioning. But luck was smiling on me on the way home, because I didn't have any clue where the fuck the coach was going to pick people up from, so I just sat on the floor near the railway station, watching some of the rides in the fairground spin and twirl on their axis. The same coach driver as before saw me sat there and honked the horn at me. Lucky old me. The bas thing was having to follow the entire return route around Morrisons in Barry Town, and watching a revolting couple decked out in camoufage and grey shoplifter joggers necking in one of the car parks.