The Earth Stood Still

On Tuesday night, the earth moved for Yummy Mummy. Well it would, her being in the sex business and all.

The earth apparently moved for millions of people. But not for me.

I was totally Mrs. Smug in the morning, having heard and felt nothing at 12.55am.

I have always claimed I could sleep through an earthquake, a nuclear bomb or an alien invasion and now I’ve proved it.

On the first count at least.

Bring it on Ruskies.

Keeganwatch week 6

Matches Won 0
Goals Scored 3
Goals Conceded 16
Days to Easter 24
SkyBet odds 7/1

Day 38 came and went. We held our breath and then had to let it out to laugh, as 5 goals sailed past Shay Given. 11-1 on aggregate. Kevin was just pipped to Pitiful Figure of the Week, by William Gallas and his post-match tears. As consolation, he still gets Keeganism of the week.

'I'm 110% committed to this club, and you can't get more committed than that' - Mmm. Try telling that to Paul Gascoigne.

Rhythm and Blues

I have not been running for the last two weeks, thanks to a coughy coldy thing and a twingy knee due to wearing unfamiliar, blingy high heels to a party last week.

On Saturday I resolved to set aside all things coughy, coldy and twingy, to keep my training on schedule. I stretched as usual and decided to take it easy and to pull up if I couldn't run it off.

I'd only done about 3/4 mile when something gave. Not in a good, 'I want you to be fully satisfied before I even consider my own pleasure' kind of way. But 'oh, shit, how are you going to get home from here on one leg with no mobile and no access to Dylan'.

Two neighbours apparently saw me in distress (as I found out later in the weekend when they said 'oh, I saw you limping on the road yesterday, was everything all right?'), but didn't stop to see if I needed help.

Ice packs, support bandages, curry at Yummy Mummy's and some splendid sports results have all failed to lift my mood and things have worsened today.

I'm really not steady on my feet, so I have acquired a stick. The problem is, it doesn't come with instructions and I don't seem to be able to get any kind of coordination. I'm taking the Greg House approach at present - leaning heavily on the stick when I step on the right foot, but it's ending up more like Rolf Harris doing Jake the Peg.

Despite having medals for ballroom dancing, it turns out I have no rhythm. Clearly the skills required to perform with a walking stick outweigh anything Strictly Come Dancing demands.

So all I have to look forward to in my old age is sitting on the sidelines in the nursing home sipping Guinness through a straw, while the other old biddies in their silver shoes and polygripped dentures cop off at the tea dance.

Dylangram

Facebook is awash with applications and I'm bombarded with invites to find out what car I am, what drug I am, what kind of eyes I have and so on, ad nauseum.

But yesterday I discovered the one golden nugget that makes having applications worthwhile.

Bob Dylan Messaging.

There is a short excerpt from the Subterranean Homesick Blues video, but you get to choose the words on the cards and then send it.

So far I have used the medium of Dylan to ask my Great Manchester Run partner how her training is going and to find out from Yummy Mummy whether we're still on for a curry on Saturday night. Definitely an upgrade from mere texting.

Couldn't find a way to embed the video as it's in Facebook, but here's a still with some pretentious twaddle (leaving it as 'Bhuna or Biryani?' just looked plain wrong).



Keeganwatch week 5

No match for Kevin's boys this week as they are not involved in any cups. However, he cancels their Sunshine training trip to Dubai to concentrate on motivating them in the freezing cold of their home training ground. Tomorrow is day 38 in his current spell in charge, still looking for his first win - it's Newcastle United v Manchester United. The first time he was at St James' he walked out on day 38, (although they did talk him round).

*rubs hands in anticipation*

Fly Fishing

Doing the rounds of the home parties alongside Pampered Chef, Virgin Vie and Goody Two Shoes, is Venture - stylised photography cum art at outrageous prices.

Bait The Hook

At the party, you buy a voucher worth £165 for only £35. For this you get a professional photography session in the studio and a 10” by 8” photograph. Bargain.

Play the Line

In the empty white studio, you dance, run, jump and play with your kids, while the snapper shouts instructions and music plays in the background.

Reel Them In

A week later you return to choose your free photograph.

In the viewing room, with soft music and dimmed lights, a slide show of beautiful, airbrushed family images plays, while the consultant talks you through the albums, composites and sculptures you can upgrade to from your party voucher. Nothing under 3 figures. All major credit cards accepted.

In the past, Yummy Mummy and Mrs Second Hand Car Dealer have both fallen prey to this clever seduction. Mr Duck and I have held firm and chosen our single 10” by 8”, escaping with our wallets intact.

So, last week, clutching a £35 voucher, we went back for a second session, secure in the knowledge that we could hold firm. Little did we know that J R Hartley himself would be at work this time.

On Saturday we went to see the results. We chose a single, beautiful close up shot of JP and Tiddler hugging the Cuddly Huskies we bought in Lappland before Christmas and prepared to leave.

Then they hit us with the Big One. ‘Before you go, we’ve done a special composite for you to take a look at.’

The photographer had suggested bringing along a football and some kit to take a few themed shots at the session the previous week. Tiddler obliged with a fine display of chesting and shooting, and JP showed off his Cruyff turn.

Mr Hartley revealed a stunning piece of artwork – red, white and black with the Liverpool and United badges, our Little Ducks, a winter premier league ball and enough trick shots to keep John Virgo in exhibition games. Completely irresistible.

Hook, Line and Sinker

We emptied our wallets, re-mortgaged the house, sold a kidney and headed for home.

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #5

Amid the media hype and frankly offensive suggestions that anyone would mark the anniversary of the passing of 23 people with anything less than full respect, a city prepared to honour the memory of the finest team of players ever to grace the turf of Old Trafford on Sunday.

It was with some trepidation that I walked towards the ground in the warm Spring sunshine. The mood was subdued and the heartfelt sentiments scrawled on shirts, scarves and flowers laid before the concourse expressed the thoughts of thousands. An inscribed scarf and a replica programme from the 1958 game against Sheffield Wednesday were waiting on my seat – a gift from the club for each supporter, which I will treasure. Songs from 1958 replaced Iggy Pop on the PA, just for the day.

I was proud to stand silent, scarf aloft - stifled sobs from Fellow Fan beside me the only sound.

How galling then to hear that many of these priceless scarves were being offered on Ebay yesterday for mere money.


View from my seat. Photo courtesy of Fellow Fan.


Keeganwatch Week 4

Matches Won 0
Goals Scored 2
Goals Conceded 11
Days to Easter 39
SkyBet odds 7/1

Aston Villa 4 Newcastle 1
It started well enough with a goal from the Poison Dwarf, but it seemed like the Dementors delivered the half-time talk in the away dressing room, as 11 strangers took to the field for the second forty five, with no memory of what they were there for. ‘Same 11 players, same numbers on the shirts’ says a crestfallen Keegan, shaking his head sadly after the game. A dark-suited Dennis Wise, looked on grimly from the Directors’ Box, like an undertaker mentally measuring up his client for a coffin.

Bloodbath

JP is prone to nosebleeds. Has been since tinyness.

We're used to it - as is he. He deals with them with no fuss - sitting out from football or snowball fights to sort it out. They come without warning, and not necessarily following a blow to the nose - that's a blow as in knock, not a blow as in Kleenex. Although a blow to the nose as in Kleenex can also set it off.

Sometimes it starts when he's asleep and he wakes up in the morning, dried blood all over his face and bedcovers like a scene from Taggart. As was the case this morning.

Unfortunately, it also happened when he had a friend over for a sleepover, whose parents had not warned us of their son's phobia about blood (- why would they, to be honest? - it's not something that comes up in everyday playground conversation)

We were disturbed by piercing screams from the bedroom. JP was sitting up in bed, bemused, but looking like roadkill and his traumatised playmate in the readybed was completely inconsolable and refused to stay another minute.

He's never been persuaded to come again and JP has never been invited back.

I'm thinking of renting him out for Hallowe'en.

Keeganwatch week 3

Matches Won 0
Goals Scored 1
Goals Conceded 7
Skybet Odds - 7/1

He Who Must Not be Named.
It's Groundhog Day. 3-0 to the Arsenal - again. Then yesterday, an offside goal sees two points dropped at St James Park after Owen jumps unfeasibly high to head a goal in. Has he borrowed Oscar Pistorius' carbon fibre feet? Curiously, no-one will utter Keegan's name in interviews, referring only to 'The New Manager' or 'since the Manager arrived'. Is he Voldemort in disguise?

Pirates v Ninjas

The Little Ducks used some Christmas money from Uncle Ginger One to buy themselves the Pirates of the Caribbean PS2 game. It's a 2 person game. Someone is Captain Jack and the other person is Will or Elizabeth depending on the level. You have to work together, and stay close on screen. I'm becoming quite adept with a sword in the Fighty Fighty bits as Tiddler calls them.

It's a little disconcerting playing with Tiddler, though. We're busy blowing up walls and killing soldiers - he's Jack, I'm Will, but Tiddler insists on calling me Mummy instead of Will throughout. 'Come on mummy, this way'. 'Kill that bad guy, mummy'. Not exactly the script Johnny and Orlando were used to.

I have to say being a Pirate is very appealing and I'm thinking of switching sides on Pirates v Ninja on Facebook. I'm currently a Ninja trainee. Globally it's about even with 2 million on each side and similar battle results. There's no clear winner as yet.

Anyway I came across a debate using the tried and tested measure of google results on specific search terms. Here's what they found:

"killed by ninja" 18,900 results
"killed by pirates" 935
"killed by a ninja" 12,000
"killed by a pirate" 12,100
"killed by a raptor" 2,610*
"robbed by pirates" 1,950
"robbed by ninja" 3
"plundered by pirates" 3,300
"plundered by ninja" 0
"stolen by pirates" 643
"stolen by ninja" 9

Groups of ninja are much more dangerous than groups of pirates, a lone pirate is equally as dangerous as a lone ninja, both are more dangerous than a raptor*, but pirates do a lot more plundering, stealing and robbing.

Still too close to call. Your thoughts please, while I try to decide.

* threw that in for our little paleontologist, JP


Keeganwatch Week 2

Matches Won - 0
Goals scored - 0
Skybet odds - 7/1

So. 3-0 to the Arsenal and pipped by Spurs for Jonathan Woodgate. Turned down by Shearer, his hopes for the week rest on Joey Barton returning tonight. Ever the Pollyanna optimist, Keegan tells the BBC 'I think we'll see a new Joey Barton at the end of this'. Yes Kevin, the one in the suit with the arrows on.

Level Playing Field*

'Will I be able to play a real match when I'm 18?' asks Tiddler, while I wrestle with his shinnies before football training.

'You'll be able to play a real match when you're 7' - I am happy to explain. 'Instead of just training with your team, you'll be playing matches against other teams!'

'Can we play against Man. United?'

'I don't think it would be very fair. Ronnie and Rooney against 7-year olds.'

'Oh right.' - There is a pause as he thinks. Then asks

'What about Blackburn Rovers then?'


*This isn't turning into a football blog. I promise. It's just how the cards are dealt at the moment.

Rejected and Dejected

I am rejected.

Useless, old, unwanted.

I am the recipient of a Dear John, or in my case Dear Duck.

My blood count - whilst normal, is not good enough for platelet doning and I am doomed to the ranks of common blood doning for ever.

Excuse me while I go out and get roaring drunk.


I am dejected.

On top of this, after feeling supremely good for cracking 5 miles on the running front, I was brought down to earth with a bump in the Local Pub.

After informing a fellow drinker (Let's call him Banker, as my mother reads this) that the 5 miles was taking me just under an hour, when he enquired, he helpfully pointed out that we walk at 4 miles an hour, so this wasn't much to write home about.

Excuse me while I go out and get roaring drunk.


BTW I have been accepted for the Great Manchester Run in May - 10 kilometres round the city, including the Theatre of Dreams at Old Trafford. I have decided to run for Cancer Relief in memory of my Uncle who died in the Autumn. I will be aiming for an hour, so I spent the weekend trying to run faster (just couldn't let it lie). I managed to knock 7 minutes off the 5 miles yesterday!

So, excuse me while I go out and get roaring drunk!



Keeganwatch Week 1

Newcastle 0 Bolton 0

It was only 3 days into the job for the SB, so we think he can get away with a 0-0 in his first game. There are small signs of discontent, with some fans leaving early from St James Park and choruses of Cheer Up Kevin Keegan could be clearly heard at Reading on Saturday. 62 days till Easter and counting.

Love It

In the immortal words of Rhys Ifans, on encountering Julia Roberts in the bath, in Notting Hill -

'Thank you, God.'

I have been struggling for blog inspiration since Christmas, coupled with the return of Insomnia.

Even the fantastic performance on Saturday, Ronnie's first hat trick and numerous choruses of Cheer Up Alan Shearer couldn't bring me to the keyboard.

But nothing on earth could prevent me whooping for joy and rubbing my hands with glee at the news that Serial Bottler Kevin Keegan is returning to St James' Park. What a pity we're not playing them this week.

The odds on him quitting before the end of the season are 7/1, so I'm off to Sky Bet with a roll of tenners. I might see what they'll offer me on him not lasting until Easter.

Feel free to enjoy the famous rant about Fergie, while I'm gone.

Happy New Year

This year, as last, I have mostly been having 10 pints of Guinness

on my nails.



And also putting my foot in it. Again.

My niece turned 18 last weekend, so I took the Little Ducks over to Wales to take her present and to give her some money for Guinness. (Never too early to start on the black stuff in my opinion. Nor in hers, as she is already partial.)

She works in a local pub behind the bar, so we went along for lunch. After we'd eaten, I got chatting to the landlord, her boss, standing at the bar, who mentioned that his parents had been over from Liverpool for Christmas.

'Did you count the silver after they left?' I enquired - A perfectly reasonable Manc to Scouse response or so I thought. And after all, he did invite the punchline with that opening.

Exit Duck, pursued by a stony silence, but thankfully not by an angry niece clutching a P45.

Snap!

I am developing the opinion that twins should carry a health warning.

I know the whole concept offers endless comedic possibilities for Hollywood, and how we laughed at school over naming the German teacher's twin boys 'The Two Ronnies' on account of him being called Ronald.

But the whole mistaken identity thing is a total can of worms - and not in a good way.

One of the mothers of Tiddler's team mates at football is an identical twin. It came up in conversation one day, although I can't for the life of me remember how. She's also a City fan (although I'm glad to say her son is a Red, like mine).

Anyway, moving swiftly on. They live near us and I have spotted them over the top of my Guinness glass in the Local Pub from time to time.

Recently, I spotted Football Mum in the pub, but didn't recognise the man with her. I smiled and waved at her, but she didn't acknowledge me in return. In fact, she didn't look happy at all.

Aha - I deduced, in a flash of brilliance - the identical twin.

So at training last week, I mentioned to Football Dad that I'd seen Football Mum's twin in the pub with a man, and how funny it was that I waved, thinking it was her, but that she didn't recognise me. The whole hilarious, mistaken identity twin thing. Ha ha ha.

'But she doesn't go into pubs' he replied. 'It can't have been her.'

'Oh.' I said.

Followed by 'Ah'.

Just to punctuate the expanding silence.

Love Changes Everything

It's Fulham and I'm feeling vocal. As part of the ritual, Fellow Fans and I have greeted each other and the referee signals kick off with his whistle. Pete Boyle conducts the crowd.

U. N. I.
T. E. D.
United are the team for me
With a knick knack paddywhack
Give the dog a bone
Why don't City fu..


It's then that I notice it. Our block in the North Stand is strangely quiet. Mine is a lone voice.

Now this doesn't bother me per se, but I know my singing partner, two rows back is here.

He plays on the left
He plays on the ri-i-i-ght.
That boy Ronaldo
Makes England look shi..

Same again. Just me. I fish in my pockets for my blackcurrant Lockets. He must have a sore throat.

Then I spot it.

The reason.

He has brought a girl.

She is wearing a pink hat and scarf and is gazing at him, oblivious to the goings-on pitchside. He is sitting upright in his seat. Self-conscious. Knee to thigh intimacy is unavoidable in the packed stand. She snuggles into his shoulder.

A couple of times he forgets himself and sings the first few bars, only to tail off awkwardly.

In the second half, Ronaldo is denied a clear penalty, which could have seen his first hat trick for the club. 75,000 voice their disapproval of the referee in time-honoured fashion. Poor Fan. His dilemma is agonising.

Stay silent to impress the GF or be himself and let rip, risking what is clearly a new relationship.

I sing twice as loud to compensate and reflect on football and love.

They leave 10 minutes before the end - her leading him by the hand.

Somehow I don't think he'll bring her again.

That's very nearly an armful!

I'm definitely getting geekier. Mention the word upgrade and my ears prick up.

So far I've resisted the temptation of the primary object of my affection - it's only a matter of time before I succumb.

But this week, after 25 years and many more pints, I have been invited to upgrade to Platelet Doning instead of your everyday Blood Doning.

They've buttered me up with flattery about my excellent veins and blood flow*, the shortage of A+ donors, so with my ego sufficiently boosted, I've agreed to a test. They're going to count my white cells and get back to me. I need a score of 220 for a pass.

Here's the deal.

You get a special bed at the blood centre.
You can play your iPod.
You get food, drink and 1.5 uninterrupted hours with Michael Palin**.
You don't have to avoid hazardous or strenuous activities or alcohol *** afterwards, as they pump the blood straight back in after taking the white bits.

Now I'm not saying I'm competitive, but I feel like I've taken an entrance exam for an exclusive club and now I'm desperate to be accepted. Watch this space.


*(7 minutes 11 seconds for a pint last week - a new PB)
** insert your choice of author here
*** I have always considered the lower blood:alcohol ratio when drinking after doning to be a perk.

Immortal

One of the Little Ducks' favourite authors is Julia Donaldson, who writes beautiful rhyming stories, with fantastic illustrations - The Gruffalo being her most famous.

Room on The Broom is our favourite with a witch and a dragon and an excuse to yell WHOOSH! on every page.

Her latest story is Tiddler - a tale of a small fish who invents the tallest of tall tales to explain his repeated lateness for school, then ends up in a scrape for real.

Our own Tiddler is always looking for reasons to miss school, despite his new-found good behaviour and a stream of recent party invitations.

This weekend he informed me that he has growing pains, which means he can't walk.

I did detect a small flaw in his argument, when he gyrated round the front room trying to copy Matt's salsa moves on Strictly Come Dancing.

10/10 for effort though.

Reebok, Now and Then

Nobody told me that running* would involve so much shopping.

As well as the swanky armband, I now have several sports bras, cycle shorts, capri tights and Guinness running socks (with pints and toucans).

I've been using aerobics trainers to pound the avenues and alleyways of East Lancs. My running shoes, carbon-dated to 1989 have no sole on the right shoe and have been worn for painting for many of the intervening years since I last did any running.



I decided I was due an upgrade, so I have treated myself to these**:



In an age where the aim of technology seems to be to make everything smaller, it's bizarre that trainers seem to be getting bigger. These dwarf my old ones! They cost about the same, which 18 years on means I was either ripped off then or have a great bargain now. I'm staying positive.

* Up to 4 miles now without stopping for oxygen. Even ran in the rain and cold yesterday - which felt brilliant and exhilirating. I-Pod running playlist now as follows: She Sells Sanctuary - Cult; Love is a Stranger - Eurythmics; Insomnia - Faithless; A Midnight's Summer Dream - Stranglers; Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division; The Passenger - Iggy Pop; Black and White - Upper Room; Laid - James; Obviously - McFly; Hey There Delilah - Plain White T's; It Means Nothing - Stereophonics; Waterfall - Stone Roses.
** And before you panic about putting new shoes on the table - I have already been out in them, so they're technically used now.

Speaking Words of Wisdom

ITV have been heavily trailing I'm Absolutely Not, By Any Stretch of the Imagination, Under Any Criteria You May Wish To Specify A Celebrity for the past week or so, which I will not be settling down to watch tonight. Frankly, I'd rather cut off my own arm with a PlayDoh scalpel.

JP has been studying the trailers and doing some thinking.

'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here?... Is that where celebrities have to survive in the jungle without straighteners?'

Nil By Mouth

Yummy Mummy had a Pampered Chef party on Tuesday. A host of kitchen gadgetry and gizmos, to solve culinary problems you never knew you had were demonstrated and a Boxing Day turkey leftover dish was prepared and cooked before our eyes.

All was well and dignified, until someone asked if one particular item was suitable for the bedroom as well as the kitchen. From that point on, we all looked at the equipment in a new light and the demonstrator struggled to keep Ann Summers from the door.

Order was eventually restored and with the sales pitch over, we switched to gossip.

Neighbour #1's daughter has been in early labour since Thursday last. This was a personal blow as JP and Tiddler were due to play with her Little Ducks on Friday. 'How bad is it?' I probed hopefully when she phoned to cancel the play date - having already made plans.

Naturally there were a range of Old Wives present with helpful suggestions about raspberry leaf tea, fresh pineapple and curries. It seems the Belaboured has tried pineapple, but is now pursuing a rather more energetic route, pouncing on her husband every time he walks through the door and marching him upstairs. He is now naked, sorry knackered.

'What is she doing with the pineapple?'

8 pairs of eyes turn to the speaker. 'When I was having my first, I made my mouth bleed eating fresh pineapple until the midwife told me I wasn't supposed to be eating it. The reason pineapple is promoted to induce labour is the presence of prostoglandin - also present in sperm, but it needs to make direct contact with the cervix....'

Luckily Pampered Chef has a gadget for dismembering pineapples and leaving a hard central core.

We decide to employ modern thinking and the discussion turns to acquiring battery power. Ann Summers is now well and truly in the room, sipping a glass of wine.

We send a text to the Belaboured, offering our suggestions and support, but stopping short of actual assistance.

Talking Amongst Myself

I have always talked to myself, right from childhood. Out loud, that is, as opposed to just thinking in my head, which everybody does - at least I assume they do*.

It has always seemed like a perfectly natural and normal thing to do. My brain engages, the tongue slips into gear and off we go. I could do it all day - and sometimes do.

Over time, I have learnt to restrict this to when I am alone or at home, as it does seem to generate strange looks in public. But this is not always possible when I have a lot on my mind and it can just spill out wherever I am. In which case I just stop, smile and try to pretend it isn't me. Anyway, to my mind, it's no worse than singing along with your iPod.

The Little Ducks are quite used to my solo conversations. Tiddler sings and talks to himself a lot - mostly singing, but has been known to just chatter away when the mood takes him. JP will occasionally seek confirmation - 'you are just talking to yourself aren't you, Mummy?' - just to check that no input is required from them.

During tea, at H and Em's, an argument breaks out when H wants to save a place for her invisible friend, so she can talk to her. JP is having none of it, despite the fact that we are guests and H is only 4. You can't keep a scientist down.

'There's no such thing as Invisible Friends'.

Seeing the tears welling in H's eyes, I try to smooth things over. 'I talk to myself all the time' - I tell her.

JP retorts -'Yes, but H's mad because she's got an invisible friend who doesn't exist, who she talks to. Mummy's not mad because she talks to herself and that's a real person.'

There's some logic in there somewhere.

* I don't read out loud though (unless I'm required to do so by the Little Ducks). That would be a bit mental.

Rocket Science

We are still getting round to playing with some of the presents from the Little Ducks' birthdays.

I have to admit when Tiddler tore the paper off a Rocket Launcher from the Science Museum, I was slightly worried that his classmate had mistaken the 5 on his birthday invitation for 25.

But on closer inspection, it appears to be Tiddler-proof. There is neither gunpowder, fuel nor detonators- just foam rockets, a foot pump and a launch pad. The Purple Garden becomes Cape Canaverel and we prepare for launch.

They're fantastic. They shoot up to 300 feet into the sky (according to the instructions). So, after retrieving them from neighbour #2's garden for the 5th time, we adjourn to the park.

We couldn't have been more popular if we'd hijacked a travelling circus, hitched an ice cream van to the back and kidnapped the cast of Harry Potter to hand out 99s with raspberry sauce.

Dozens of kids queued to stamp the foot pump, vying to see who could get the rockets the highest. Some could only stand and stare.

JP prepared himself Jonny Wilkinson-style for his turn -

pacing out his run up

controlling his breathing

in the zone...

The result is spectacular. I wonder if zoologists can be part-time rocket scientists?