Popular beat combo McFly (I love the phrase popular beat combo) are moving in the direction of Prince and Paul McCartney by giving away their new album with the Mail on Sunday.
While the newspaper's readership may seem far more suited to long-established acts, McFly, who are all in their early twenties and younger than many of their predecessors' biggest hits, recently split from record label Universal to set up their own label, Super Records.
The album, Radio:ACTIVE, will be their first on the new label and will go out with every copy of the newspaper on July 20th. It will differ from Prince's effort, Planet Earth in that it will also be available in 'deluxe' edition to buy through retailers in September. McCartney's Memory Almost Full was only available in Starbucks.
I always thought it would be Darren Huckerby. I know that can be taken a number of ways, particularly in light of the groundbreaking You Tube hit that I can't get out of my head.
Norwich City players on MTV is my point. Ashley Ward, the kind of film-star looks footballer who could have been David Beckham but lamentably never was, was on the excellent Footballers' Cribs, but that was long after his sadly brief tenure as the Canaries' great hope had ended, and I suspect had more to do with his interior designer wife, who I believe has designed gaffs for the likes of the Rooneys, among others. When I get a minute I'll write more about Ward, in particular a post-match interview I remember with It's A Knockout's Stuart Hall, and the whole Footballers' Cribs thing.
Anyway, Darren Huckerby has yet to make his MTV debut, to my knowledge. While Dion Dublin has followed the likes of other ex-Canaries Andy Townsend (minus the Tactics Truck, now allegedly the home of The Onion Bag ) and the terminally uninteresting Tim Sherwood into the pundits' little glass box, Darren Eadie has popped up on Sky from time to time, Efan Ekoku is rolled out for the African Nations by the BBC and the rest of the time is a superb pundit on international coverage of the Premier League, and even Jeremy Goss and Bryan Gunn got on A Question of Sport back in the olden days. The days when it wasn't a joke.
None of this illustrious band of former yellows can match Jason Shackell. I saw a very young Jason (he's still only 25 to be fair) play for Norwich as a left back at Crystal Palace the season we were promoted back into the Premiership (as it was at the time). Then, I suspected he would go the way of a Shaun Carey or Cedric Anselin , particularly as I'd seen pretty spectacular early promise in Paul Dalglish and Marc Libbra, both of whom went on to achieve nothing.
Little did I suspect that Shackell would become a young Norwich skipper. Much less did I realise he had pin-up potential to rival even Ashley Ward himself.
Yet he has. Shackell was rumoured to have appeared in a 'reality TV programme', but nothing much was made of it. I know they struggle for stars on some of these 'celebrity' shows, but a Norwich player would be a real stretch, and I'm an ardent fan. No, Jason and his lady-talking ways managed to wander into an American show, The Hills, and even made the final cut.
If you watch the clip I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions. He's hardly the footballing equivalent of Russell Brand, but then it's still pretty impressive. Most lads go on holiday to pull random slappers from Mansfield (apologies to anyone from Mansfield, I had to choose somewhere. Everywhere has slappers, not Mansfield in particular. I've never been there to be honest, so it might have none. It's a fair bet there are a few though.), or suspiciously young locals.
You don't expect to head to the States, walk into the living set of a vacuous bunch of Beverly Hills natives so remarkable in their shallowness that MTV have been moved to share it with the world. Let alone get somewhere with one of them. And then head home to carve the notch on your own bedpost.
There have been a couple of Norwich youngsters who have had medium profile nightlife blunders in recent months. Initially outstanding midfielder Matty Pattison's less impressive performances culminated in getting his collar felt allegedly trying to drive to training on a Sunday under the influence. It may have had something to do with living in a travel tavern a la Alan Partridge. He'd probably been at the Ladyboys:
Young striking sensation Chris Martin, not to be confused with the Coldplay singer, has managed to destroy his reputation as rapidly and spectacularly as it was built. Apart from his lardy, lethargic performances, he has also apparently got himself barred from all the pubs in his home town of Beccles.
The pair of them need to buckle down and try to hit the heights of Sir Jason. You've pulled like a superstar, now bloody play like one.
I've always felt a strangely compelling urge to follow football as closely as possible whenever a match of any remote interest is on. Nowadays, of course, there are myriad ways of finding out whatever you want about a game going on almost anywhere in the world. It wasn't always so.
The days of watching matches unfold on Teletext (or Ceefax, sometimes one half each, always stick with one when a goal is scored for your team) seem a hell of a long time ago. The development of the beloved Gillette Soccer Saturday has rendered it pretty much obsolete, but its spirit lives on in the basic, slow and highly unreliable 'live' scores available on most mobile phones.
Until recently I made as much use as necessary of this rudimentary system, which didn't even have the decency to show scorers on the main score page, and even when you've clicked through fails to distinguish own goal scorers from others, as well as ignoring incidents like red cards. Even Teletext managed, and it must be a while ago because of the individual and event involved, to catalogue a 'Salako stretchered off' during a Zenith Data Systems Cup Final.
I can't help feeling that the old televisual text missed a bit of a trick. The driving force behind this is the BBC Website's brilliant Live Text coverage of matches, often in the company of the vaguely demented Caroline Cheese.
Cheese, who is apparently a real person and of whom I have even managed to track down video footage, brings a lot to what must be an incredibly arduous task.
She'll often, at least in my imagination, be sitting watching several matches at once while simultaneously chronicling both for the usually sky-less public. The live feeds are so beloved that they have extended them to sports like cricket and golf (try betting on the US Open in play with only this as a tool. You won't make money).
I've even sat among the respected members of the press at Wembley and seen several checking their facts by referencing Ms Cheese or one of her colleagues. Now there's a ringing endorsement.
Much like the Guardian's take on the same technique, irreverent humour plays a big part in the unfolding events. It was this that led me to start trawling around on the ultimately disappointing quest to see if Cheese actually existed, or was a made-up 'staffer'. I don't suppose you could make it up.
Unless you work in Google's offices, where most of the walls seem to be working white boards (I'd still be reluctant to write anywhere in case they weren't), it would be quite handy to have a portable feature for recording brainstorms.
I recall a meeting during which our department bandied around some fairly ridiculous initial ideas for a Media Owner competition. Thanks to our quick-thinking boss, who faithfully recorded some of the rubbish that was suggested (a lot by me) and then took a snap of the board, we were able to capture all the ideas, develop them and ultimately win the competition.
You can now potentially cut out the middleman, however, using Dabbleboard, a web-based whiteboard which converts free-hand shapes to proper shapes that can have text inserted, and allows archiving and sharing of files.
There is more of a guide to the application, which is currently in Beta, here. I wish I could say the examples here were mine, but they aren't. Sorry.
I wasn't planning on using this blog to plagiarise other people, but I've just come across one of the most amazing phenomena on Neil Perkins' Blog and I want to share it:
Face Your Pockets is the name, sticking your face in the middle of a scanner, surrounded by the contents of your pockets, is the game.
Having just returned from seeing the Glasgow School of Art Degree Show over the weekend, which featured all manner of delights to open the eyes of anyone rooted in the mainstream as I am, the concept of such a simple but artistically effective form of popular and accessible art seems brilliant.
I'm going to make sure to set up my printer/scanner at home that's been sitting there in the box since Christmas and have a go at 'facing my own pockets', which sounds like an excellent euphamism for 'having a long hard look at yourself'.
In case you hadn't noticed, Big Brother has started again, for the ninth time. I'm never sure how easy it is for anybody else to avoid events like this. For me, an avid television viewer at the best of times, and who lives with a girlfriend who works for a major tabloid newspaper, they're unavoidable.
The only Big Brother I missed was when I lived in Japan in 2002. I don't know if it was the best series, but it spawned the likes of Jade Goody and the lovely Kate Lawler, and seemed from what I've learnt of it since to be one of the most innovative of the eight completed 'competitions'.
Lawler, who went on to present the vastly underrated Channel 4 breakfast programme Rise, ran the Flora London Marathon this year. I ran past her and nearly fell over (she ran it in her pants). The marathon provides a snapshot for the differences between Lawler and Goody, who collapsed due to lack of training on her attempt at the distance a couple of years ago.
So far this year, I've managed to miss most of it since the launch show. I've gathered there's a love triangle involving a girl who is apparently a friend of Peter Crouch's girlfriend Abigail Clancy. It's a situation engineered by Big Brother and involving the show's first couple to enter the house together. I haven't seen a betting market for whether they'll split up before the end, but I'd fancy backing it.
The most interesting thing I've discovered today about Big Brother is likely to be of limited interest to the average punter, but will give Norwich fans something to latch on to. The first albino contestant (is this something to be celebrated? Why not!), 26-year-old songwriter Darnell, is apparently the nephew of former Ipswich Town man Jason Dozzell!
Times must be hard for Dozzell, described ludicrously by the Daily Star as a 'former England star (for the under-21s, which makes Cedric Anselin a 'former France star'). He's only 40 yet, even with all his international glitz and glamour he's reduced to becoming a rent-a-quote for reality TV. Craig Forrest is a big name TV commentator back in his native Canada, and he was involved in this:
As a former tormentor in chief of the Canaries, it's certainly a cautionary tale for young Danny Haynes as he ponders a move to the Premier League and hopefully out of the way of Norwich at least for one merciful season.
So now I've decided who to hate, I just need to work out who to like. It's most likely to be the sexy blond, as I'm pretty shallow. Besides, I would find it difficult to trust any of the blokes who would enter Big Brother in a normal European Championships summer because I wouldn't understand how they could miss a major tournament. Steve McClaren's efforts ensured there would be no England, but it is still preferable to watch an England-less Euro 2008 than to spend 13 weeks or so surrounded by dimwits slowly undermining everything you will subsequently try to achieve in your life. Fabio Capello will know what I mean when it comes to the World Cup in South Africa.
The British, in particular the English, have a reputation for sticking their noses in where it isn't always wanted. Arrogance, some call it. It's possibly why our tourists are the most hated in Europe.
There are a limited number of bean counters lamenting the absence of the 'Home Nations' from Euro 2008, and not just because of the old hooligan thing. Come to think of it, what does everybody else call the Home Nations? We can't impose upon others to refer to our home as home, can we? Arrogance, you see.
Anyway, in our peculiar way, it looks likely that the major footballing story of this weekend will occur away from Austria and Switzerland, and even away from any of the recognised Home Nations. All eyes will be on that corner of the Mediterranean that is forever England - Ibiza.
Wayne Rooney, albeit a little too late, has in a sense saved the football-loving British public. An event such as his wedding to Coleen McLoughlin unites the nation in a way only success in major tournaments can.
The lads can marvel at the drinking exploits of 'Wazza' and co, as well as confirm in their minds that Peter Crouch and Steven Gerrard are sound blokes who you'd invite on your stag do, while John 'JT' Terry and Frank 'Why Does Everyone Call Him Fat Frank If He's Not Fat' Lampard (I can't recall exactly which woman asked me this, in fact I'm pretty sure it has been more than one. Answer - because it's funny) are not invited because they're a pair of preening, whinging, bell-ends. Of course if you don't like Rooney you may feel the opposite is true. But who doesn't like Peter Crouch as a bloke, I mean really?
The chicks, on the other hand (as I'm making sweeping generalisations I may as well use sexist terms) will get a great kick out of a second major fashion event of the nascent summer. After Sex and the City: The One That Your Boyfriend Will Mercilessly Never Have To Sit Through, it's lovely little, down-to-earth Coleen's lovely glamorous pie-in-the-sky £10million magazine-sponsored wedding.
It's the biggest event since Gazza and Sheryl after Euro 96. But would you have swapped Euro 96, Officially The Greatest Summer Ever TM, for a few shots of Gascoigne and David Seaman in horrendously dated suits drinking champers while Chris Evans spins the tunes?
Of course not, and it's not going to stop us watching Germany or whoever play each other and probably spit at each other like Voeller and Rijkaard show us about the continental game:
It's just we don't want to forget, do we, that we still love the likes of Rooney even if we felt awfully let down by the whole qualification farrago. And I will make you a fair bet that the incredibly sad plight of Paul Gascoigne as he is today, which will never diminish how he was, or Wayne Rooney's attempts to become a latter day version of his former hero, will push whatever happens in the Away Nations off the front pages next week.
It's been a couple of weeks and the dust has settled on the whirlwind end to the English football season. Aside from the tears, the transfers and the totally ridiculous managerial sackings, one big question remains: when did Sylvain Distin and Nani re-form early nineties rap duo Kris Kross?
What the hell am I on about, I hear you ask. You haven't been paying attention, I smugly retort. It's a theme which I am fully prepared to wager (I am now mildly addicted to Betfair - there's probably a market for it) will be seen at the climax of the imminent European Championships, if not before - the reversal of clothing a la the main gimmick of Kris Kross) as a celebration.
Distin, hitherto not the biggest trendsetter in the image-conscious Premier League (bear in mind that Steve Bruce's move from Birmingham to Wigan was held up by a dispute over an 'image' payment. Steve Bruce!) during his time with Newcastle and Manchester City, while an improbable number of Portsmouth teammates were draped in African flags and huge baseball caps, quietly turned his shirt around. Not a particularly grand gesture, but the action wasn't the important bit.
Elano scored a goal for Manchester City in an FA Cup match televised on the BBC earlier this season and made the most cack-handed attempt to turn his shirt around I've ever seen. he couldn't get his arm out. As far as beginning a new phenomenon goes, nobody there at the time would have had a clue what they had just witnessed.
Distin, who has always reminded me of Simon Webbe of the once popular beat combo Blue (much in the same way Slaven Bilic puts me in mind of Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20), made history that day at Wembley by keeping his shirt backwards even when ascending the ridiculously long and arduous set of steps, tunnels and nooks and crannies, much like Escher's House of Stairs.
On all the photos people might forget which one was Kanu, Lassana Diarra may become a footnote in Pompey history (although he looks more likely to become one of their best ever players from what I've seen), but Distin will live long in the memory for having his name on his front. A very shrewd piece of self-marketing which will ensure that, at the very least, nobody in the future will ever think a member of Blue won the FA Cup.
Evidence that this new trend is set to spread beyond these shores and the more-parochial-than-we-are-ever-allowed-to-believe FA Cup final came in the Champions League final when Manchester United's Ronaldo of three years ago Nani, who I'm not sure played any part in the game and can't be arsed to look it up, 'did a Distin'. I can't help feeling that Nani's gesture was somewhat overshadowed by other events. Ronaldo was trying to eat his medal, John Terry was crying, Ronaldo was crying, John Terry was trying to eat Ronaldo. It was all very confusing and it was late. I may have got some of this wrong.
So, who are the prime candidates to join the Mac Daddy (Distin) and the Daddy Mac (Nani) and make you want to Jump? Obviously if Portugal achieve anything, Nani will no doubt be at the vanguard of the festivities. Otherwise I'd place an outside bet on the Romanians. Remember when they all bleached their hair blond to celebrate getting to the second round of the World Cup? Surviving the group of death would be worth making sure everybody knew your name. And not just in that rubbish way players do when they look over their shoulder and point at their back.
