Big Brother's Little Scummer

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.

Stag do of convenience

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.

New Phenomenon Kris Krossing Europe

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.

Final Preparation Part 2

I fully appreciate that it could now be reasonably expected that I would post an article about the actual Flora London Marathon, now that it has finished and I may or may not have completed it. I don't think I'll be giving anything away by saying I didn't win it.



The cleverly titled previous instalment said very little about the two principle occurences of FA Cup semi-final weekend, which became bizarrely intertwined.



One, those who give a tinker's cuss about my actual training will be pleased to hear, involved positioning myself on a treadmill where I could line up several bottles of Lucozade, carb gels and other energy sources, plugging in my headphones and attempting to run for 20 miles. I only flipping managed it. In under three hours too, which pleased me greatly.



Once again to thank to a large degree were the good people behind Sky Sports 1's Sunday morning scheduling. Goals on Sunday is such an easy watch it's fantastic. There's a very stark contrast to Match of the Day, which seems to have a narcoleptic effect that can be very contageous, much like Chris Kamara. There was an occasion not too long ago when my flatmate and I both did our usual slip into unconsciousness as Lee Dixon or Alan Shearer almost as soon as the opening sequence ended. This was all well and good in the comfort of your own home, but looked plain rude when we had another mate round and he ended up having to pump up the volume to drown out the snoring.



It's a sad state of affairs to be honest as I've apparently always had an affection for the BBC's flagship football property. According to my mum I used to sleepwalk as a kid most Saturday nights, arriving at the lounge door when the music sounded, sitting quietly in front of the television for the duration and disappearing back to bed when the credits rolled. It's entirely possible that I was completely aware of what I was doing, but I have no recollection. It's also more than likely that this is why I have a deep affection for Barry Davies and, for no other discernible reason, Jimmy Hill.



Which brings me very neatly on to the programme formerly known as Jimmy Hill's Sunday Supplement. I say formerly because the eponymous hero, whose fictional kitchen was the original setting and whose wife we were supposed to believe had provided the bowl of plastic pastries adorning the discussion table, has been cruelly sidelined.



Sunday Supplement, now presented by the improbably coiffured Brian Woolnough and invariably featuring at least one of his Daily Star colleagues, is still eminently watchable. It is, effectively, the only football show not tainted by the inevitably skewed opinions of ex-pros. It is also extremely surreal to watch it on a Sunday morning the day after sitting at a table in the Wembley press room next to a gaggle of Supplement regulars, you've guessed it, eating breakfast and discussing football.



There are a couple of major differences between the organic and the manufactured version. For a start, they swear. Not quite as bad as Stephen Bywater but blue enough. They clearly, to someone from the outside looking in, rule the roost in the press room as a gang. Martin Samuel effectively held court while the pack waited for Harry Redknapp's victorious press conference (incidentally Redknapp waltzed into the plush Wembley press theatre and stuck his chewing gum on the bottom of the table. Bloody peasant), while Woolnough, to the TV viewer the man in charge, is far less assuming than one might expect, resembling instead a coy miniature Clarkson.



The other major difference is that they actually eat the food provided. Obviously they have to eat sometime and who would begrudge a man who has to spend his Saturdays at work having a bit of a feed? As a friend of mine said after watching a particular member of the press get up after 40 minutes of an England international to avail himself of the buffet, "it's definitely not glandular". He's not in a position to publish his line, but I felt it deserved a public airing.



I have a healthy dose of respect for the members of the Supplement panel, as I say, for their honest and comparatively agenda-free appraisal of the events of the day. It presents one with a dilemma, however, when trying to discuss what was said on the programme in a similar setting in earshot of the people you're discussing. It's like when the big screen is showing live pictures and creeps into shot. You just get an endless sequence of shots of a screen showing a screen showing a screen. I could go on. I've plenty of stamina.

Final Preparation

I should do this for a living, I really should. Final preparation refers to the last few days before the marathon and also the fact that I went to both of the FA Cup semi-finals at the brand spanking new, all-singing, all-dancing Wembley Stadium. You see, there's a double meaning. I find people like me more if I explain all my jokes and why I'm clever.

Moving on, I ought to explain myself. Not on the basis of this erratic blog or my main form of employment (obviously my only form of employment if the taxman or indeed my main employer is reading), I managed to secure a position in the press box at Wembley for not one, not two, but, oh, two actually, both in fact, semi-finals of the FA Cup in association with E-On at the brand new Wemlbey stadium swponsored by, among others, Betfred and npower.

To be as tangential as usual, I'm unure as to who to credit the power behind the semis and the final of the FA Cup to. As a sponsor I would be very unhappy if I was npower, the official energy supplier to Wembley (and Rugby League's Superleague, which always seems far more energetic) that E-On are the energy behind the FA Cup. If you consider there can't be more than a dozen or so games at Wembley each season, there's a clash for a quarter of them if all FA Cup semis are to be played there and E-On continue their association.

As someone who buys advertising space for a living, the concept of 'solus' brands, ie the only brand of a certain type to be associated with a certain publication or event at a certain time, is inherent. Quite who at E-On or npower thought that either of their brands could somehow co-exist at an FA Cup semi or final at Wembley is a mystery to me. There's a serious devaluation for all concerned.

My professional opinion aside, we'll move back to the layman's stuff. Not to be confused with the Lehmann's stuff, which this week has involved the throwing off of all shackles into an Incredible Hulk style hissy fit of 'if I'd been in goal we wouldn't have lost to Liverpool' that has been simmering all along underneath the 'I'll wait for my chance and Almunia is a good lad' bravado.

To get the whole Wembley for the semi-finals and final out of the way, there was something slightly incongruous about the whole weekend. Portsmouth fans began to sing 'We're going to Wembley' in Wembley. Irony wasn't exactly prevalent on the day, replaced by 1980s sincerity that usually comes along with any English provincial events that move into the public consciousness (just look at the Shannon Matthews coverage). I genuinely think they were confused. I appreciate the need to milk the Wembley cash cow, but the Emirates would have provided a sumptuous setting for West Brom and Portsmouth, while Villa Park, Anfield or Old Trafford would have done the trick for Barnsley and Cardiff. Much as Manchester United and Arsenal shouldn't have to play neutral games in venues smaller than their own grounds, as they have had to on numerous occasions.

There were a couple of extremely surreal experiences surrounding my Wembley days out, which I will go into in my next missive. Neither of them involved the opportunity to steal Graham Taylor's well-lavelled 'football file' which I had the split second chance to steal three years ago in the press room at Southampton's St Mary's Stadium. I briefly saw the former England boss in the East Media Lounge but the folder was nowhere to be seen. I would suspect he wouldn't have much information in it pertaining to Cardiff or Barnsley anyway, although Kayode Odejayi could have filed himself in the same tab as England's Geoff Thomas (can you believe neither of these is on YouTube?) for ridiculous Wembley misses.