Today I’m going to share with you, our much appreciated mm readership, a dream I had two years ago. Indeed a dream so fantastic that as soon as I woke up I wrote it all down on three, yes three post-its. These three post-its…
You see, I had very incredibly dreamt an entire episode of Doctor Who. A completelyoriginal episode of Doctor Who that I had in fact made up in my own mind. And you know what? I think this plot has legs.
So without further ado, I give you an unaltered transcript of what is written on those three pieces of partly sticky paper.
Set in a hotel
Aliens force you to keep walking around.
You have to move at a very slow pace. – or etc. get shot.
You gradually forget things, some strong memories will remain.
Dr. leaves clues outside of window to help people remember
4 people, 2 pair off (the couples mix up).
Forgetting things, losing all personality.
Hotel is locked down.
Dr. is out – playing tennis.
Black guy is evil – slagged supporting character about OC during the incident – he shouldn’t have remembered.
It’s been a long wait for Aileen’s dinner and it was well worth it. She hosted us in her beautiful house that seemingly was designed for people who are almost exactly a foot shorter than me to live in.
Starter: Roasted stuffed peppers.
Main: Lamb tagine and Szechuan prawns served with boiled rice and naan.
Dessert: Banoffee pie.
Conversation topics included:
The famous, Anthony having a really nice two hour chat with a man on the train only to find out that he was being hit on by the gay man the day after via email, Alan Cameron, lamb, resolving political conflicts with lesbians and something that was worse than Super Chunks but I can’t remember.
That banoffee pie was absolutely ridiculous… The whole thing was quickly finished by everyone. The rest of the dinner was also very, very delicious.
The night was finished with a couple rounds of the post-it-on-your-head-guessing-game. Aileen failed miserably to guess that she was the male, unemployed, intelligent, not famous, not overweight, Anthony Silkoff.
Woah there. That’s a big claim to be making right there. Like Jesus saying he’s no longer interested in the meek, or Dylan saying he’s no longer keen on folk (oh wait…).
Today was the day I finally lost interest in elite football. Or more truthfully, lost interest in the people who run the game. Tony Adams gets 16 games at Portsmouth, is forced to sell his two best players (Defoe and the Prince), and is given so little money that he has to play David Nugent on a regular basis. Equally as bad, Scolari, a world-cup winner and one of the biggest names in world football management, has 7 months at a Chelsea that was already past its best when Mourinho was sacked. And he too told was that there was no money left.
Both these managers are honest hard-workers, who will be successful elsewhere, in other leagues and for other teams. But the Premiership now looks ridiculous, a mickey mouse league worse than the MLS, where money is the only commodity that counts, and where commitment, passion, and dedication are all sacrificed to short-term success.
In all this, do not forget the role of the fans. Nobody is going to give Chelsea or Portsmouth fans any praise for being the shiniest spanners in the toolbox. But to be calling for your manager to be sacked when you’re team is 4th in the league, or was 5 minutes away from beating Liverpool, is plain old nonsense. A pox on both their houses.
And I hope David Moyes uses common sense and stays put at Everton, a club which is reaping the rewards of trusting a manager and backing him even through the tough times. Most clubs could learn a lesson.
With our readership being bumped up to three since Thomas read his first blog in six months it’s about time I returned to the fray with a quick entry. Similar to when I was in Berlin, I feel like I’ve missed out on everything going on in grand UK, snow being the main topic of conversation for old people, boring people and complainers (who really belong in the boring people bracket). I have felt left out simply because I haven’t blogged and, since Monday morning, there hasn’t been a flake of the white stuff in Lancashire. Nope. Manchester remains surrounded by the same old verdant fields… Well… they would be verdant, except for all the years of smoke and shit weather. Anyway, they’re certainly not white.
So when you combine weather, people and the NFL season ending, it’s a pretty shocking formula for depression. It’s enough to give anyone the February blues. But then Ireland and the Six Nations gambol into our lives again and raise our spirits. Having stoically followed this rugby team throughout the World Cup, last year’s Six Nations and the recent autumn internationals, there wasn’t much to hope for. Typical then that it turned out to be the most exhilarating game of rugby I have watched since… the last time France played. Made all the better by the fact that for once Ireland were the victors and not those nasty Bleus.
So thanks Ireland. And thanks England too. You’re as duff as ever.
