Sunday Soiree

A couple of weeks ago (or thereabouts), DJD and I found ourselves soaking up the ambience that can only be offered at a Neasden Polish disco, which was seen to be the choice option in Neasden for Saturday night soirees. This choice was based essentially on two things; it looks the safest option, and it was the closest to my place, in case I/we needed to get out of there – and home – in a hurry. These are the things that you need to think of when ‘partying’ in these parts. However, for football viewing, we found that ‘The Outside Inn’ (TOI) was the place to be, and the two reasons for this choice were: not dark and dingy, and the cheapest beer in town (£1.35 pints of John Smith bitter). You need reasons to go to pubs!

Yesterday afternoon we decided to watch the game (Tottenham vs Newcastle), so we meandered down to TOI in the hope of seeing Newcastle self combust again, but since Dyer and Bowyer were suspended for fighting each other in the previous match, it limited the chances. DJD was keen to place a bet, and not too surprisingly there were good odds being offered for Newcastle, so he laid on a fiver on this horse, hoping Shearer could ride them to victory. Personally, I was looking to put a couple of quid on Peter Ramage to rabbit punch Nicky Butt during the game, but my hopes of seeing the “Butt attacked from behind by Ramage” headline wasn’t to happen, as P-Ram wasn’t selected in the Newcastle lineup! It could have been a great day for journalism, but obviously, it wasn’t, and today isn’t either…..obviously.

So we cruise into TOI and the month’s beer special is Guinness for £1.59 a pint, so it’s all good so far, the Skysports is playing on the plasmas, so we settle in for the long haul, only the game never comes. You see, TOI doesn’t have the right Sky Channel, so I’m there sipping an ale, DJD nursing his pint of lemonade (and no, I’m not taking the piss) and we’re watching all the sporting updates from around the globe. But still no football! We did see that the Aussie chicks won the cricket world cup, but the game was what we’d come for…..and the game – it would seem – was not being played at TOI.

At this stage, it is ‘options’ time, being 15 minutes into the first half, so we could either take a walk back up to our local Polish haunt (4 minutes) or the 30 second traverse to ‘Diceys’, which is probably the most aptly named establishment in the Northern Hemisphere. Since we’re blokes, we choose the 30 second option, and purely because we’re lazy, not because it’s some warped representation of our prowess in the bedroom, not that I’d want to speak for DJD!

Diceys…..where does one start?! We open the door, and there’s three screens playing hurling, which don’t get me wrong is a good sport, but given the choice of that or Football, it’s a no-brainer. I wanted to yell in a Brummie accents “is this a fooken paddy pub? What’s this shite!”, but survival instincts took control, and after further investigations, we found that the football was being shown on a large screen out the back bar, so our fears were allayed, albeit temporarily.

DJD scoped out the environs, selecting a location to watch the game, whilst I performed my civic duty, and bought myself a pint of Guinness, and DJD an orange juice. At this stage I decided that Reading was not a place to go, as it had turned DJD into a screaming nancy, well that and the fact that my only other reference to Reading was this chick I met when living in Alice Springs, called Claire. She had a ‘great personality’, was generally can-tastic, but pulled the old ‘if you don’t sleep with me, I’ll commit suicide’ line. Perhaps I was drunk at the time, and the suicide comment was based on what she’d prefer given the option of sleeping with me, I don’t really know?! Anyway, as desperate as I generally am, I passed on that option, and that led to one of the funnier ‘Alice’ moments, but a court order gags me from discussing THAT episode….But anyway, I’m no anti-Reading-ite, so don’t take offense all you reading from Reading! And Claire, if you’re reading, I was joking when I said that your friend was the preferred method of transport, really!

Soooooooooo, back to our surrounds. DJD is sitting down, and I’m ordering drinks, and standing in front of me is the real life ‘Groundskeeper Willie’ sans beard. But from one look at this guy, he’s obviously insane! He’s got that wild look in his eyes, and he’s literally twitching, and staring straight at my face! Scared? Damn straight, I was touching cloth there, hoping the smegging barmaid would hurry up with my drinks before this freaks metal plates sent him into a psycho-pathic rage. But in the meantime, I do everything I can to avoid eye contact, which is hard if you want to check out if you’re about to be glassed….as I’m evading his gaze, I spot a Staffordshire crawling under DJD. Now I’m concerned for two reasons; I’ve seen two dogs in this country which were both Staffordshires, and secondly; there’s a fucking dog in the pub!!

I don’t claim to be particularly knowledgeable when it comes to health and safety, but a mangy fucking mutt wandering inside a pub doesn’t seem overly hygienic, but I guess it’s all relative, and on further investigation, it’s probably safe to say that the dog was as clean – if not cleaner – than the clientele.

Previously, we’d been to the ‘Redback’ and we saw some bona fide freaks, but this place was equally freaky, but a ‘less safe’ type of freaky, not the type I prefer, given an option. Playing pool in the corner were a group of Indians (the curry kind, not the Comanche variety), there were a group of yobbo Brits saying ‘fook’ a lot, looking impossibly aggressive and cuddling their Staffordshire like it was a kid, whilst their baby was crawling around on the floor, only making noise when it became stuck and entangled on the viscous grime which turned the venue into a quagmire. Behind us, there was a group of English guys, who looked like they’d feature on an episode of ‘Rohypnol – The Date Rape Drug of Choice’, and a pair of strangely shaped characters in front of us who DJD pointed out, with a casual, ‘man, look at those two ugly old chicks kissing’. It was a motley crew indeed, and I’m not sure we were wiser for the experience, but at least it had the game, and what a shit game it was.

The highlight from the game was DJD’s face when it was discovered that one of the ‘ugly old chicks kissing’ was actually a guy. Gold, pure gold! But I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one, I doubt he’d have taken a crack at either of them anyway, but that’s mainly because he was drinking lemonade and OJ. You see, Reading definitely has it’s ups!

Newcastle played like utter dogs, and although Tottenham didn’t look particularly good, it was bound to be an inglorious game, with only a brain-explosion from Harper being the set-up for Jermaine Dafoe’s winning (and only) goal. I was so glad to have spend 75 minutes in Neasden’s own private ‘Deliverance’, and the prospect of ‘Real Madrid vs Barcelona’ was just the tonic and impetus we needed to remain, which in retrospect boggles the mind, particularly since the cleanest place was the toilets, which we put down to the fact that no-one used them, and probably explains the strange looks we got when going to/from the can. Either the locals thought we were mad for walking 5 metres to the toilet, or they just didn’t know what lie beyond the doors with ‘Gentlemen’ scribed upon them. On reflection, this does make sense!

Confident having survived over an our in ‘Diceys’, we figure that watching a game featuring arguably two of the greatest teams on the planet on a big screen isn’t a bad idea, when the bar-thing announced that they were shutting down the screen, because ‘the band is about to set-up’. Leading to this exchange:-

CBJ:- ‘Band, what band?’
BarThing:- ‘Those guys, our Sunday band!’
CBJ:- ‘Ok…..’

Bar Thing meanders off….

CBJ:- ‘Can you believe this? Look at these guys, that guy's one of the original Village People! Are they going to crank out ‘YMCA’ for us?’
DJD:- ‘Young man, there's a place you can go. I said, young man, when you're short on your dough. You can stay there, and I'm sure you will find many ways to have a good time.’
CBJ:- ‘Frightening! DJD, putting the DJ back into DJD!’

Upon set-up, the ‘lead singer’ dons a tie and does his best Blues Brother impression…. We see this ending badly, very badly….

The game was an out and out cracker! And even though we were forced to watch it on smaller screens, it was one of the better La Liga matches I’ve ever seen.

4-2 to Real. Goals all round! Zidane, Ronaldo, Raul, Owen, Eto’o and Ronaldinho!!!! A veritable whose who of world football.

All this excitement, with Country & Western – Neasden style, pumping in the background!!! (No Village People, unfortunately!).

And what's more, Willie Nelson, no less!!! It doesn't get any better than this....

Ronaldinho takes on Helguera….Promise me, son, not to do the things I've done,
Great challenge by Helguera!!...Walk away from trouble if you can
Beckham brings it down the right….Now it don't mean you're weak if you turn the other cheek.
Beckham sends the cross in.…I hope you're old enough to understand:
Good save by Valdes….Son, you don't have to fight to be a man!


Verdict:-

Unless you’re up for some ‘Sunday Country’, or there’s nowhere else (on the planet) showing the game, avoid this place. Avoid it like the plague!!!!

Classy or just a fat plonker???

No, I'm not referring to my good self, rather a sentence that I read on 'The Age' website..

"Essendon has erred on the side of caution for tomorrow's clash with the Hawks, by not recalling classy midfielder Dean Rioli."

Since when has the lard-arse been classy? He misses 6-12 games every year because he's a fat lump of shit, and when he does play, he can't run out a full game, but because he's Aboriginal, it's ok. Difference with him is that because he's fat and slow, they can't call him "an excitement machine" nor can they call him "a livewire" so in lieu of the ill-fitting media labels they are unable to place on him, they label him as "classy", fuck me!!

I'd be chanting the following, if I was in Australia:-

He's fat, not class;
So sack his chunky arse!
Rioliiii, Rioliiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rioli:- He's about as classy as Geelong's performance against the Dee's. No Good!

Four things about Chelsea that piss me off...

Apparently Chelsea is a very nice place, with some really chic places to hang out in, and rather than give the impression that I have an issue with Chelsea (the place), let's get it straight from the outset, my 'beef' is with the football club.

Admittedly, this 'broadside' will no doubt be put down to jealously from any Chelsea fans, but I'm not in the least bit jealous about their method in obtaining the glory, because teams like Manchester United (and all the top Spanish and Italian teams for that matter) have been doing it for years, but Roman Abramovich has just made it so 'in your face', that it's finally got to a stage where people from all quarters are really looking to de-value Chelsea's success on the back of the insane money that Abramovich is throwing into the ring to purchase a few trophies.

So let's count out four of the best reasons about Chelsea:

1. John Terry
2. Jose Mourinho
3. Mateja Kezman
4. The 'scapegoat' effect

John Terry:-

Don't get me wrong, he is one of the finest English defenders in the game today, and if it wasn't for the two best English central defenders of the last ten years (Campbell & Ferdinand) he'd be a total no-brainer to hold the key defensive spot, and I wont deny that, but my dislike of John Terry is not based on his skill, it's on who he thinks he is.

Tell me this, who the fuck is this guy? And why has he suddenly become the media darling that he is? I need to know this! This year - whilst riding on Roman's gravy train - he's suddenly become an outspoken wanker who seemingly has a fucking opinion about everything, few of which are at best plausible.

Every morning, when getting the tube to work, I read the local free London rag (the 'Metro') and without fail, there's always some dickhead comment by John Terry in there, with a reference to 'Captain Couragous' or some other bullshit monikor. It really gives me the shits!

Fair enough, he's about the only decent Chelsea player that's graduated from the lower ranks, and on the field, he is an exceptional player; as such he's to be afforded some leeway. However, I'd argue that any token leeway has now been used up, and the actuality of the situation requires the media place a gag on this dimwitted fool.

This morning's 'Terry-ism' had him not only whinging about Michael Ballack apparently taking a dive, but yet another Chelsea anti-referee crybaby effort. This is just a team of fucking wimpy upstarts and UEFA need to ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING about them. It's pretty evident that Chelsea have no problems in paying fines, and it doesn't take any degree of intelligence to figure out that their demeanour is only going to get worse unless they are put back in their place.

Then again, maybe the press are just making John Terry a media darling because he sounds more switched on than that dumb fuck Rio Ferdinand....if so, it's still no excuse!

John Terry, you are a fuckin' wanker!

Jose Mourinho

The guy can coach, and from all accounts, his training sessions are ran like clockwork, and he ensures a consummately professional environment, but fuck him! He's just a manipulative fuck, it's as simple as that. Seeing the bullshit that went on after the first leg against Barcelona Mourinho pulled his spoiled-brat-crybaby routine, and fabricated enough bullshit to whip the English media and dumbarse Chelsea fans into a state of frenzy, which not too surprisingly led to Anders Frisk pulling the pin, on the basis of receiving death threats.

I'm not for one minute accusing Mourinho of wanting death threats to result from the process, but it's pretty plain to see that he wanted to focus enough spotlight on UEFA and the refereeing in general, in order to force UEFA's hand. It certainly worked, and although some may claim that this reaffirms his 'success' or some other such horseshit, I maintain that it reaffirms how much of a cock the guy is!

Of course, it doesn't end here! With a 'radical' two match UEFA ban, our little crybaby Mourinho decides to 'boycott' the match, citing (or pulling the press puppet strings) a total disappointment in Chelsea in not appealing against the ban. Once again, the marionnette effort works, and suddenly he's getting offered an extra £20,000 a week to stay on....fuck me!

Jose Mourinho, you are an arseclown! Sure, you can manipulate like few others, but an arseclown you remain!

Mateja Kezman

So let me get this straight... you play for Chelsea, you have a midfield consisting of Lampard, Cole, Duff, Geremi, Makelele, Tiago, Parker and Arjen Robben and you're not scoring goals? Are you fucking kidding me? No really! You must be kidding?! The only goals that Kezman can score at this club are the goal-line skirmishes from a foot, and these are far too few and far between for a 'top level striker' which I think he's loosely been called in the past.

What I think seriously happened here was that Mateja Kezman was killed in some Serbian conflict and PSV - realising their striker was no more - actually contacted Dylan Lewis (formally from ABC's 'Recovery') who had was trying to actually overcome his own death (career-wise), struck up an agreement, and was subsequently on-sold to Chelsea. Check out their profiles some time, and tell me it's not what happened. I would score more goals than Kezman if I played for Chelsea, and I'm certainly not the footballer that Dylan Lewis is. Shithouse!! Yet another quality Chelsea buy. Put him up there in the productivity stakes with Veron & Mutu!

The 'scapegoat' effect

This is more a jibe at the excuse that clubs can use in not winning the title than a direct go at Chelsea itself. Sure, with the purchases that have been made over the past two years, I could manage Chelsea to a few titles, and it's because of this that teams like Arsenal and Manchester United are able to divert attention away from why they've not got close to the title this season, and that rankles, it rankles deeply!

Then again they have certainly splashed out the cash, read it;

• £16,800,000 - Hernan Crespo
• £6,900,000 - Geremi
• £15,800,000 - Adrian Mutu
• £3,800,000 - Alexei Smertin
• £13,900,000 - Claude Makelele
• £7,000,000 - Wayne Bridge
• £17,000,000 - Damien Duff
• £6,000,000 - Glen Johnson
• £6,600,000 - Joe Cole
• £500,000 - Neil Sullivan (I bet this broke the bank)
• £12,500,000 - Juan Sebastion Veron
• £10,000,000 - Scott Parker
• £19,850,000 - Ricardo Carvalho
• £24,000,000 - Didier Drogba
• £8,000,000 - Tiago
• £5,000,000 - Mateja Kezman
• £9,000,000 - Arjen Robben
• £9,000,000 - Petr Cech
• £13,200,000 - Paulo Ferreira

At the very least, £205,000,000 can add some depth to the squad, and it's obviously no surprise that the team is sitting 13 points clear of Manchester United and Arsenal, but it really annoys me that ManUre can - justifiably, no less - use this excuse, and get away with it, when in actual practice, it was Manchester United that have - relatively speaking - been the Chelski of the Premier League historically, and now that they're copping it on the Premiership front, it's easy for their failure to be hidden. Manchester United started this frenzy, but now the tables are turned as Malcolm Glazer's millions aren't as welcome at Old Trafford as Roman's mafia millions are at Stamford Bridge.

Funnily enough, the following players weren't free...

• £29,100,000 - Ruud van Nistelrooy
• £28,100,000 - Juan Sebastion Veron
• £30,000,000 - Wayne Rooney
• £12,850,000 - Louis Saha
• £7,050,000 - Alan Smith
• £3,500,000 - Eric Djemba Djemba
• £2,300,000 - Tim Howard
• £5,930,000 - Kleberson
• £12,240,000 - Christiano Ronaldo
• £6,900,000 - Gabriel Heinze

Yeah, £140M is substantially less than £205M and United purchased around 10 players (to Chelsea's ~20) but they rate far higher in terms of rubbish, so it's hardly fair just to go on about the Premiership being bought, particularly since their spending clip hasn't been historically lethargic. They've just been out-Manchestered!

But fuck I despise the way they can worm out of it now, and for this, I blame Chelsea. May all their fans, coaches and players get rotten cases of gonorrheia!!!

Easter Services

I realise that we're a little past Easter now, but similar to the freedom of information act, there was a need to hang off in posting what could well be considered sensitive materials, and having progressed beyond a week, it's time to briefly chronicle the events that unfolded...

Rumour has it that I'm Catholic, but it's fairly accurate to say that I'm not particularly devout, nor do I practice particularly consistent religious activities, aside from absenteeism. However, when S-Rob asked me if I'd join him at 'The Church' in Kentish Town, I was seemingly swept up in an unprecedented zealous fervour, and promised to join him in the local congregation.

However, I'm not sure that Fosters for breakfast is necessarily the healthiest start to the day, and I wouldn't be one to argue that Fosters consumption doesn't border on crime, but we'll leave that discussion in order to focus on the journey at hand...

So as the three of us pilgrims (S-Rob, Stevie Waugh and I) get on the tube, S-Rob cracks open a couple of cans and we start chugging Fosters in the train. Fortunately, this is London, and drinking in public is almost encouraged, so there's little chance of problems occurring. Well problems consisting of the Bill and public drinking offenses, anyway. For Waugh, not only is Vodka a poor breakfast substitute, it's also something that should - for posterity - be filed under "obvious foreshadowing", if at all learning is capable from this fine stroke-maker. Similar to the form shown in 1985/86 when 14 digs yielded a paltry 172 runs, Waugh struggled mightily with the early pace of 'The Church' and was soon playing and missing at a rapidly alarming rate, but more of that later.....

If you've not visited 'The Church', then you're obviously not an antipodean whose been to London, or you've failed a core component of 'Stereotypical Aussie in London 101', because the place is an institution, and it's an institution for a reason. The place is just chock full of good old fashioned fun, particularly if your definition of 'old fashioned fun' involves good looking individuals dressing up as a cowgirl and getting her gear off! Personally, I find this type of behaviour abhorrent, and I was loudly protesting the exploitative concept, but alas, my cries for equality were drowned out by the outlandish behaviour I was witnessing on stage, which seemed to have been voluntary!!! To make matters worse, and in an obvious act of defiance, the said 'cowgirl' deliberately targeting me, literally thrusting her naked buttocks into my face! It was inexplicable in itself, in how I managed to find myself front and centre at the front row, but only coincidence or divine intervention can truthfully explain it.

As you can see from this I was not particularly impressed by the debauchery of the event, even in the presence of such sobering moralists like S-Rob and his parents....I blame Waugh, and the obvious foreshadowing I casually referred to earlier.

You see, things were going along swimmingly until Gavin Henson's twin was seen prancing around amongst the front rowers. From here, Tugger was on the back foot, as Gav's doppleganger was really bending the back! It wasn't before long until young Tugger was squaring up, but in typical fashion managed to crack it not only through the covers, but ensuring that each ball was dealt with accordingly. But the cavalier innings couldn't last forever, and in the end the dismissal came - quite literally - within inches of the boundary fence, much to the disgust of the onlookers, including S-Rob's parents, who stood spellbound watching the spectacle unfold. It was at this point that Tugger must have traipsed back to the pavilion in disgust, as S-Rob and I didn't catch up until about 10 hours later, in a beer and kebab induced haze.

The sermon at the church ended in typical fashion, with a boatload of choirgirls strutting their stuff on stage, but the congregation ultimately disappointed by the vocal offerings, but not disappointed by the fine array of religious diversity offered in general. With the formalities out of the way, it was time for 'confession', the venue just happened to be a place called 'The Walkabout', which was located in a small and relatively quiet haven known as Shepherds Bush! If the cast from 'Revenge of the Nerds' had been involved, this may have caused quite a stir for Dudley 'Booger' Dawson, but they weren't so it wasn't!!!

Shepherds Bush Walkabout!!! As an Australian in London, could it possibly get any more stereotypical and backpacker-esque than this? If you were doing one of those lame 'on-line purity tests', then this would surely tip you over the edge, and probably into the category of "Stupid fucking aussie that needs to go back to Australia, or hang out with people that aren't Antipodeans", but since this is not one of those lame tests, we don't have to concern ourselves with such theoreticals. Hell, who'd be caught dead doing an online test, it's right up there in the farcical stakes as a) writing an online blog, or b) reading someone else's. Fortunately, we can escape such things.....

Actually, that reminds me, it was during this time that S-Rob and I were talking about our lives (as drunk guys do) and considering the things we ideally could/would do in the future. And it was at this time that the-debacle-that-is-this-blog was truly born! S-Rob was talking about how cool it would be to become a sports journalist, and since I was pissed that he'd used my idea, and it didn't seem particularly tenable, I decided to go with either option 2; taking over from Hugh Heffner, or finally, attempting to write an account of various life aspects whilst over here, as the 'reality' of a profession change, didn't look to be occurring in the foreseeable future.

Anyway, after a really damn good night of chatting to complete and utter strangers, it was time for S-Rob and I to head back to his crib, and as finding a bus or cab was nigh impossible, the most sensible option was to accept/pay for a ride with a complete stranger who was moonlighting as a cabbie, which at 1am makes a bunch of sense.... no really, it does!

Midway through the journey, said moonlighting-cabbie, pulls over to a petrol station and demands cash from us. S-Rob is not particularly happy, and my comment of 'I'm sure I can do more than £15 damage if you try shafting us' didn't go down particularly well, but I've never prescribed to the notion I'm a particularly sharp operator, and this was clearly yet another bona fide example, that I'm shrewd in some respects.

But our angst was quickly forgotten as there was a really cute girl with a Staffordshire Terrier in line, and S-Rob went straight to work...sometimes there's no stopping a leviathan like this once the momentum has kicked in!

Without a word of a lie.....S-Rob walks up and starts patting the dog, totally disregarding the owner, who it must be said would have been able to command attention in any film featuring the likes of Rocco Siffredi. She was good looking, really! S-Rob was about as interested in her as any man would be in Germaine Greer. I've seen many things, but nothing can explain this.

S-Rob:- "Whose the cute little doggie!"

Rubbing dog's belly....

S-Rob:- "You are! YOU are the cute little doggie!

Girl getting annoyed she's getting ZERO attention...

S-Rob:- "You're a cute little doggie that likes getting his belly rubbed, aren'tya?!"

Girl not happy, threatening to walk unless attention is forthcoming.

S-Rob:- "You cute little doggie.................."

It was like I'd stepped into bizarro world! The next thing I expected to see was the UN actually concerning itself with the Oil-less countries self combusting, Telstra Dome not running out of fresh pies, the average reader understanding my references and people suddenly finding my bizarro examples remotely humorous, or inoffensive!

Nevertheless, it wasn't a bad looking Staffordshire!

After the 'cabbie' dropped us in Willesden, we hit the local kebab house, loaded up with some tucker and headed back to see what had happened to Tugger.

Tugger had surprisingly made it back alive - and what's more - alone, which was fortunate in some respects, but it led to an hour of some of the best mocking encountered in NW London. S-Rob - god bless him - showed a clean pair of heels on this contest.

Although.............

I still don't think that either Tugger or S-Rob washed their hands after their respective displays of 'patting the dog', and surely none of us are better for this experience.

Verdict:-

The Church; worth a visit!

April fools & beyond

It looked like the best thing that the UK press could muster up for April fools day was some rubbish article depicting the 'NFL Style' bastardisation of the Premier League. Actually, even now I'm not sure if the article was a joke or not, it's hard to tell with the poorly written mud that the tabloids throw up over here, but anyway, I'm not here to mention April 1st for this reason, rather it was the platform for my biggest weekend in the UK to date, which isn't really saying much considering that I've rarely stepped outside the door to do anything apart from buying soup and noodles.

Friday, April 1st

Aside from the few Hoegaardens and a really good burger at some chic underground restaurant/bar hidden in the recesses of Covent Garden, the highlight must have been the watching the disbelieving facial expressions of the lads (DJD & Chez-Money) whilst in the 'Nag's Head'. Over a couple of quiet pint or two of Guinness, we witnessed a woman who could easily have been a world champion in Cleavage Display throwing pose after pose to not only her immediate admirers, but the wider populace in general. Apart from Homer, I'm yet to witness such a display of drooling. DJD wasn't up to kicking on, citing a stomach ache - which he blamed quite literally on a dodgy vindaloo he'd had earlier - but an educated man knows that it was the visual entreaties from She_With_Massive_Cleavage which had him home early. As for the profuse sweating, I'm not volunteering possible reasons for that.

Saturday, April 2nd

Saturday was a pretty big day (after getting up at lunch-time - which I'm sure surprises no-one), and DJD and I meandered down to Brent Cross to check out some of the stores and spend some of our hard-earned, which loosely translates to CBJ being a tight-arse and looking for the ultimate bargain because he can't stop converting everything from £££ to $$$.

Be that as it may, we rolled into TK Maxx (like a brand labeled factory seconds/discontinued lines place) and purchased some clobber. The best purchase was a tie, reduced from £25 to £3. GO YOU GOOD THANG!!!

Also beat DJD to a nice purple tie, snagged another tie and a couple of business shirts for my troubles. Even with my effortless currency conversions, it was a good deal to be had, particularly for the quality of goods. Then we really stumbled onto the cheap stuff, as we meandered into one of the cheapest sports shops I've ever seen (outside of India), including a polo (£3.29), a t-shirt (£2.89), a cap (£2.69) and a football (£2.39).

The next few hours were spent showing the UK our footballing prowess, as we showed up all the lads in Gladstone Park To say I was the most uncoordinated Soccer player there would not be grossly overstating the actuality of the situation. Two words.... No Good!

We had planned to hit the 'Redback' on Sunday, and as such, there were no plans to have a big night, but after a trip (instigated from Bazza's email) to www.ratemybody.com things soon changed. And it wasn't Barry's girlfriend that led to it, mainly a disenchantment with our state of sobriety....Well that and the fact there was a bottle of bacardi within reach....

From my meagre experiences, when you're looking for a place to drink, you generally try and avoid places where there is a need for club/bar security to body search patrons, but hey, when in Rome......

Living in the cul de sac that is Neasden, it was only natural that we'd look at the local haunts, and the first stop was Finbars, which is somewhat more Irish in name than anything else, unless by 'Irish' you mean "full of Polish bar chicks & lots of seedy black guys playing pool", in which case it would have been considered extremely Irish.

The least threatening within the 'bar' were the bar chicks, but we weren't sure if they were really bored or actually suffering from bouts of narcolepsy, and in between dazed expressions (from them, not us - surprisingly) they informed us that the place over the road was a better place to be at. However, we may have misunderstood them between their alcohol and cigarette intakes.

Now I almost take exception when a bartender tells me that the 'place over the road is heaps better', particularly when it's said in a bored Polish accent, I think it can be read in one of two ways, those being:- "fuck off hosers, we don't take kindly to your type around here" or "this place really is shite, if we were able to get jobs paying more than we get at this shithole, then you would only find us here at gunpoint!".

Perhaps because I'm in denial, I read it more as the latter, and when the 'manager' looked to deposit a gun behind the cash register, DJD and I agreed it was time to leave, and quicker than it takes me to finish this sentence - shocking grammar and all - we did.

We'd earlier read that there was 'FREE ENTRY UNTIL 10:30' at some 'Disco' being held at the pub closest to my place, and being the Disco-lovers that we are, there was only one possible venue for us.

One thing we didn't count on at that stage was the type of disco it would be. The only thing that would have shocked me more, was if we'd rolled into a 'Blue Light' disco, but no, it was a Polish disco....

And we were body searched prior to entering...seriously.... I can't make this stuff up!

Now don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty racially diverse guy, but there was something quite strange about a Polish disco where the DJ was only playing R&B and reggae. DJ Dick had words, but even his professional association wasn't enough to yield results. Stubborn Poles, it's not like we invaded them in 1939, so where's the love???

Because we were the new kids in town (and too shitscared to do anything), we didn't want to rock the boat, so we were on our best behaviour. We met this rockin' Pole, called Mattay, who had a few home truths to tell about Poles in the UK, of which some of the best were:-

1. Polish men are no good and take their women to the UK because they figure it's the best they'll ever get.
2. Polish women are no good and go with their men to the UK because they figure they can't get any better.
3. Most Polish people are stupid.
4. 'Most' was "about 95%"
5. The most dangerous people in London are angry young Poles.
6. 'Neasden' is Polish for "this is our homeland".

So we all got talking, and before long we were discussing partners and the like; which led to the following exchange:-

PolishChick:- "So do you guys have girlfriends?"

CBJ:- "I have an abandonment disorder, which basically sees me find someone far too good for me, only to leave them for some lame-arse reason. I'm not interested in women currently. I deserve to die a lonely and bitter bachelor!"

PolishChick:- "Ummm, OK.........and how about you?"

BEST...LINE...EVER...

DJD:- "I like girls...."

PolishChick:- "Huh???"

DJD:- "I like their faces and their bodies...."

PolishChick:- "You Australians are freaks!!!"

OK, so she didn't respond like that, but she most definitely was thinking it, and I'm not sure that either of us did our country proud, but we got out of there without using words like 'Birkenau', so that was one saving grace, albeit minute.

We ran the gauntlet back to my place, scared we'd get bashed by skinhead Poles.

Sunday, April 3rd.

CBJ:- "Fk me, I've got a shocking headache!"

DJD:- "Maybe it was the Bacardi, or the beer, or snakebites or the Vodka shots that bartender kept getting us for free!"

CBJ:- "Did we eat?"

DJD:- "I don't think so!"

Some would argue that you get wiser with age, but we're living proof that some of us just don't evolve, or if we do, it's an imperceptible rate. But that's why us neanderthals get punished, Charles Darwin got some things right, that's for sure.

I'm not sure how, but we managed to saddle up, and with the help of Willesden's best kebab, we were able to drag ourselves out to Acton Town to face up to an afternoon of beverages and good music.

Now seriously, if you want a good Sunday afternoon session, then the Redback in Acton Town is the place to be. Not only do they serve up cheap Snakebites - which I'm loathing to like - but there's a FREE BBQ there, good music and an endless merry-go-round of entertainment.

Seriously, I have not seen such a diverse group of people in the same place, EVER!! There was 'Mingers Corner' which - I shit you not - had a collection of the ugliest 10 people I've ever seen (well 8 if you take DJD & CBJ out of the equation). There was one of the original Oompa Loompas from Charlie & The Chocolate factory and other assorted freaks. However, to balance the ledger, there were also some damn fine lookers, one of which was BTLC's girlfriend, who would have rated very high on Mike Matthews' 'finger scale'. For those struggling, check out 'The Last Boy Scout'!

The three best T-shirts (verbatim) seen @ the redback:-

1. Free Sex,
2. It won't suck itself,
3. I'd f*ck 'her.

Ok, not necessarily the most high-brow of humour, but the group (chicks included) got a sardonic chuckle at each of them.

However, with work attendance required on the Monday, and the physical impossibility of being able to get hammered two days in succession, we pulled up stumps at 8PM and caught the tube back to our respective abodes.

Good weekend, and although without a story to rival the 'cranking good time' had by some @ 'The Church' the previous weekend, it still rated highly. That Church story another day.