Johann Hari exclusive

Lazy arse arrogant bell breaks silence after being sussed for being a lazy arse arrogant bell

Of course, he has form. And with that nobhead Simon Kelner defending this clown it's no wonder no sod buys the Independent.
Kelner of course is about to be shoved in a cupboard while they try and get someone in who has half a clue about news.
So hopefully Hari, who don't forget is an appalling writer anyway - a real advocate of that paper's insistence on using 400 words when two will do - will get his soon.

Tennis - it's not just for girls!

Bosh!

Bobbed along to Wimbledon yesterday, joining the riff raff in the queue. Got there at 4.50pm and was in for 6.15pm, which meant I'd easily get in my two hours of top level tennis (any more than that and I get bored).
I think most people just assume there is no chance at all of getting in so they don't bother, but there were loads in the queue when I got there and loads behind me by the time I got in.
Ground passes are only £14 after 5pm (£20 for the day ones) so you can't go wrong, unless it's bad weather. The plebs entrance is gate three and as soon as you get in you see the massive Centre and Number 1 courts, around which the outside courts are scattered. It's an odd sort of place and feels like a very posh housing estate with a load of tennis matches going on.
After a bit of mooching and a beer I watched some Yank playing a Croat (the Yank, pictured right, was a whiner so I took against him) before moving on to see what else was afoot.
I watched a chick game for a bit - like most people I was hoping it would dissolve into a colossal lez-fest. Disappointingly it didn't.

Woman's very lifelike hat

What's most impressive about Wimbledon is the slickness of the operation - I wouldn't be surprised if there are Yanks actually running it. The queue is well organised, with plenty of stewards on hand to help, and there are plenty of places to get food and drink or go the bog while you're waiting (they give you a queue card so you don't lose your place if you nip off).
Once inside there are food and drink sellers every 20 yards or so, and lots of toilets. My only comparison here is football matches and there is no comparison at all - these things are gleaming. I didn't get any grub but it looked half decent, and the beer wasn't bad - usual plazzy cup festival type affair (£4.40 a pint of Grolsch).
Obviously it's very white and very middle class but not particularly snooty. Worth a dig if you're curious, although the first week is best if you're going late (more matches, duh).

Ticket information and other stuff here

Hit that ball!

The Cartoon Museum, dodgy dealings, and more!

If

The Guardian might be a load of old shite these days with its simpering bullshit columns - oh, the schools in Lar-de-dar Lane in Hampstead are just awful and my poor little kids (who are all called fucking Jack, Henry, or Jacasta) can't get soya milk on their porridge - and its ridiculously earnest football reporters and page after page of Zoe fucking Williams and Marina Hyde, but Steve Bell remains brilliant.
I went the Cartoon Museum on Saturday to see the Bell Epoque, which is on until 24 July.
It's nice to see work like that up close, and big. There's classic Ifs (right), those big ones he does, and some old stuff (including an appalling one based on himself - I think - when he was a teacher) with explanations and notes.
There's a sign up saying for copyright reasons you can't take pictures of individual exhibits but you can of the place in general. I don't think legally they can stop you taking the pictures, displaying them seems to be the problem. Well stuff 'em. If they want to over-react then I'll listen.
Also on display is the rejection note The Guardian sent Bell in 1978 and some sketch pads and that. Chuck in some Viz, Beano and Dandy stuff upstairs and you're laughing for £5.50

Woof!

After going there I stepped inside to shelter from the rain and take nourishment, and noticed these two blighters up to no good (possibly). The chap on the left is sheltered in a doorway, the fellow talking to him sports what appears to be a waterproof coat, but what of the poor pooch? He's drenched!
I then returned home where, the very next day, I saw one of those Boris Bikes outside Lewisham Library - stitch that, The Man. And later that night I took a 7(seven)-0 cuffing as nerd Everton versus nerd Manchester United. I pulled the plug in the last second. You know, for spite.
The Cartoon Museum is at 35 Little Russell Street, London WC1A 2HH
http://www.cartoonmuseum.org/

Up yours, Boris

Last night's nerd togger - bastard bollocks crap

The nerd council

Don't lose thy cool - the first rule of nerding. I smashed it to smithereens last night as I swore and snarled my way through four straight defeats.

After a run of one loss in seven I moved up a level, only to lose the next four. 

Clearly I reached the top of my nerd bounce and am now condemned to bump along at the bottom of the stinking cesspit that is online nerding. O! Take me back level 21! But alas, it doesn't work that way. It's like the Mafia, we all know when we join that the only way out is death.

They were all close games, and all as Everton, but then the unbeaten run were all close too. 

By the end of the last one I was a croaking, teary, sweary shambles. Yelping and gesticulating pathetically at the screen as Arteta got brushed off the ball yet again. He's only in there for the free kicks, at which he's ace. The rest - ABJECT SHIT.

I've tweaked my nerd Everton to read thus (4-5-1): Howard, who is awful, then in defence (from right) Neville, Jerjelka, Distain, Baines. Midfield: Arteta, Fellaini, Rodwell, Guaye (or Coleman), then Cahill just behind Saha. This can switch to 4-3-1-2 with Beckford up front and Guaye dropping out, with Cahill behind the front two. Ye gods, even in nerd-chat that is a nerdy thing to write.

Anyway after narrowly losing to Manchester United, Manchester City and Chelsea I was up against nerd Liverpool, who I pulverised. But nerd Everton's lack of firepower, combined with Howard's unerring ability to let shots go straight through him, meant a 1-0 defeat, courtesy of a 90th-minute spawner from one of those anonymous little shits they stuff their wretched team with. 

Seconds later Mrs Biff Mercifully came home from work, so I pulled the plug - no stats for you, nerd Liverpool! You too Dalglish, you wanker. I know you're reading this.

Where d'you get your shirt?

New togs

Clothes don't maketh the man - but good 'uns don't do any harm.
There are some excellent clobber blogs on the internet that go into detail about garments and brands and 'philosophies' and all that guff so I won't bother.
Basically you want something that looks half-decent, fits well, and will last. Following fashion just looks exhausting. As Homer Simpson once said: "What's the point in going out? We're just going to wind up back here anyway."
I like clobber but it's not as important to me as it probably is to you because I am extremely good looking. And being a beautiful man, nice clothes are merely the icing on a jaw-droppingly hunky cake. Possibly one made out of beef.
If I was a woman all other women would hate me, and I'd be a real slut - you'd all get a go within reason. If I needed me bum scratching I'd be down the bus stop to pick someone out to do it for me.
Anyway recently I picked up a couple of garments so utterly belting I feel compelled to mention them here, on the internet's most talked-about website.
First up is me Heritage Research Longline Parka in burnt orange. This thing is the fucking business - sorry but occasionally profanity is needed to stress the magnitude of the sentiment. Plus swearing rules, never let the squares tell you otherwise.
I got this in the sale from a gaff on Commercial Street, Shoreditch, called Present. It's a cracking shop - really helpful staff who know their stuff. They only had one left when I phoned on the Tuesday and the lad said he'd hold it for me until Friday, which he did.
I've got a few coats but this is the best fit of anything I've ever owned. Two big pockets that come right round the side - high neck, strong RiRi zipper, big ace buttons - it rules.
I also got a shirt by Universal Works. It's called the Croyde and is from this year's spring/summer collection. It's a short sleeved bugger and it's dead thin - a bugger to iron though. Really nice, got it from Oi Polloi's website. Had to send the first one back as they apparently can't work a tape measure.
That's it, although regular readers of my Twitter bulletins may be aware I have switched from boxers to trunks, undie-wise, for the summer. Consider this an official endorsement of the snugger, cuppier, pant.
(I whipped the pic off what seems to be an abandoned blog)

Mega-sarnie at Polpo

Oink oink, my good man!

If you're anything like me - you lucky swine - you'll be constantly on the lookout for ace sandwiches. I had one last Saturday which could only improve by being the size of a small cow, or half a normal size cow. Or a standard-size toilet lid.
The venue was Polpo on Beak Street in London's fashionable London. I was in there early - as one must to get a table easily as you can't book - before heading off to Bradley's Spanish bar to watch Barcelona hand Manchester United their collective arse.
Mrs Biff was in full effect, thrilled at the prospect of an evening watching football in a sweaty pub. We got a few dishes, but eating at 6pm really should be left to the over 70 crowd. It's better to go later, have a drink at the bar and wait for a table to come up. 
Because we were scoffing so early not much really hit home, except the 'cured pork shoulder & peperonata panino' (I think that's foreign for panini, which is in turn foreign for 'expensive bread for idiots'). 
Not cheap at £5.50 but this thing was sensational, stuffed with meat, moist, juicy peppers and some kind of mayonnaise and oil or something. There may have been cheese in there - I was in such a frenzy I can't remember. 
The bread was toasted just right too and there was no spillage at all when eating. The sandwich artisan behind this beast is truly a master of the craft.
I could see the woman next to us eyeing it up - coveting, possibly plotting a theft. I'd have smacked her in the eye if she even hovered too close. And I'd do the same to any of you. The only downside was I had to let Mrs Biff have half. I was gutted about that and resented her for the next hour because of it. 
Polpo is at 41 Beak Street, London W1F 9SB.