Ace first lines in songs

Groovy

By no means an exhaustive list, as I haven't heard all the songs ever recorded, but listening to London's Calling t'other day got my brain whirring. Then I masturbated for a while, and then I made this list. Some of them may be wrong.


Now every cheap hood strikes a bargain with the world, ends up making payments on a sofa or a girl.
The noise inside my head won't let me go
I just got your message baby, so sad to see you fade away
You say that I'm too smart for me own good
I am a patient boy - I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait
Son I'm 30, I only went with your mother cos she's dirty
Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
I don't want to go out, I want to stay in, get things done
I only knew you for a while I never saw your smile 'til it was time to go, time to go away
You'll take my life but I'll take yours too You'll fire your musket but I'll run you through
It's gettin' near dawn, when lights close their tired eyes
Something in the way you love me won't let me be
I've come across the desert to greet you with a smile
You never listened to a word that I said, you only see me for the clothes that I wear
A to the motherfuckin K homeboy
Naughty boys in nasty schools, headmasters breaking all the rules
Is this the in place to be?
All your dreams are made, when you're chained to the mirror and the razor blade
The pay-me girl has had enough of the bleeps
We like the music, we like the disco sound, hey
I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth
I'm sorry, I've left me card at home
Look at all the villagers in town and all the farmers hanging round
I've been living through changes and i could swing for you
I can feel the earth begin to move, I hear my needle hit the groove
How does it feel, to treat me like you do?
Got a good reason for taking the easy way out
Don't give me love, oh no none of that stuff cos it's yer money I'm after, baby.
I cried a tear, you wiped it dry
All in a day, all for me
A fork is a cold shiny tool, to pierce, tear and ingest
I want you to tell me why you walked out on me
Saturday's boys live life with insults, drink lots of beer and wait for half time results
Trudging slowly over wet sand, back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like
Youre the kind of person, you meet at certain dismal dull affairs.
Mother, mother, there's too many of you crying
I like big butts and I cannot lie
It's been a long time since I rock-and-rolled
You made a fool of me, but them broken dreams have got to end
In the morning you go gunning for the man who stole you water
I grasp at life's fading light
Lost your love of life? Too much apple pie
Just close your eyes and then remember the thoughts you've locked away
Call out the instigators because there's something in the air
Yo, VIP, let's kick it
Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard
We’ve been crying now for much too long and now we’re gonna dance to a different song
Look what you're doing to me, I'm utterly at your whim, all of my defenses down
There's colors on the street, red, white and blue
Inflammable material is planted in my head, it's a suspect device that's left 2,000 dead
If it seems a little time is needed, decisions to be made
I'll only ask you once more
Thou shalt not steal if there is direct victim
Straight outta Compton crazy motherfucker named Ice Cube
If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man
Baby I feel good from the moment I rise
I need a Mars Bar, hey raid the Spar
A Charlatan, I, noble and wild 

Limehouse Basin to Islington - a trudge

Gas thing

Went for a mooch on Sunday in the pissing rain because that's how I roll. Mrs Biff's insistence that i detach myself from the nerd box was the catalyst, and the promise of pizza for tea, changed at the last minute to curry, sealed the deal.
Got the DLR from sexy Lewisham to Limehouse then walked the path along the Regent's Canal. It's about 4.5 miles to Angel but we bailed at the Rosemary Branch pub because I used to live near there and hadn't been in for a while.
The pub's the same as ever - good selection of beers, normal-ish punters. There was a fella playing the piano, who appreciated Mrs Biff's slight inclination of the head and single clap as he rounded off his set.
Everyone in there seemed to be having some kind of laptop-off with each other, greedily snaffling the free wifi. Best of all though was the lad behind the bar brought out a tray of leftover roasties and Yorkshire puds (they do roast dinners in there, which look ace) and a pan of gravy for dipping. It was manna from meff-food heaven.
As for the walk itself, it's better doing this sort of thing in London than, say, the Lake District because there's none of that awful hello-ing or even worse the half-nod-with-a-smile-rising-to-a-sort-of-peer-out-of-an-imaginary-hole as you pass someone.
You just power on knowing that if anyone so much as looks your way you can lash them in the canal and be done with it. Cyclists especially. Bunch of wankers - slow the fuck down, this isn't Amsterdam. A ring of the bell doesn't make people vanish.
It's quite a nice walk but it got a bit chokka where the Shoreditch festival was on - it looked terrible, incidentally.
Best bit was a barge full of lesbians going up in the lock. I assume they were lesbians as there were three of them all together on one boat. Incredible scenes.

Dunno

A path for walking on

This is not art

Someone tied a load of meff Tesco bread bags to a rail

Evil Edna

Last night's nerd togger - a new dawn

My vanquished opponent

Friends, come gather for the future is here. It is bold, it is fearless, it transcends the physical and ethereal worlds. It stands firm, chest out, and defies resistance. All hail my new 3-5-2 nerd togger formation.
There are some issues - Howard is still occasionally awful - but the overall effect is ace.
But the problem of Everton's lumbering attacking moves is no more - where once there was Cahill stood in the middle waiting for Fellaini to amble along, now there are players zooming everywhere. Overlaps, diagonal runs, defenders left flailing - it's all here.
Remember United battering Norwich at Carrow Road in about 92? It's like that.
The line up is: Howard. Back three of (right to left) Heitinga, Jerjelka, Distain. Rodwell and Fellaini in the middle. Arteta on the right with Baines on the left, then Cahill behind Saha (left) and Beckford. The former Leeds man misses as many as he scores (at least) but he is murder to knock off the ball, and he is quick - a novelty for Everton, nerd or real.
The beauty of this formation is you always have bodies in the attacking half, while the three at the back are reasonably solid.
Fellaini and Rodwell are always available for a pass while in possession and also make it difficult for opposition nerd troops to get through the middle.
I've actually tweaked it a touch from the 3-5-2 in the formations list but I can't remember what I did - possibly pushing Cahill a bit further forward. You getting this, ladies?
I've sacrificed some possession - with 4-5-1 I was having all the ball but not scoring - but it's worth it for the increased number of scoring chances. A key point as the nerd Toffees miss an awful lot.
Possible the best thing is Baines - playing this far forward he can get some ace crosses in. He's also quick enough to get back and defend.
Arteta is still a problem and he's there mainly for free kicks, but Heitinga is just behind when the nerd Spaniard is shrugged aside by some nameless Spurs oik.
Does this formation really work? Put it this way, against nerd Liverpool I now expect to win, whereas before I had half a chance. I think I've lost once against them since playing this way. It works against most teams but Chelsea are trickier, I often revert to 4-3-1-2 for them.
In the last few days - yes, this is a scientific study - I have stuffed Liverpool (several times), Bayern Munich, Roma, Lazio, Marseille, PSG, Spurs, Villa, Arsenal, City and more. All with 3-5-2 for at least a third of the game - a good nerder knows one must occasionally tweak to counter events in play.
So there it is my fellow tough guys who have no trouble talking to girls - this is my gift to you. Cherish it, tweak it, enjoy it. To the nerdmobile!

What is going on at the Liverpool Echo?

Choo choo!

Among the usual internet rumblings of discontent among some Evertonians, one lad said on Twitter that he was part of some fans' group looking to get national press interest in their movement.
I thought they had no chance, but fair play, Chris 'Bosco' Bascombe of the nearly-defunct News of The World blogged this.
The reason I thought they - the People's Group I think - had no chance is the reluctance of the Echo, to put it bluntly, to do their fucking jobs properly.
For too long now the Echo's Everton coverage has read like it was pre-approved by the club, with David Prentice - for my money, the best football writer in the country - penning increasingly irritating articles, like this.
He's also gone for the old line of asking people on Twitter, who dare to think the current owner/board might not be doing a stellar job, who they imagine will come in and save the day.
It's a horrible ruse that one, laying the onus at the feet of the paying customer - of the club and the paper - rather than at those who should be responsible.
Prentice, Echo Everton reporter Greg O'Keefe, sports editor John Thompson and editor Alastair Machray should be demanding to know what the hell's going on.
This is a club limping through seasons relying on the monoped Louis Saha for goals, that is mortgaged up the wazoo with apparently no further credit to call on, and whose squad - while being decent - contains a lot of players who will have little or no resale value by the last couple of years of their contracts.
When they're gone, what next? Because we have no money, and the only money we seem able to get is from player sales. What when that dries up? Do we expect David Moyes to keep finding bargains that we can sell on to Manchester United? A risky strategy.
Bill Kenwright must love the Echo as they never seem to ask any tricky questions. Top of my head - Philip Green, Fortress Fund, Keith Harris, King's Dock, Kirkby, Dan Gosling, "no plan B". So many fuck ups which all seem to drift by.

Season ticket queue declared 'a slow burner'

And what do we get from the Echo? Phil Neville's rallying cries and shite about how Tony Hibbert isn't arsed whether he ever scores a goal (you fucking should be, it's the object of the game).
Cards on the table here - I've worked as a reporter and in a football club's press office. So I know how difficult it is to strike a balance between finding out what the readers/supporters want - and deserve - to know and not upsetting the club to the point they get the arse.
That said, what we appear to be seeing with the Echo - and I suspect the Daily Post too but I don't pay as much attention there - is a massive dereliction of duty.
For too long now Evertonians have been told we can't expect better, that we should be careful what we wish for. But this isn't just any club - this is one of the most successful in the country. Two generations have grown up thinking a 4th to 7th place finish represents 'success'. Nil satis nisi you what?
How can the local paper - which once had the second biggest evening paper circulation outside of London - not be at least curious at Everton's slide into, and subsequent embrace of, mediocrity?
Are they really so shit-scared of the club that they abandon completely the principles of news gathering? Are they asking questions or are they just hoping the current apathy which grips many Evertonians (me included) will continue, thus getting them off the hook?
It's a newspaper and Everton is one of the most important, and biggest, things on their patch. Right now with Everton heading into an uncertain future the club should be front and back page news - proper news, demanding answers of those in power, those who doubtless have good intentions but appear unable to deliver what Evertonians deserve.
If the answers are unpalatable then so be it - but let's get the questions asked. We've seen one great newspaper institution perish this week, let's hope we're not living through the slow lingering death of another.

Last night's nerd togger - well in wankchops.

This isn't from my game - I'm not that pathetic

Those last three words have become my stock message to those who quit early. It happened again last night, and best of all, it was against nerd Liverpool.
You never know which nerd Everton will turn up so it's always a gamble going them, and against some teams I wouldn't bother. But nerd Liverpool, now with that lumping nerd Andy Carroll up front, are hopeless.
A few teams' ratings are a bit off - Liverpool are over-rated at 4.5 stars, same as Manchester City are under-valued at the same level.
Everton are probably worth just under their four stars as they have the capacity to be truly abysmal, with Neville and Heitinga equally horrendous in possession and Arteta useless except for free kicks.
Then there's Howard, who can be brilliant some games but in others the ball seems to go right through him. Your joke here.
All this considered I reckoned I'd be okay as nerd EFC versus their cross-nerd counterparts in red and started off 4-4-2, but the fellow I was playing was half decent so I had to switch to 4-3-1-2 as I was getting nerdily over-run in the middle.
I was still conceding a lot of ground but my opponent lacked the wit to get through, and while he had a lot of possession (75-25 in the first 10 minutes), never got close to scoring.
Gradually he started getting narked and sliding in all over the place and I knew I had him. Five minutes before the break Fellaini shrugged Gerrard off the ball before loping forward and playing in Baines down the left. He cut in and found Cahill, back to goal, who spun his marker before curling one in the top corner.
The second half was more of the same with nerd Liverpool having slightly more of the ball but getting nowhere, and it was nerd Everton looking more dangerous.
As t'reds piled forward in increasingly desperate nerd waves I had a few chances to clinch it. Then with the game moving into injury time, Arteta slipped Beckford in on halfway.
He raced clear with two defenders trying to pull him back. The keeper came legging it out and, from just outside the box, Beckford lifted it over him. The keeper got a touch which sent the ball looping towards the bar, it clipped the underside and plopped over the line, with a defender sliding after it in a futile gesture.
Cue, my opponent pulling the plug, and me sending my new message. You see, Johann Hari, you don't have to make it up.

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. 

Saturday at the Kernel brewery, Bermondsey

Well, it is a toilet (I decided to hang on)

All hail the Kernel Brewery in Bermondsey! I'd heard this place was good - and their grog is being stocked in the sort of place I never go to because I'm common - but I'm always wary of praise. I can report though, after a successful Saturday mooch, that it is spot on.
With the sun out and people slurping beers sitting on old gym benches in the shadows of the railway line it's an odd but enjoyable environment. It feels like a secret drinking club set in a post apocalypse future. It's probably less fun if it's pissing it down.

You can have a look at their website to see what's currently on offer - when I went it was dark beers mainly. Not my scene man, but I had a bash anyway. And I'm glad I did. 

There were a couple of pale ales on draft so the lad gave us a taste before we got stuck in. It was very nice so we had a couple there and got some bottles to take home. The homesters were IPA Citra (7.2%) and a pale ale called Herkules Centennial (5.3%) - coincidentally that is the exact lettering of the tattoo I have on my back, illustrating a 1:3 ratio picture of the wrestler Kendo Nagasaki's 'game face'. 

The kiddy

I'm no beer expert so really I treat it like wine - I'm after a nice taste, cold and with a good booze content. And as the plan for the day was to put beer where there had been no beer before - both my tum and my fridge - it was a resounding success.
Of the two types of beer taken home, the citra one's the kiddy. Really nice, strong but smooth. Perfect for sipping on a warm day.

It's quite a nice layout up there on Saturdays, when it's open to oiks, with the brewery sharing an arch with someone selling ham and cheese - served up on a plank of wood. And there's a few other gaffs selling stuff too. 

After that it was a plod round Bermondsey Street before catching the arse end of Borough Market to watch people pay ludicrous amounts for cheese while trying to out-buggy each other, kidwise.
The Kernel Brewery is open to people like you on Saturdays. Visitor entrance is at 1 Ropewalk (just off Millstream Road). The official address is 98 Druid Street, SE1 2HQ. Five minute walk from London Bridge station. http://www.thekernelbrewery.com/

Don't tell me what to do - maybe I want the sediment?

That gas bottle has the evil eye!

Leathermarket Gardens in full bloom

Some weird splodge stuff on the posts holding up the roof on Borough Market 

The London Particular, New Cross - sarnie special!

This picture does this sandwich no justice at all

Is there a better trousers-on feeling than enjoying the first couple of mouthfuls of a mega-sandwich, knowing you've got loads left?
There's stuff about the thinking behind The London Particular elsewhere on the new internet you've read about so I won't bother with it here. Suffice to say the place, which was recommended by the Deptford Dame on the popular website Twitter is soopoib.
I had the warm sarnie of the day, in this case fancy-pants sausages, caramelised onions, rocket and some other stuff (possibly some kind of mustard) on nice, lightly toasted bread, possibly rye I'm not sure - hey, this isn't Which?
Either way, this sandwich instantly marched in to my top six ALL TIME sandwiches. And I'm a fussy bugger.
Sausages were sliced in twain, arranged in size order to fit the bread, and rested diagonally. Then the other stuff was ladled on with the second piece of bread resting atop, as is traditional.
Impressively for work of this spec, sandwich integrity was maintained almost throughout. Only one bit of sausage fell out and that was when I was trying to change the page of my book.
It also came with a sort of salad, which had pulses of some kind in there and spuds and - I think - noodles. Often the salad is an afterthought on these things but this was excellent.
Naturally I paired the brute up with a cup of coffee, and this, in football terms, was a bit special. Very potent but tasty - I asked for white and it came with barely a splash of milk as if to say, 'go on you Jessy, ask for more milk'. No chance mate.
There was a slight awkward moment with me and the lad working there when I asked the wifi code - that unique embarrassment when two people with hugely different accents baffle each other - but that's hardly his fault (or mine) and the service, like the whole visit, was good. For such a small space they fit a lot of people in comfortably and my grub was up within about five minutes.
Now this place isn't cheap - it came in at £9.30 (the sarnie was an eye-watering £7.50) but it was worth it. I was still full six hours later, not bleurgh full, just not hungry. And it was, as has been established, very tasty. Next time I'm having the baked tommies, fancy ham, and hoity-toit cheddar on toast.

A monkey?

Then I mooched off down Deptford Market where I saw this intriguing poster - what can have been in the case to illicit such a plea, and reward?
The London Particular is at 399 New Cross Road, SE14 6LA. Out of New Cross station turn right, over the bridge, past the Walpole pub, past the chippy where Paul McCartney and his mrs got chips and a pickled egg (according to the signed docket on the wall), and it's there on the right. If you live in the area you should go, otherwise you're wasting your tastebuds.

Last night's nerd togger, la Francais edish

Polite

The problem with going nerd Everton is they aren't quite good enough all over the pitch so, as happened last night, you can be all over someone but still lose. Missed chances combined with shit defending equals Everton 2 - 3 Liverpool after being two up and coasting, and some intense swearing.

Really you can only play a team that's ranked similar or worse than Everton's, fairly generous, current four stars on the Fifa11 rating (out of five).

And so it was that I faced an appalling Paris St Germain 'outfit' last night. This lad was hopeless, not helped by his lumbering team, and I was two up fairly quickly. The first a belter from the edge of the box by Saha, the second a routine Cahill header.

As I suspected he might this cat pulled the plug at half time. I assumed he was French from the team he picked so I sent him the message above, 'vous est tres merde' which is actually 'you is very shit', not as I thought, 'you are very shit.' 

But note the use of the 'vous' form of 'you'. Even in battle we're still gentlemen. I don't know this blighter so he gets the 'vous' form. 

Not polite

To which he replied with this: 'ta mere est une pute', meaning 'your mother is a whore', which aside from accuracy issues (she isn't, she's a part-time lecturer) where does he get off with his 'tu' form? Massively over-familiar and it soured the entire evening. 

Last night's nerd togger - back in the saddle

A picture from Brighton

After an absence of two months from the online nerding arena I have returned. I was drunk and signed up again and within minutes remembered why I binned it off. The bad connections, the piss-taking of opponents, the replay watchers, the smart-arses, the endless stuffings. By gar I missed it!

First up nerd Everton took on nerd Villa and I bashed this prick's brains in - ol' skool! Three Cahill headers cancelling out an Ashley Young opener.

Rematch? Don't mind if I do. So he went Man City and I went Atletico Madrid and again I was all over him, but tellingly, couldn't put the nerd ball in the nerd net. Whereas everything my foe hit turned to goals. A 5-0 reverse. 

On to the decider and, even now, I don't know where this came from - I didn't think I could do it, never saw myself as a meddler in the black arts - but he went Real Madrid, and I thought 'fuck it' and went Manchester United. Anathema to me. I detest everything about them, even in nerd form. They're no Liverpool, but even so.

I can only put this calming of my ire down to occasional retweets I've read by that human representation of stone cladding, Wayne Rooney, where he comes across as irritatingly alright. You can follow the life of a plain talking millionaire farm hand on the popular social network site, his 'handle' is: @I'mastupidmoronwithanuglyfaceandbigbuttandmybuttsmellsandIliketokissmyownbutt.

And it has to be said, nerd United have just the right blend of speed, skill and massiveness to make them pretty good. Goals from Giggs and Hernandez put me in control and despite a late one from Ronaldo or someone there was never any danger. 

But the victory was tainted, sure it all counts in the nerd annals, but for me this was a stretch too far and a reminder that victory is not all.