A week of peace?

GMD, Teenager and Baby have all buggered off for the week to The Money Pit. They've been joined by MiddleSis and her brood and LittleSis and her nipper as well. 3 adults, 6 kids. Can you see why I didn't go?

But whats strange is how I thought it would be nice to have a week to myself but in fact it turns out to be rather an insular feeling. At first Friday (the day they left) was a real novelty. Able to do what I wanted, when I wanted it and even if I wanted to do nothing I didn't feel guilty. However, 4 days in the truth is it's now a little too quiet for me. Something about an empty big house just doesn't feel quite right. And there's only so many DVD's you can catch up on! So my weekend consisted of drinking, golf, more drinking and more golf alongside some movie catching up.

Meet The Fockers - utter rubbish

The Butterfly Effect - compelling and a good twist on time travel. Bleak ending I thought.

Fahrenheit 9/11 - thought provoking and a confirmation of just about everything I thought about Bush, Blair and our whole realtionship with the Middle East. They must hate Michael Moore in the US.

Sin City - at first I thought it was rubbish but eventually cottoned onto the "cartoonish " nature of what was being attempted. In the end I thought it was a rollicking good violent romp and its pseudo- cartoonish style made it a very interesting and ultimately quite challenging and rewarding experience.

Anyway, at least someone's getting their moneys worth from The Money Pit. Apparently the weather in the South of France has been unbroken sunshine and blue skies.

I wonder if we'll see any good weather this year. It just doesn't feel like it's verging on Summer does it?

Later, GrocerJack

A flicker of light? Music to the rescue again!

Things have been shit lately, hence the lack of insiration, or more likely the lack of motivation to write, or do very much at all. The blame for yet another black mood (which I felt was better not communicated via the blog) is firmly laid at the doorstep of The Company. Not only am I fucked off with my job, and especially The Schoolteacher who manages his employees like your Nan might (have you done this, have you done that, make sure you do this, make sure you do this etc) if she were your guardian and a particularly fussy and pedantic Nan at that. To cap it all, the miserable scrotes reneged on a yearly bonus scheme introduced this year for the workforce. It wasn't brilliant but it might have paid us up to 10% of our gross salary before tax under certain (admittedly utopian) conditions. Of course, The Company didn't hit the financial targets required to pay this out (quelle surprise!) but anyone Band F (see below for Band explanations) or above will recieve their bonus payments as apparently The Company hit the right targets to pay them out. Add to that a bit of Shareholder jiggery pokery to reset Financial targets for Directors and for a small proportion of The Company its "trebles all round".

Following this, they decided to increase the budget for the annual salary rise to a whopping 3.5% , which in todays climate isn't bad I suppose. So, I planned my teams rises on the basis of how good they were and also to introduce some parity between those doing the same job and but earning less through no good reason other than the fact that previous bosses were stingy wankers. I like to adopt a pretty "champagne" socialist methodology to my pay rises, whereby reward is both performance based and used to rectify a few past wrongs...but not this year. Oh no, the bean counters who told us to put across the "positive message" have now applied mandatory rises according to annual review grade (school report in all but name).

We are graded as either P (poor), I (Improvement required), G (Good), E (Exceeded objectives) or X (Excellent or sleeping with boss as we like to call it). So anyone graded as G (like me for example) who meets all their objectives and slightly exceeds in some will receive between 2 - 2.5%. Unless of course we're near the top of our band, or on a salry above the band "soft limits". In which case, you'll get ......fuck all. Or maybe a small token lump sum subject to tax. Since last year we have been re-banded from Band A to Band J. Band A is the very top and contains the CEO as far as we can ascertain, Bands B-F are then descending levels of Senior Management (sorry, Leaders as they're all now called) - a sort of exclusive club the entry key to which appears to be top secret, or can be attained by giving great Corporate Fellatio or Anilingus to the right Corporate Automatons. Bands G-J are for the rest of us. I am Band G, which is firm middle management ground. So, in a company of around 15,000 in the UK, around 600 occupy Bands A-F, and 14,400 occupy bands G-J. Can you see the obvious problem here? When the bands were applied we were all told no salaries were associated to them, but come salary review time we find that in fact salaries have been associated to them, based on some vague external market research. Hence an awful lot of people will have performed admirably, reached or exceeded all their targets but will recive no pay rise or an insultingly patronising payment. And they wonder why people never vote us into The Times Top 100 Compnaies to work for! The ironic thing is that whenever we have team meetings we are always being told about the great Employee Experience programme and how successful it is. To coin a favourite phrase of mine, these people running The Company seem to live in a drug induced collage of utterly fucked up bollocks.

Anyway, I can't stay down for long. I have resolved to wind my neck right in to its limits at work, keep my mouth shut and quietly and efficiently deliver everything on the objectives menu. My relationship with The Schoolteacher, and for that matter all the other "leaders" is entirely professional, no more idle chit chat, no more jovial banter, no more non work related dialogue. Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. Boring twats wouldn't get a look in down my local. An extreme reaction maybe, but it seems the only way I can stop myself from decking one of them.

My salvation, as usual came from a quick and intense affair with my record collection. The usual suspects gamely did their job of detracting me from the woes of Corporate Imprisonment , you know Zeppelin, Floyd, Radiohead, Abba etc, but something new was needed to just give the final push back to living in a twilight zone as opposed to a midnight zone. 5000 tracks of music and I couldn't find something to raise the hackles. Along came fate, or Skank as it is known. Thats my erstwhile brother for the unfamiliar (look at the Cast!). He emailed me a song I haven't heard in 25 years and it was the catalyst to a night of illegal downloading of stacks of others, including some favourite videos. The song was PSI Power from Hawkwind. I've no idea what album its from or what year, but Skank went through a heavy hippy period, living off dope, bread and butter and weird music back in the late 70's and picked up a few weird musical liking s from then. Hawkwind to be honest were never my bag but they did knock out a few good tunes other than the signature tune Silver Machine. And of course they spawned Lemmy who formed Motorhead so another bonus point for them.

And so here is the list of some of the "new" tracks I've been listening to that have lifted heart and soul......for how long who knows but now's the time to play myself sick of them....

Psi Power - Hawkwind

Hurry on Sundown - Hawkwind

Hocus Pocus - Focus

Watching The Detectives - Elvis Costello - featuring some of the best pop lyrics ever writen

"Long shot of that jumping sign,
Visible shivers running down my spine.
Cut the baby taking off her clothes.
Close-up of the sign that says,"We never close"
You snatch a tune, you a match a cigarette,
She pulls the eyes out with a face like a magnet.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
She's filing her nails while they're dragging the lake."

Its My Life - Bon Jovi - the video brings this to life, believe me.

Crackling Rosie - Neil Diamond - yeah I know, but its a bloody happy singalong tune so fuck off if you don't like it!

Samba Pa Ti - yep, the M&S Food ad music. Wonder how many know its this piece of magic from the latin guitar wizard - music to kick your shoes off to......

Dirty Harry - Gorillaz

Love is like Oxygen - The Sweet (hmmm, include Teenage Rampage, Ballroom Blitz, Hellraiser and all the post Chinn-Chapman era stuff)

Please Don't Touch - Motorhead & Girlschool - whatever happended to Girlschool?

Altogether Now - The Farm

And finally, The Devil Went Down to Georgia - The Charlie Daniels Band

Works for me

Later, GrocerJack

Where have I been?

Lazy-itis again, plus a period of utter uninspiration due to the crap at work I'm taking at the moment. A few days in Nice on business seemed like a good idea as well, in order to take the bastards for every penny I can and have a jolly, but really Nice is a place to go to relax and enjoy French city life and not for trudging around Olympia sized exhibition halls listening to sad little corporate puppets spouting arsebollocks talk about their exciting (sic) new products and developments in the "dynamic" and "challenging" emerging worlds of Wireless Technology.....yawn.......double yawn.


Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Later, BlankJack

How things change

Go back 15 years to when I was a spritely 29 year old.....

Hmmmm....Scrub that........

Go back 20 years to when I was a spritely rebellious 24 year old "Jack the lad" who's hobbies consisted of drinking lager, pulling women, watching football, going to the pub, smoking, driving my Cortina Mk IV 2.0, smoking the odd spliff, fighting after the Friday night out "clubbing" (and the press thinks this all new?) and doing fuck all exercise because age hadn't undermined the regenerative powers of abuse and copious sleeping.

Imagine you're a time traveller, say Doctor Who for example and you pitch up outside The Carpenters Arms in Hayes End on a sunny Saturday afternoon as Jack and the boys tuck into a boozy afternoon/evening/night session.

"Jack" you say " in 20 years time you'll be a different person"

"Whatever you wanker" comes the stock reply from young Jack

"No you will" says The Doctor "...you'll be listening to a talk based radio station specialising in rolling news and sport..."

*intrigued but disbelieving look from Jack, scorn delivered by mates*

"You'll tune into Radio 2 for your music needs"

"Of course" I reply "knobhead"

"You'll be a golf fanatic, playing every week and going on golf holidays"

*Jack dissolves into Smash advert martian laughter*

"You'll drive a Volvo"

*convulsions of extreme laughter for Jack and mates*

"You'll be a Technical Process Manager"

*Sudden silence and looks of bemusement*

"What the fucks that? " I'd say

"One of The Mysteries of The Universe"...the time traveller would reply before continuing "....you'll no longer read The Sun but will become a Guardian reader"

"Ok you prick, you're no longer funny" Jack would have responded "....you better quit whilst you can or you'll cop an unfortunate one"

But relentlessly he carries on....

"You'll live in a tree lined road, in a detached house in a small rural village, close to the seaside but not in London"

*Silence from Jack...this doesn't sound too bad...don't let your mates see*

"You'll have a wife and two kids, girls...who you'll spoil rotten"

"You'll treat their boyfriends with contempt in much the same way you've been treated by others"

"You'll watch football but not play it"

"You'll give up lager and drink only Guinness or red wine, you'll accumulate a taste for Single Malt Whisky"

"You'll quit smoking"

*Jack and mates quieten down because this sounds like a serious malfunction and betrayal of all they stand for*

"You'll lose your extreme socialist principles and settle into soft Middle England, Middle of the Road politics"

"You'll start to enjoy gardening and DIY"

"You'll get a hankering to do projects around the house"

"You'll holiday in France and buy a mobile home there"

"You'll take your parents in law on holiday with you and enjoy their company"

*more confused looks because this really is alien thought territory*

"You'll hate Radio 1 and Top of the Pops"

"You'll enjoy being grumpy"

"You'll start to enjoy and appreciate Art, both old and modern"

"You'll do a degree in Philosophy and Art History"

"You will become Middle Class"

*palapable scorn, derision and disbelief builds slowly*

and then finally he says

......."Chelsea will win back to back League titles and England will win The Ashes"

The Doctor turns and enters his Tardis. It disappears.

Jack starts laughing out loud, his mates join in.

"What a fucking idiot" Jack says " I thought the lager had done me, or the joint".......his mates laugh loudly but nervously....."I might have believed some of that until he said that bollocks about Chelsea winning the league"

How things change indeed.

Later, GrocerJack

The Dark Night looms again

I had thought there was hope at work as things appeared to be picking up. My turn at the Corporate Bollocks off-site temporarily lifted my own self esteem even if no-one else was impressed. The dull arsed arslikhan fuckwits I deal with are so consumed with their passion for sound-bites and their obsession with getting their fat corporate snouts up the collective arse of The Company’s alleged great and good/movers and shakers (in reality wankers and arseholes) that they wouldn’t recognise a committed and intelligent individual if he pinned them down and pulled out their teeth using a rusty mole grip dipped in fresh dog turd. Such is the level of corporate cock sucking within my work environment that I swear I could fill the next 10 series of The Apprentice with highly motivated obnoxious, power hungry, cash greedy twats that the whole country would unite in hating.

Week by week, day by day I go through the charade of going into work and executing a master-class of deception in pretending to be even remotely interested, or even caring a slight jot about the crap they spout daily at us. How I don’t just snap and physically smack someone. For that alone I deserve something better.

Another small reason for the nuclear winter dark days of my work being transformed into a twilight ambience was because there seemed to be……. not so much an increased level of interesting work, but less mind numbingly dull things were being expected from me. But this was nothing more than a mirage displaying a small oasis in a parched desert of utter corporate banality and bollocks.

I had my annual review last week with The Schoolteacher. It wasn’t good. This de-motivating, uninspiring, uncommunicative moron and I ended up arguing over virtually everything. Not because I hadn’t delivered. Oh no, nothing that simple. No, he wants me to deliver more which may be fair enough, but he also now wants me to tell me HOW to deliver rather than just WHAT. And for me that’s just too much. In my 12 years with The Company I have always delivered exactly what’s been asked and usually more, all by my own fair hand, using all my own attributes. I have never ever not reached the objectives set for me. And now this twat wants to tell me HOW to do things.

Not content with that he also then decided to tell me he was unhappy with feedback from my “customers” and my team! Apparently my mask of deception is so bloody effective that no-one had any real bad things to say about me, in fact it appears only good things were said, which meant he couldn’t set any development objectives for me! The most galling thing is he sent them a questionnaire rating me from 1-10 on various “capabilities” with 6/10 set as “acceptable”. Apparently everyone gave out 7/10 and higher giving an average of 8/10 over all. And this is bad? Good is the new Bad apparently. Oh dear, poor old Schoolteacher. What a bucketful of vomit this is. So, it’s my fault my “customers” and team seem to like me, the way I work and my style? I must be one hell of an actor to be able to pull this off.

This Friday I will finally work from home and try and craft the perfect CV to either move within The Company, or hit the ejector seat button myself and find something I really want to do. Something fulfilling and challenging whilst being enjoyable that keeps the financial wolves from the door…..how hard can that be?

Quite honestly if any organization will die of asphyxiation from having its corporate head stuck up is own arse, then The Company is heading the queue. Last week it announced that it had decided on “centralized outsourcing opportunity model” for it’s Global I.T operations”. Interesting use of the word “opportunity” isn’t it? I wonder how the potential 6000 or so employees who potentially lose holidays, pensions, share schemes, possibly even jobs and other benefits feel about this “opportunity”. Although the way I feel I might prefer to be affected by this in order to take a decent pay off and do my own thing (head brimming with ideas on what business I could start).

Listed below is a small collection of the crap buzzwords and phrases I hear each day.

Capabilities

Synergies

Leadership (we don’t have Management anymore, they’re all Leaders apparently)

Performance management for our people

Optimizing resources

Business Partners – apparently we don’t have other internal departments anymore, they’re all Business Partners, so we have Supply Chain Business Partners, Finance Business Partners and yep, they’re now all abbreviated to BP’s ……… *vomits again*

Roadmaps

External market comparison

Vision statement

Mission statement

That’s enough……I can’t take any more corporate gobbledygook bollocks phrases. Remember The Office? That’s where I work.

The slide is back on, maybe its time to enjoy the ride.

Later, GrocerJack

The truth about Prescott

No arguments from me! Click to enlarge. If it still isn't clear then click the opened image once more (certainly works in Firefox) and it should be crystal.

Later, GrocerJack

Those Magnificent Men in The Chelsea Machine!

*Published on Chelseablog.com*

For the week or so between the desperately poor game against RedScouse FC and the advertised “Clash of the Titans” match against Manure FC it seemed to me that the faint hopes of the collective UK nation were slowly but surely showing their hands in favour of Manure FC giving us a bit of a drubbing and prolonging the inevitable back-to-back Premiership Title accolade. Every paper across the land was filled with knobber hacks desperately building up the slim hopes of former ABU* (Anyone but United) and ABA* (Anyone but Arsenal) groups, now reformed as ABC* (Anyone but Chelsea) into believing that with sufficient pressure applied by victory of Sir Rednose of Salford Quays resurgent team might just bring about the Devon Loch collapse of the team that had sat proudly atop of the premiership table for 18 months.

* Notice there is no ABL (Anyone but Liverpool) group there because frankly in league terms they have become so insignificant that nobody really gives them a second thought, despite the best efforts of their turd-lobbing, ambulance-toppling fans to get them noticed and to show their true depth of history and class.

For that whole week I had to read drivel written by slimy low-lives with no concept of truth or fairness writing vile pieces about a team that frankly 5 years ago they couldn’t have given a flying piece of mouldy celery about. But more on the scumbag press of our once proud nation later. This is about my recollection of the day, with caveats aplenty for any omissions or errors caused by brain cell destruction linked to an excessive intake of Guinness following the end of the game and the season, and hence my first sojourn into the heady and occasionally murky world of season ticket ownership.

To say that I was a bit nervous is like saying that John Prescott is a bit of a fat shagger, Catherine Zeta-Jones is a bit gorgeous or that the Pope is a bit Catholic. You get my drift here, don’t you? I was chewed up rotten from Wednesday onwards as the importance of the occasion grew in my subconscious. This sense of growing tension was enhanced by the fact that a so called colleague of mine at work had got Corporate tickets for the last game against Charlton and had not thought to invite me along, deeming it sufficient to send me photo’s from his mobile of the trophy celebrations post match. He may have been well intentioned, but it felt like a complete and utter smack in my face. Especially as he is a dyed in the wool Gooner. Vindictive bastard. Anyway, no matter how I tried to continue on a “business as usual” basis, it was becoming obvious that my mind was on one thing only, the game. Nothing could detract me from Thursday onwards, not even the obligatory threesome fantasy of me, Jennifer Aniston and/or any one from the aforementioned Zeta-Jones, Liz White, Billie Piper or Kate Winslet could dislodge my beloved Chelsea’s biggest game of the season from the depths of my mind. And as Saturday approached, even the pre-match Friday night drink with my mates consisted of one subject……..the game and the possible team selection/formation/outcome. It was hell.

The day itself started with a hangover from the Friday nights failed attempt to drown the subconscious voices in my head that were now occupying every living thought. My mind was running like a computer processor stuck in a program loop, running over different combinations of the same iterative equation of who would play, what would the formation be, would we play to draw, play to win, would we be glorious or would we blow it and snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and what the ramifications of such a defeat might be. Such is the mentality of a very long suffering fan whose 35 years of unswerving loyalty to Chelsea has been tainted by more pain, disappointment and humiliation than anyone should realistically have to have experienced. Such was the overriding feeling of PMT (pre-match tension) that despite hitting the 9^th pint I still felt like drilling a hole in my head to relieve the pressure. But the gang pulled up to chauffeur me to the ground where all would be revealed. Due to the early kick off and a sizeable queue outside The American Grill we decided to plump for the traditional Burger option as a pre-match meal. Then it was into the ground with a quick visit to the Megastore to spend some more money that Mrs Jack says we haven’t got. One noticeable thing was on show, both inside and outside the ground, and that was the overriding sense of tension and anticipation, a heady mixture of those fans brimming with complete self belief, and those like me who were approaching the game, not as doomsayers, but as people whose past experiences do not allow the big red button marked “Supreme Confidence” to be pushed in until the Dawn French look-alike is singing like a Friday night drunk. It was a very potent mixture and fans were either bright eyed and smiling or had faces etched with lines of worry. To some this was the day fated for the Premiership to come home, for others it was the small but undeniable fear of parties being held at Ewood or St. James – nothing could be as good as winning on your home ground and I for one knew that if it was to be won away from home then I would be watching, like most from a remote position via the TV.

And so to my seat in the Matthew Harding Lower. A seat that cost £650 and has given me such pleasure over the year, interspersed with howls of frustration, encouragement and anger (mostly at referees). Neil Barnett announced the teams and despite the awesome array of talent on display from Manure FC, when he reads out the Chelsea team consisting of names like Drogba, Cole, Terry, Lampard, Robben, Makalele and Essien you just can’t pinching yourself a little to make sure this isn’t some sort of coma based dream, or that someone hasn’t spiked your Stamford Bridge nuclear reactor heated coffee with a large tab of LSD. The group surrounding my locale greeted each other with firm handshakes and the usual “Alright mate”. I went to sit down, but it was obvious from the outset that sitting in the MHL was not the order of the day. From the minute the teams came out of the tunnel the sun seemed to shine on Stamford Bridge. And then it started and The Chelsea machine immediately clicked into action, as if Patrick Head and Adrian Newey in their Ferrari heyday had tuned the machine themselves. The team battled for every ball, harassed every United player whenever they got within a sniff of the ball. We passed sublimely and every area of the field seemed to contain a hungry blue shirted footballing aristocrat. Reviews of the game in depth are available all over the place so I won’t witter on too much about the game….it was very much there for all to see just how big a gulf exist between these teams. Every Chelsea player deserved a 10 rating in my view, but if we set the standard rating at 8 then the following players deserved a full 10.

Drogba – magnificent and a real handful that worryingly for England seemed to disturb Ferdinand big time. Since he stopped the theatrical diving he is now showing a real class and showing why he cost so much money. Long may it continue!

Carvalho – “Percy” as he seems to becoming known as may be off to real, and has often been the culprit this season of silly shirt tugs and giving away free kicks in dangerous positions but on this day he was truly supreme. Great tackling, marvellous blocking and a wonder goal to make virtually every striker in the world sit up and applaud.

Terry – need I really say anything about a true Captain Marvel

Cole – The single most influential player on the pitch who scored a wonder goal leaving 3 Manure players for dead. Whilst the Rooney situation is indeed sad for England then surely we have a ready made and equally talented solution in Joey Cole?

This is not to denigrate any other player on such a glorious day, all are worthy of mentions but these 4 players were for me truly outstanding. And let’s face it, 3-0 is a real panning for Manure.

On the final whistle the tears welled up and the emotional release from me was all too obvious to those around me. The big fat foulmouth drunk behind me even gave me a kiss. And do you know what. I didn’t mind no matter how rank he smelt. I think that was the first time my arse actually touched my seat as I sank down for a few minutes as all the thoughts and worries were released. To be honest the pressure valve had loosened substantially on the second goal, and bit more on the third. But the final whistle had mimicked the sound of a proverbial kettle in my head reaching boiling point and finally releasing the steam. I stayed for an hour until the ground emptied, shaking stranger’s hands, and high fiving with people I’ve never seen before and may never see again. I saw grown men wiping their eyes (no doubt protesting that something had flown in there). I saw more shiny happy people that day than I’ve ever encountered or Michael Stipe could even imagine. Stamford Bridge was smiling and from above it must have looked like the worlds biggest collective smiley icon. Even when I left the ground clutching my bag and goodies desperately close, tripping through the hawkers selling their “back-to-back” flags and t-shirts (for a bloody tenner, the robbers), past an impromptu communal game of football echoing the advert on TV, past the singing in the SO bar and the smiling mounted police. This was party time Chelsea style. If the Kings Road has a swagger normally then today it was positively hip gyrating. We sang as we walked up the road, cars sounding their horns and non footballing people looked on in bewildered amusement. The journey home was almost serene as we sat in the car smiling like a collective of Bonnie Langford’s after sampling the best Skunk money can buy.

It was paradise. If heaven exists then I hope it is very much like this.

Finally, some bouquets and brickbats to finish on. Brickbats first I think so that I can finish on a happy note. Brickbats to the Press who got a rousing reception when they walked onto the pitch, but not of the nice kind. Personally the afternoon could only have been capped by getting the reporters from the East Stand into the pen as well and then inviting us all onto the pitch to give them a well deserved kicking. A brickbat to the referee and his assistants, Mike Dean, our friend from the Fulham game…the one with indecisive mind who seemed determined to kill an enthralling and competitive game with a display of breathtaking pedantism and fussiness. A brickbat to the FA because of their treatment of us this year and their blatant disregard for the fans with the poxy brown-nosing to the lords of TV and stupid 17:15 kick offs miles from home. The idiots also get another one for the England manager fiasco. A brickbat to the very few fans who booed Rooney off the pitch. Some people really do not have any class. Brickbats to the fans who booed Drogba at the Man City game. No matter what I can never boo anyone wearing the Chelsea shirt. Voice your disapproval in the pub or on this blog but do you really think you’re going to help the player by vilifying him whilst he’s out there playing. Besides, a lot of us knew how good he was from the start and kept faith. We told you so! And the final brickbat goes to RedScouse FC. When you emulate this then please come and comment here. Until then, keep remaining a “cup” team. Enjoy the qualifying round of the CL.

Bouquets to the Manure fans that applauded the team at the end, some even stayed for the presentation. Some I met after the game were dignified and gracious in defeat. Bouquets to the Blues fans that applauded Rooney and chanted his name as he left the pitch, face twisted in pain and despair. Bouquets to JM for ensuring every person on the Manure bench got a handshake in the spirit of the game and NOT as the sewer rat Richard Williams implied in his poisonous Guardian article (an extra brickbat to him personally for this mean spirited and vile column tainting the souvenir pages of the Guardian report). Bouquets to the Stewards who allowed the single fan to dance on the pitch and greet every one of his hero’s in front of the MHL and then allowed him back in the crowd without getting all Jobsworth and ejecting him or getting him arrested. A bouquet to Gary Neville who, despite getting loads of stick from us, then had the dignity to graciously hug Super Frank at the end and then seek out EVERY Chelsea player and shake their hand. A bouquet for Wayne Rooney who despite a bad tackle on Terry was one of the few Manure players to show constant fire in their belly, and also because no player deserves to have their World Cup hopes dashed so cruelly and via such an innocuous route. A bouquet for Hernan Crespo for whom the emotion of the whole thing was screened for all to see. For someone whose heart for Chelsea has been questioned this seemed an extraordinary reaction. I’d love him to stay with us. A class player and a class person. A bouquet for the MHL who in my opinion are the best fans anywhere.

And the final bouquet to the team who have bought more joy to my life than I can remember outside of my immediate family.

You are all my heroes.

Later ChelseaJack

Fair Warning I think!

A message to wives and girlfriends,

Please read the following....

List Of Rules.

1. From 9 June to 9 July 2006, you should read the sports section of the newspaper so that you are aware of what is going on regarding the World Cup, and that way you will be permitted to join in the conversations. If you fail to do this, then this will be viewed very dimly, or you will be totally ignored. DO NOT complain about not receiving any attention during this critical period.

2. During the World Cup, the television is mine, at all times, without any exceptions. You will only be allowed use of the remote control with prior written permission gained upon receipt of a written request to do so.

3. If you have to pass by in front of the TV during a game, I don't mind, as long as you do it by crawling on the floor and without distracting me. If you decide to stand nude in front of the TV, make sure you put clothes on right after because if you catch a cold, I won’t have time to take you to the doctor or look after you during the World Cup month.

4. During the games I will be effectively blind, deaf and mute, unless I require a refill of my drink or something to eat. Please don’t expect me to listen to you, answer the door, answer the telephone, collect or deliver any children or converse with any of your friends or relatives (fellow male relatives aside………you should not have any male friends!).

5. It would be a good idea for you to keep at least 2 six packs in the fridge at all times, as well as plenty of things to nibble on, and please do not make any funny faces or comments to my friends when they come over to watch the games. In return, and as a sign of my goodwill, you will be allowed to use the TV between 12am and 6am*.

*Unless they replay a good game that I missed during the day.

6. Please, please, please!! If you see me upset because one of my teams is losing, DO NOT say "never mind, it’s only a game", or "don't worry, they’ll win next time". If you say these things, you will only make me angrier and I will love you less. Remember, you will never ever know more about football than me and your so called "words of encouragement" will only lead to a break up or divorce.

7. You are welcome to sit with me to watch one game and you can talk to me during half-time but only when the commercials are on, and only if the half-time score is pleasing me. In addition, please note I am saying "one" game; hence do not attempt to use the World Cup as a covert excuse to "spend time together".

8. The replays of the goals are very important. I don't care if I have seen them or I haven't seen them, I want to see them again. Many times.

9. Tell your friends NOT to have any babies, or any other child
related parties or gatherings that requires my attendance because:
a) I will not go,
b) I will not go, and
c) I will not go.

10. But, if a friend of mine invites us to his house on a Sunday to watch a game, we will be there in a flash. Therefore you must stay sober at all times in order to carry out your additional function of nominated driver. Be aware that some transit may be required during half time periods depending on the thrill level of the game, or on the basis of who has enough remaining beer. Be prepared for similar incursions into our living room from fellow watchers.

11. The daily World Cup highlights show on TV every night is just as important as the games themselves. Do not even think about saying "but you have already seen this...why don't you change the channel to something we can all watch??", the reply will be: "Refer to Rule #2 of this list".

12. Please do not ask for explanations of the offside rule again, nor any other rules – it is incumbent upon you to read the rules of football prior to the tournament and email any questions you may have for me to answer at my leisure. Also note that refereeing decisions are not open to explanation from me, as most of the time the refs themselves do not understand their own decisions.

13. And finally, please save your expressions such as "Thank God the World Cup is only on every 4 years". You should note that I am immune to this type of message because after this comes Serie A, La Liga, The premiership, The Championship, The FA Cup, The Carling Cup and the Euro 2008 qualifying rounds.

With thanks, and on behalf of all the proper Men of The World

With thanks to Audrey for sending this to me for editing.

Later, GrocerJack

Lazy Git

Lazy Git? Moi?

Yep.

And thats why the posts have been a bit thin on the ground since my return. Nothing has annoyed me or interested me enough to deem it worthwhile writing about. See the pic? That's just about how I feel toward everything at the moment, particularly the Dungeon of Dullness that is work . Every day is filled with utter banality and crap.

If I took drugs then life at work would currently be a drug induced collage of utterly fucked up bollocks.

So, things to force out a comment on

1.) Charles Clarke and the freed prisoners: What a complete knob this bloke is. Forget Blunketts misdemeanours, this bloke is a complete arrogant imbecile. Perfect for this Nanny Government then I suppose.

2.) NHS crisis. The NHS has more money than ever as promised and for once delivered by the Nanny Government. Patient lists are increasing but waiting times are falling. And then the admin numpties overspend their budget and jobs are lost. How is that the Nanny Governments fault? They give more, someone else spends more. Sad fact of life that it is the NHS would be a bottomless pit for money and all the GDP of the UK would never satisfy its hunger for cash. The problem is simple, recruit people from real businesses who know how to manage budgets and sack the idiots who have overspent and caused the crisis.

3.) Liverpool beating Chelsea. Bastards.

4.) A Brazilian for England! At first I thought this meant some serious pubic topiary for the country under some sort of Nanny Government Nether Regions Development Scheme. But no, of course its the apparent fact that thanks to the Chairman of the only non-English club in the Premiership, Arse FC, we are now to be saddled with a manager whose English is as good as my French. What a bunch of Arse (the real kind). And what a damning indictment of the most corrupt and inefficient organisation, the FA, that runs our beautiful game that we aaparently don't have anyone of our own nationality capable of doing the job. Even a cumbersome dinosaur like Lambeth Council could do better. Hell, even the Nanny Government might make a better fist of it.......

5.) ......nah, in light of their green light to the Russians to control the production and delivery of one of our most vital energy sources by allowing a bid for Craptica, the owners of British Gas, the Nanny Government shouldn't be trusted to run a bath on its own. Can anyone else see where this might end up? Maybe the proverbial gun being held to our heads one day.? Don't forget that no gas means no electricity because a large number of our power stations are fired by gas, which also means no food production, no oil production, nothing. Now, if you had a plan to restore yourself as a Superpower, what's the better way. Military War or Financial War. Ask the US what made them the worlds (current) only Superpower!

6.) Doctor Who (series 2, or 27 depending on your level of pedantism) - another fillip for the BBC with the second series very much following on from where the last one finished. The BBC seems to have cracked the former issue of not hiring very good actors to fill the part of The Doctor (Colin Baker, Sly McCoy anyone?), whereas David tennant seems to have encapsulated some of the eccentricities of former Doctors whilst bringing new facets to the role. Two episodes in, one quite brave and the other quite scary, especially I imagine for young children. The Werewolf transformation scene was as good as the Gas Mask transformation from last years Empty Child/Doctor Dances two parter. So far so good, lets hope the BBC and the saviour of Doctor Who , Russell T Davies keep raising the bar.

7.) Fuel prices - ridiculous as we know. At what point does the economy get affected by people not being able to afford to drive to work? Say what you like about the French, but they'd be on the streets now on strike or on massive displays of civil disobedience. Of course, we don't do that do we? No, we just grease our arses ready for next shafting. How spineless. How sad.

8.) John Prescott having an affair - hmmmm, who cares about his infidelity. People have affairs, shit happens, get over it. No, whats more interesting about this is how the woman, Tracey Temple could even consider sleeping with WalrusMan. I mean come on, he really did fall out of the Ugly Tree and hit everyone branch on the way down. Or in other words he has a face like a box of fireworks has exploded in it and someone put out the fire with a shovel.

Oh yeah...of course...she loved him....of course she did. No career ladder climbing involved then?

Toodlepip, GrocerJack

More Money Pit.....

Caravan – Mobile Home - Holiday Home – The Money Pit at last…..

And so we arrived in the car park of the camp site holiday parc at around 10 in the morning. This was some 2 hours in front of the time we had told Mrs Nice but Dim, the girl who sold us The Money Pit. Mrs Nice but Dim is exactly that, she’s very nice, very pleasant, very friendly but incredibly dim. If there is a light in there then it’s a very low energy one and wouldn’t provide enough illumination to wake a very tired moth. In fact it’s enough to say that as nice and pleasant as she is such is the massive lack of thinking capability and short and long term memory that she might be better titled as Mrs Goldfish. Put it this way, I wouldn’t trust her to run a bath let alone a sales operation in France.

So we contacted her and she was miraculously in the camp site mobile home park holiday parc adjoining sales office. There is no doubt she was pleased to see us, no doubt weighed down by the commission earned in concluding the deal with us and merrily she asked us to jump on the back of the custom built salesmobile stretch golf buggy so she could take us to The Money Pit. Now bear in mind we’ve seen the place only once before and hence the level of expectation and trepidation rose steeply as we were about to see where circa £36000 of my hard earned money had gone. Well we needn’t have worried unduly because The Money Pit was in situ in all its glory, brand spanking new and almost shining with newness. Even when we went in it smelt of newness, not unlike a brand new car. The decking was so new you could smell the aroma of freshly sawn wood everywhere (almost as if they’d only finished it 10 minutes earlier) and when the heater was turned on (it was only 10 degrees at this time of the morning) it gave off the pungent aroma of new heated metal and plastic. So far so good. The inventory was in the kitchen packed into a huge box as yet unopened. Busily we went through it, unwrapping each item as if it was Christmas Day and very soon it became obvious that much was missing. Simple but irritating things like a bin, a teapot, a sugar bowl, a broom, a mop (that’s getting a bit generation game now…). It sounds unimportant but these items are part of the agreement of what is supplied for sub-letting the damn thing.

Mrs Goldfish then went through the checklist and it soon became obvious that there were a number of snagging issues. A hole in the wall by the main door, a huge blind in the front window that only allowed one side or the other to move up or down in a seemingly illogical order related to Heisenbergs Uncertainty Principle, a shutter in the kitchen window that refused to either open or close, a water leak in the second bathroom, a light in the drinks cabinet with no power feeding to it, bedroom doors that refused to close and a sofa bed so firmly jammed into place that the only way I could see of removing it was to cut away a large chunk of mobile home and coils of spare co-axial cable in the main bedroom and, bizarrely, in the main bathroom.

It was built in Spain. Need I say more?

Over the week I spent a proportion of each day pestering Mrs Goldfish and Damien, the “owners” contact for the missing inventory items and we managed to get all but 3 snags repaired, the rest requiring an engineer from the manufacturer, along with getting the air conditioning installed, the storage shed and getting a decent Chiminea style barbecue. But here’s the rub………it is my theory that London Transport, specifically the Underground managed to re-define the length of a minute some years ago from the standard 60 seconds to somewhere around 90 seconds. If you’ve ever waited for a train and the board has said “next train 1 Minute” you’ll know exactly what I’m saying. Well, the French have improved on that. Not satisfied with defining the metre and discarding the yard, they seem to have redefined the length of 1 minute into something that’s at least 5 minutes but sometimes longer. Thus, when Cedric the air con guy says he has to go for 10 minutes he actually disappears for an hour or so. When Patrique the gardener says 15 minutes he comes back some 3 hours or so later! So, a lot of the week is spent waiting around the caravan holiday home for various French workmen to turn up and do what I’ve paid for! And Mrs Goldfish who is English was exactly the same, as is her husband (the site handyman) who also seems to have adopted French standards regarding the passage of time.

Mrs Goldfish actually said to me that she’d be back in 15 minutes on one visit to see how things were going, with the rest of the inventory. That was about Midday and we never saw her again that day. The next day she promised again to be there by 18:00 and turned up at 19:45, but with no inventory. Mr Goldfish promised one day to be with me at 14:00 but again never appeared. It must be the French way, but when you live in a society such as ours which thrives on a “customer is king” ethos this French version of Manana is hard to adapt to.

Anyway, have a good weekend everyone. I will be trying to hide on a golf course to avoid the torture of watching my beloved Chelsea play Liverpool in the FA Cup semi final on TV. Play golf, check phone at full time, cheer or sigh, painless.

Later, Grocerjack

Le retour de l'épicier Jack

Bonsoir Mes Amis...

Yep, I'm back and now I've caught up with work (yawn) et al I thought I'd update you with tales of my sojourn to France in order to visit The Money Pit. A lot happened during my 8 day stay (extended from 7) and it would be an inordinately huge post to cover all the observations I made about what we've bought and where we've bought it. So. I'll do it over a few posts starting today.

The site itself is a place called La Carabasse near a town called Vias virtually bang on The Med. I would think the nearest places people would readily recognize are Beziers and Montpellier. We set off on the Friday about 18:00 to cater for the undoubted huge amounts of traffic that would be clogging the main artery of London travel, the M25. Our train through the tunnel was booked and we were on the 23:45 from Dover and would be in the quaint (sic) little French port of Calais for 23:20 local time. Yes, even now looking back it seemed that 5 hours journey time for a 122 mile trip from home to the tunnel was being a little over cautious. Hence, when we arrived at the tunnel at 21:00 we were slightly perturbed by the idea of a near 3 hour wait. But we needn't have worried. In a fit of brilliant and efficent bureaucracy and design when I put the debit card into the "self check in area" fully in the expectation that ......

a.) my card would fail
b.) the booking details would be lost
c.) The booking had never been registered
d.) I am unknowingly wanted by the Police and they would turn up and nick me
e.) any other number of mishaps, failures or errors might occur

.......everything was fine. The bloody system even asked if we would like to travel earlier for no charge!. It offered us a crossing at 21:30, less than 10 minutes from arrival at the port. Again, more in hope than expectation we opted for the earler journey, after we had a non-stop drive the length of France in front of us through the night, so why not start early? And I have a mouth full of metal preventing me from talking so I'm constantly grumpy. In fact without trying to be un-PC.....I sound at times like someone who is partially deaf such is the difficulty I have pronouncing "S", "C", "ch", "sh" and oddly enough "J", "T" and "G". Wow, even this worked and so we followed the lane signs and within 5 minutes we were on the shuttle. To say I was amazed that any form of group travel could be this efficient was an understatement to say the least. Then, just to cap off the now astounded Jack mind the damn train left bang on time and arrived bang on time, and so we were in France at around 21:00 local time. It was all I could to stop myself surrendering at the French "Douane" and asking for a drug test just in case I was hallucinating under the influence of a mind bending drug I'd covertly had administered. We were on the road by about 21:30 local time.

But of course this blissful journey couldn't last. We drove from Calais to Paris down the French A1, a magnificent 4 lane highway of virtually no cars. I kept a steady 110km/h as it was raining and I didn't fancy getting a french speeding ticket as a souvenir. GMD dozed, the kids slumbered. The journey is around 200 miles, but of course on a map it looks like about an inch and a half (4cm for those living in Metric reality). Naively I decided that because we were in Paris quite late at night I would be able to drive straight through the centre out to the South side. Yeah, right. For the uninitiated, and that no longer includes me, Paris is a nuthouse. Its a lunatic asylum full of people driving how they like, on roads with no signs, with one way systems that would be physically impossible to draw, in cars that mainly have a bit missing somewhere from a previous prang. It is not for the fainthearted and even the most confident and gobby cocksure London cabbie would feel threatended and intimidated by driving Paris. I will NEVER do that again. NEVER. EVER. The only time I will be in a car in Paris is in the back of a cab. I also didn't know it had an interior "peripherique" and an exterior "peripherique". As we turned down road after road hopefully looking for a sign to somewhere we knew of any one of the spoke A roads, driving past hippies, dropouts, gangs, drunks, I could sense the worry developing from GMD and Teenager (Baby was fast asleep by now). Eventually GMD indicated a road to take. What she meant was pull over whilst she worked out which way to go....what i heard was take a left here .....and hence ensued the first holiday row over getting lost. This is a ritual that occurs every time we go to France. GMD thinks she can read a map but somehow or another we always end up at one stage driving round the same bits and getting nowehere. When we do find our way out she usually follows this up with

"I told you I knew where to go!"

Anyway, eventually we're out of Paris, grateful to be in one pice both physically and mentally. Honestly if you want to give people a real mental test then dump them in Paris and tell them to find their way out. You'd never see them agin, ever.

Eventually I gave up on the driving at around 6:00 when I genuinely started to hallucinate through tiredness and GMD, freshly rested took a stint for an hour and a half. We drove through the Tarn Gorges and the area of France that is like the Highlands of Scotland, stunning scenery, Italian Job tunnels in mountains, roads 1500m above sea level. It was truly a beautiful drive, topped off by the magnificant Viaduct De Millau, sitting some 750m above the town of Millau. In the UK the environmentalists would be up in arms about spoiling the natural scenery but belive me, this Bridge enhances that scenery and is a true icon of just how man can build things that rival natures beauty. Magnificent. And a snip at 5 Euro's to cross!

Some 12 hours after leaving the train we arrived at the Holiday Parc, the weather mild but cloudy. And then we saw, for the first time, The Money Pit........

to be continued.........

Later, GrocerJack

True?

After four long months of cold and winter, we are finally coming up to spring and BBQ season. Therefore, it is important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this outdoor cooking ritual, as it's the only type of cooking a real man will do, probably because there is an element of danger involved.

When a man volunteers to do the BBQ, the following chain of
events are put into motion:

Routine:

1. The woman buys the food.

2. The woman makes the salad, prepares the vegetables, and
makes dessert.

3. The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a
tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to
the man who is lounging beside the grill - beer in hand.

Here comes the important part:

4. THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL.

More routine:

5. The woman goes inside to organize the plates and
cutlery.

6. The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is
burning. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he
deals with the situation.

Important again:

7. THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.

More routine:

8. The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils,
napkins, sauces and brings them to the table.

9. After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes.

And most important of all:

10. Everyone PRAISES THE MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking
efforts.

11. The man asks the woman how she enjoyed "her night off"
and, upon seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there's just no
pleasing some women!

My thanks to LittleSis for this valuable insight.

Later, Grocerjack

Today's the day.....

......I am finally off to France shortly for what I believe is a well earned break. I have a feeling though that it won't be all play as something's bound to need doing. GMD already has plans for me to erect a steel storage shed at the back for us to store sheets, duvet covers and clothes etc in order to cut down on the luggage load. However, rather there than here I guess. Yesterday was Orthodontic fitting (part deux) and the experience of a cervical smear for the mouth was fully repeated, but was even more uncomfortable as it went on for 90 minutes. Luckily Dr B is a friendly soul and chatted incessantly to me throughout. I now have 3 lots of additional mouth furniture.

1. ) A clear rubbery bite adjuster for the bottom row when eating - very attractive

2.) A removable appliance or brace as we used to call them for the upper teeth also adjusting bite and "getting things moving" in Dr B's words - very uncomfortable and painful

3.) The top front six teeth now have the first wired fixed appliance on them - very unattractive

The brace is uncomfortable and means I now talk very similarly to Freddie "Parrot Face" Davies. The hardest things to pronounce are words containing letters G, D, S , X, C, J, and Z. In fact my 3 year old nephew has better pronunciation than me now! As the fixed wires were tightening up I had visions of torture cells flash in front of me as the teeth groaned under the strain of being pulled together. According to Dr B, this is necessary in order to change the bone structure which eventually will help the final result look "stunning" in her words. Why do I hear echoes of Dr Frankenstein here?

Anyway, the upshot is I look different, rather horrible actually and now I sound like I have a severe speech impediment as well. And yes, it is painful as well, so plenty of Ibuprofen will be required, although I think the French probably have more favourable anaesthetics available.

Testing times in the cause of vanity indeed.

So, enjoy Easter mon amis. I will be back on the 17th with stories aplenty. In the meantime please enjoy the work of art I have left for you. Click to enlarge. Its a Turner and is called The Keelmen Hauling in the coals at the end of the day"

C'est Magnifique.

Au revoir, EpicierJacques

Happy days?

Well, at last the time has come. After what seems like years of waiting, and cash demand after cash demand the moment of truth has finally arrived. That's right - I'm finally off to see where my lifes savings and most of my bank account has been going for the last few months....The Money Pit! Yes folks on Friday night at 23:55 I will journey through the underbelly of AsylumSeeker Tunnel across to strike-bound militant France to start a 700 mile journey through tractor barricades, stone lobbing rioting students, Parisian dog shit, sleeping gendarmes, ghost towns and Marie-Celeste villages, via the allegedly and seemingly stunning Millau Bridge (which I am really looking forward to driving over) to finally arrive at a Holiday Parc (Camp Site) that I've only seen once, to stay in a Holiday Home (Caravan) that cost me the best part of ££££££££'s that I've only seen as a display unit or on a web site.

The weather forecast is around the 70 mark, so not quite swimming and shorts weather, but (and please don't take this the wrong way) better than what's forecast here. Unless of course Southern Britain really does live up to its apparent reputation as being almost as dry as the surface of Venus.

I'm going for a week and I'm not sure about Internet access on the site so there probably won't be any postings.......and no I've no idea how to blog via a mobile so if anyone knows then email me. I will of course leave a nice piece of art on display as a GrocerJack version of the testcard, and there maybe another post before departing.

Au revoir, GrocerJack

How to feel old.....

I haven't played golf for around 6 weeks due to golf partner illness, general sloth and piss poor weather conditions. So, Sunday I decided to take my chances of getting hideously sunburnt in apparently arid Britain and went out for a knock with some of the Jolly Boys who are heading off with me to Spain for some summer golf/drinking/world cup footie in July. I was almost expecting to drive past hordes of ragged, parched people standing in line with buckets for the stand pipe such has been the hysteria surrounding an alleged water shortage in the south.

Funny how it was never an issue pre-privatisation huh? Of course it wouldn't be anything to do with the old economic maxim that the scarcer a commodity is, or is perceived to be the more money you can charge for it, the bigger the profit you make, the happier the shareholders will be, would it?

Tonic Man, Deadeye, The King and myself met at the course around midday. Well, I appreciate we haven't had the wettest of winters last year but frankly the last couple of weeks have barely seen a day without substantial rain where I live. Yesterday was no exception as we battled elements to play in bright sunshine one secong, howling wind the next and torrential rain after that. In fact the game was hard enough after such a long-ish lay off without Mother Nature being a complete bitch as well. The last 3 holes were played in utter monsoon conditions.

So, cold, wet and slightly miserable we went to the clubhouse for a drink. During that brief 45 minutes or so someone decided to to inject every joint and muscle in my body with a super glue that fixed everything into the seated position. When I got up to leave every single bone, joint and muscle that I can reasonably be said to possess screamed in agony. I walked like an 80 year old incontinent man with arthritic hips and broken feet. I moaned like one as well. Of course this isn't the first time this has happened but normally by bedtime things have improved, and if I play within a few days then there isn't a problem. Last night it just seemed to get worse. Even my knuckles hurt. At one point even my fingernails seemed to hurt. I was close to googling a search for "Zimmer frame suppliers". I didn't sleep much Sunday night as there didn't seem to be any comfortable positions where some part of my anatomy wasn't moaning.

Bloody hell, 44 and stiffening up like someone twice my age. Despite losing weight and generally eating healthier this was a real shock and a typical indictment on the falsehoods of eating healthy. Perhaps I should go back on the Pizza's and chocolate then....

Later, GrocerJack

Don't Panic!!!!

*Published first on Chelseablog*

Don’t Panic!

So I wonder exactly what Chelsea fans across this small globe are thinking this morning. No doubt some will have a skip in their step in anticipation of our inevitable Premiership and FA Cup double whilst others will be rubbing their hands in glee at the thought of Mourinho being forcibly ejected from the club on the basis of failing to beat another team scrapping for survival. Others may also be rejoicing in the return to Bad Old Chelsea and our unswerving ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory because suddenly we’re interesting again. But I would hazard a guess that the majority of us are now in a state of constant turmoil that is a mirror image of the Jennifer Saunders character currently featuring in the unbelievably irritating BarclayCard adverts. For those fortunate enough to live in a region where this dire ad campaign isn’t being shown, in essence it features Our Jen as a rather attractive, mature women (maybe that’s just me?) in her 40’s undergoing something of a schizophrenic/bi-polar syndrome crisis whenever she shops using her BarclayCard. One minute she’s in a blind panic over the potential catastrophes of her card details being stolen, some calamity occurring to the goods she’s purchased or discussing to herself what type of coffee she might indulge in post-shopping spree. The cure for this is her BarclayCard, allegedly under whose terms and conditions she needn’t worry about anything she purchase using it as they will take care of everything in the event of one or more of these shopping related maladies coming to the fore. The rather crap strap line is a play on BarclayCard, but instead it’s BarclayCalm, insinuating that if we all have one then we have no worries in this increasingly precarious society that we inhabit.

So what’s this got to do with my beloved Chelsea and our push for a second domestic title? Well, for me, and as I stated many others, it is quite likely that quite a few of us are veering wildly between similar states of reassured, and reassuring calm one moment and outright hysterical panic the next. The thought of feeling the hot, stale breath of Manure on our necks during this run in is more than enough to have me wondering whether or not to invest in some Adult-size Pampers. Even before the game on Saturday the old feelings of despair were starting to surface within me as even Airline started turning in quality displays, home and abroad capable of scaring the living daylights from even the most anti-Airline football fans, and watching Manure relentlessly and ruthlessly knock over each team they meet. One things for sure, the Holy Grail of Self Belief is no longer the exclusive preserve of our beloved Chelsea. It has spilled its contents back to Airline, Manure and WhiningScouse FC. To cap it all we then get an FA cup semi final against WhiningScouse FC, almost as if the Gods of football were going out of there way to make life as tough as possible to repay us for having the nerve to win one Premiership title after 50 years. To coin a phrase, this is “squeaky bottom time”. It’s a time when our players and fans have to tough it out and keep the faith in our ability to retain the Title and win the FA Cup to show that we have improved from last season. I stood in the pub on Friday evening, calmly telling some friends that we were coasting to the title and playing within ourselves, whilst simultaneously warning them that we could still blow it if we didn’t start knocking lesser teams over. No mean feat I can tell you. Try it yourself….go from being calm and confident to panic stricken and calm again, and then contemplate doing this with a constant stream of Guinness ploughing through your system exaggerating each pole of emotion. That’s right, by the end of the evening I resembled a complete basket case of hypocrisy and blind faith.

I watched the Birmingham game in a post-Guinness hangover fog of disbelief, dismay and incredulity at our transformation from ineptitude and apathy to total domination but complete inability to apply a killer instinct in front of goal. The first half was as dire a performance as I’ve seen all season. It easily matched the torpor of West Brom and Fulham. It even peaked at times to plumb the depths of our game at Middlesbrough. The only performances of note were the, as usual, excellent John Terry and Petr Cech (who really had nothing much to do due to Birmingham’s profligacy in their finishing). Asier Del Horno, a much criticised player from me even put in an honourable and hard working display. Eidur is rapidly turning out to be another Tore Andre Flo, a player who can change things coming from the bench, but rarely makes the full 90 minute contribution worthwhile. On Saturday he was impotent in every sense of the word. Damien Duff a lone shining star against Fulham ran down blind alley after blind alley, and Arjen Robben played as if he had brand new boots on and didn’t want them to get dirty. Frank Lampard increasingly looks a shadow of the player who threatened the Terry Henry/Ruud Van Nistelrooy duopoly at the top of the scoring charts. Drogba has his purposes but breaking down a dogged defence, or running into space behind them doesn’t appear to be one. Crespo comes and no-one passes to him for 10 minutes. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Crespo playing from the start would have wrapped up at least one chance because he would have been in the game rather than trying to get up to speed by being allowed to join in late on. Makalele was bullied off the ball and harassed into making silly errors which cost possession. Joe Cole at least started to make things happen when he came on, but his relegation to bench again seemed to underline the occasionally mystifying Ranieri like tendencies shown by Mourinho recently

As first half performances go, it was frankly rubbish. Anyone who even dares to disagree with that succinct but wholly accurate synopsis of the game is probably a master of Stevie Wonder impersonations. The second half saw some improvement as we managed to hold the ball and pass it to each other. Chances were still thin on the ground though, and in such a target-poor environment it becomes even more important to take the opportunities you create. The last 10 minutes saw several absolute gift-wrapped chances spurned by Crespo, Carvalho and Drogba amongst others. This simply isn’t good enough and Mourinho should be berating the players for loss of concentration at the very least.

At the back of this schizophrenic persona that I have these days there is the thought that maybe the players are just intending to do enough to get past the post, to just scrape through. But that isn’t good enough. The long suffering fans deserve to see our team go out and do what WhiningScouse FC, manure and Arsenal have all done recently and that’s put some of these teams to the sword. As Nick from Chelseablog stated previously it has been said that Mourinho adopts the mantra of “why win 5-0 when 2-0 will do?”, Well here’s why….We are the champions. We are the best team in the Premiership. Teams should be quaking in their boots at the thought of playing us. What’s more JM, the fans deserve to be treated to a few of these compelling victories. But, now they might see a perceived weakness, a blinking of the eye or the small betraying bead of sweat running down the face of Chelsea that exposes the doubts running through the collective minds of Chelsea players, management and fans.

And so we must move on with strong hearts and minds. We must suppress the panicky side of our nature and display the cool and calm visage that our manager shows. If we believe, or show we believe and hide the doubts then the players can feed off this and take us onto more glory this season. There’s a great quote from Henry Ford which I often use before each shot I play at golf, and it sums up just how important the power of the mind is when faced with challenging situations…..

“Whether you think you can, or whether you think you can’t, you’re probably right”

In The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by the late, great Douglas Adams, the actual best selling galactic book was immensely popular because it had the words “DON’T PANIC” emblazoned across its front in big friendly letters. I think we could do the same across the front of Stamford Bridge, across the CFC web page, across the matchday programmes and ChelseaTV. It would certainly work for me.

Later, ChelseaJack