Author: 7 Reasons

7 Reasons You Should Have A Music Festival In Your Garden

It’s Thursday! And to celebrate the day we present you with our third and final piece that was destined for the shelves inside Esquire, but didn’t quite make it.

1. Own Bed. No sleeping on the roughest terrain in history in a sleeping bag that is far too small for you. After the last act, you can just pop upstairs and collapse onto your dry, comfy mattress. And of course you won’t be woken by fifteen drunken idiots tripping over your guy-rope at 4am.

2. Bad Weather. If the British Summer decides to stick with tradition and deposit large amounts of water upon us each weekend, you can just move your festival indoors. No one gets wet, your girlfriend won’t moan that her make-up is running and you won’t spend the rest of the evening warning off blokes who have just noticed she isn’t wearing a bra.

3. Lost Belongings. There is nothing more sickening than waking up in your tent and realising that you lost your wallet and wedding ring last night. If you have your own festival though, there is no need to panic. Your wallet will be in the flower bed and your ring will be in next door’s cat. Your ring never ends up in next door’s cat at Glastonbury. Never. Though sometimes it is in next door’s cow.

4. Toilets. A customary hazard at festivals. You’re going to drink large quantities of lager – even if you don’t like the bloody stuff – and that means ending up in queue for the temple of bacteria that is the portaloo. What’s the point when at home you can use your clean bathroom? A bathroom that smells of your partner’s potpourri and doesn’t have 100 people waiting ahead of you. Unless you accidentally left your front door open, of course.

5. Prices. Let’s be honest, the admission price to stand in a field for three days is excessive. You could have driven to Estonia on a small motorbike for the cost of a burger and chips. And you always end up spending £10 on a novelty blow-up dolphin that has a slow-puncture. All in all, a waste of money. Have your festival at home and you can charge yourself sensible prices. And there’s more chance of having a puncture repair kit to hand too.

6. Better Yourself. Music festivals – despite the name – aren’t just about the music. There are workshops and craft stalls and clowns and people trying to get you to take part in yoga classes. Have a festival at home and you can do all these yourself. You can have a woodwork workshop that will involve you putting up those shelves that you have been meaning to do for six months. You can set up a stall and try to flog all your rubbish from the attic to unsuspecting neighbours. And you can take part in your own yoga class. Which will involve bending down to pick up another beer. And relax.

7. Dreadlocks. Most of the people at your home-festival won’t be pierced and be-dreadlocked. Unless, that is, you have dreadlocks and a piercing. In which case, what are you doing reading this bit? Go to the Fashion & Grooming section at once! In fact, did you steal this magazine?

September 9, 2010
7 Reasons You Should Choose Your Holiday Read Carefully

There’s so much to think about when choosing your holiday read and so much can go wrong. Here are seven reasons that you should do it carefully.

1. The Cover. People say you should never judge a book by its cover. But they do. Which is why everyone who sees your choice of book will automatically form an opinion of you. And it will probably be the wrong opinion. Take Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange for example. The Penguin Modern Classic version depicts a glass of milk. If I see someone reading a book that has a cover featuring milk I immediately think, ‘Cows. The reader likes cows’. They probably don’t. In fact, had I asked them, they would have probably shrugged with indifference. But that’s the peril of the book cover. To me, that person will always be a cow lover.

2. Trilogies. These are a big no-no. No one reads more than one book on holiday, so never start on a series that is going to take you a further two holidays to finish. By the time the second holiday comes around you’ll have forgotten what happened in the first book. This means you’ll have to read it again, only for the process to repeat itself on the next holiday. Basically, you’ll spend the rest of your life holidaying with the same book. And you’ll never find out who kills who or what the wizard said to the pixie or why the girl next door is so addicted to sex with vampires.

3. Love. Lots of people meet the love of their lives (or their night) on holiday. The last thing you need – having plucked up the courage and charmed a beautiful lady at the bar – is for her to come back to your suite and see your copy of How To Talk Women Into Bed resting on your pillow. That kind of behaviour is strictly frowned upon by the fairer sex. Apparently.

4. Language. When you take a book abroad, it’s disrespectful to your hosts to read an English translation of a book originally written in their language. In Barcelona, several people were upset to see me reading a translation of Lorca’s Yerma, but that was nothing compared to the reaction of Berliners to my English version of Mein Kampf. Never read a translated work. They were livid.

5. Practicality. The Da Vinci Code is the ideal book to take on holiday. If the weather takes a turn for the worse you can use it as kindling; if you spill your drink on the table, it’s quite absorbent; if you need to hold a door in your villa open, you can fashion a papier-mache doorstop from it; if you find that people are trying to engage you in conversation, you can pretend to read it (they’ll soon leave you alone). There’s almost nothing that this versatile book can’t be used for. Except as reading material, obviously. That would be stupid.

6. The Lord Of The Flies. If you have teenage children, do not take this book on your island-break with you. Okay, so it’s pretty unlikely that they’ll put down their iPods and PSPs for long enough to read it, but if they do, they may descend into savagery before you know it. And savages do not make relaxing holiday companions. As anyone that has vacationed in Ayia Napa will testify.

7. Airports. A copy of Frank Barnaby’s How to Build A Nuclear Bomb and Other Weapons of Mass Destruction would be a particularly poor choice of holiday read. It’s sobering, serious and thought-provoking; none of the things that are conducive to the holiday mood as you attempt to relax and get away from it all in your detention cell at Heathrow Airport.

September 8, 2010
7 Reasons August Is Too Early For The Football Season To Start

If you think that’s a slightly odd title – hopefully only for timing reasons – then we certainly understand why. This post was one of three that were originally going to appear in Esquire magazine. Due to space and content issues though, it wasn’t meant to be. We’re delighted to say however, that we can now show you what you would have read on the newsstands. If it makes you feel better, please buy a copy of Esquire, print this page and stick it in. If that wouldn’t make you feel better, just read as you normally would. The two other Esquire pieces will appear over the next two days. Exciting, huh? So here are, 7 Reasons August Is Too Early For The Football Season To Start.

1. Food & Merchandise. In August, the sales of these will just about be non-existent. No one wants a hot-dog or a pie in thirty degree heat. Neither does anyone want to buy a scarf. With clubs fighting for their financial lives at the moment, you’d have thought they’d want to cram December full of fixtures. It’s simple economics.

2. Sir Alex Ferguson. He’s red enough at the best of times. Making him watch football in August is just cruel. Both to him and to viewers of Match Of The Day.

3. Transfer Rumours. With the season starting in August, July will be full of unsubstantiated rumour. Such and such a player was just spotted at the services on the M1. This must mean he’s going off to sign for Manchester United. Yes, or more likely, he’s off visiting his best friend’s wife and needed petrol. And condoms.

4. Too Hot. August is predominantly a hot, sunny month in the UK. Hot, sunny weather affects the way football is played. Either we’ll develop a slower-paced continental game to cope with the conditions or we’ll carry on playing the traditional full-tilt English game and risk killing ginger people. Surely we could just wait for September? That would be the humane thing to do.

5. Rain. As a consequence of being hot and sunny, August is also one of the driest months of the year. At least during the week, when we are at work. At the weekend though, when we have things to do, the rain comes and plans are ruined. Cricket, barbecues, days at the beach. Whatever it is, they are ruined. And quite rightly too. That is what summer is all about. What can’t rain ruin? Football. Logic dictates, therefore, that it’s out of place in August.

6. Weddings. The school holidays run through August, as does the wedding season. And weddings are planned by women who do not care – or possibly even know – that you have something better to do at 3pm on Saturday afternoons in August; something that doesn’t involve dancing around the vol-au-vents. Basically, football ruins what should be the best day of people’s lives because the groom is sulking.

7. The World Cup. It’s just finished. The World Cup Final was on July 11th. And, England won and I still need time to let it sink in/England lost on penalties and I haven’t finished being depressed yet/England went out in the group stage and the sight of a football just makes me angry. (Delete as appropriate). It’s just too soon! I need more time!

September 7, 2010
7 Reasons Saint Peter Won’t Call Your Name, Chris.

Today I am not writing about marmite, but I am writing about Coldplay. I imagine you have a similar reaction to each. For those of you who now feel nauseous, let me put you at ease. When I say I am writing about Coldplay, I am actually addressing Chris Martin. Yes, I thought that might make you feel better. In what is arguably Coldplay’s finest effort, Viva La Vida, Christopher sings the lyric, ‘For Some Reason I Can’t Explain, I Know Saint Peter Won’t Call My Name’. For ‘some’ reason? No, no, no, Christopher! For ‘7′ Reasons. And they are as follows. (Includes explanations). Oh, and if you are one of the three people who have never heard the song, you can watch the Coldplay – Viva La Vida video. Here. Come back though, won’t you? You have things to read.

1. Crimes Against Music. I’m not talking about Coldplay (I actually enjoy your stuff), I am referring to your decision to take part in Band Aid 20. Your bit was alright, but couldn’t you have taken Dizzee Rascal out for a pint and locked him in a cupboard? Just for the afternoon. Perhaps you could have also taken Bono with you.

2. Distance. I suspect if Saint Peter does decide to call your name, he won’t actually ‘call your name’. I am assuming you believe that Saint Peter is in Heaven and thus he will be calling from there? Now, despite hoping – and indeed believing (no matter how irrational that belief is) – that such a place does exist, I have absolutely no idea where it is. Though logic dictates that it is a fair old distance from here. And hopefully even further from Slough. As a result, Saint Peter is far more likely to send you a letter. Probably same-day delivery.

3. House! Christopher, you seem to have the idea that Saint Peter calls out names as if he is hosting a night at Gala Bingo. While I am sure this would greatly amuse the other saints, I doubt very much it happens in such a way. I suspect he just waits until someone gracefully falls asleep and then whispers his name. Otherwise you’d get loads of people saying, ‘I thought I was going to die, then some git shouted my name and I woke up!’

4. Chris Martin! You seem to be suggesting that Saint Peter decides when it’s time you kick the bucket. And once he has decided he shouts out your name. I can’t believe this to be the case. I can’t believe Saint Peter is that selective. If he has any savvy – and as he is a Saint he no doubt has bountiful – he probably looks down on us and watches us do the deed for him. ‘There goes another one. He kicked the bucket, tripped over and fell off the cliff’. And Chris, I don’t think you’re going to fall off a cliff.

5. Lots Of People. I am not sure what powers Saint Peter has, but he’s going to have to be Paul Daniels, Derren Brown and Professor Charles Francis Xavier all rolled into one to remember every single one of the earth’s inhabitant’s names. I venture that what he actually does is have a sneaky look at your passport as you enter Heaven immigration control.

6. Rota Systems. It is generally accepted that 156,000 people die everyday. That’s about one every 1.8 seconds. I don’t believe that Saint Peter has the stamina to sit there all day everyday shouting out names. When does he sleep? He must have other saints who help him out. Probably two others so that they do eight hour shifts. And that is not to mention the 28 days of annual leave Saint Peter gets. So really there is something like a 1 in 5 chance that it will be Saint Peter who will call your name. It could well be Saint Paul, Saint Bert, Saint Bob or Paris Saint Germain.

7. Sore Throat. I am not sure if illness effects saints, but for purposes of me finding a seventh reason to write, we shall say they do. And rather annoyingly for them, they suffer from horrendously bad sore throats. So bad in fact that they can’t speak. Or sing. Or call. I don’t need to finish this reason off. You get the idea.

September 6, 2010
Russian Roulette Sunday: 7 Other Magazines We’re Not In This Month

Happy Sunday to you. Now, regular readers will no doubt be aware that we were hoping to make our debut in Esquire Magazine this month. Sadly, we haven’t. However, we are optimistic that we will make our bow in November. The delay got us thinking though. Which other magazines have we failed to make an appearance in this month? As it goes, all of them. Thankfully, in what will come as both a relief to you and our keyboards, we aren’t going to explain why we are not in every single magazine out there. That would take years. And quite frankly none of us have that much time to waste. Instead, we are just going to pick seven. Because seven is the correct number. So, here are seven other magazines we didn’t get in this month. And why. If you’ve spotted a magazine we’re not in, please do let us know in the comments section. And if you find a magazine we are in, we’d appreciate you let us know that too.

1. Beano. The 7 Reasons comic-strip promised so much. Two humorists, two cats* and a psychedelic penguin invade France. Who wouldn’t want to read that? Apart from Beano readers obviously. And the French.

2. Vanity Fair. Well, half the 7 Reasons team brought the vanity, sadly the other half forgot the dodgems. We’ll let you decide whom is who.

3. Wisden Cricketer. Despite Jon scoring a solid fifteen during his parent’s anniversary cricket match last Saturday, he still failed to make the current issue. Which is probably just as well considering it was his girlfriend that finally dismissed him.

4. Men’s Fudge. Notwithstanding the fact that at least 50% of the 7 Reasons team are strong advocates of fudge, this Japanese magazine still overlooked us. Probably because 100% of the 7 Reasons team are 100% interested in women. Two women. One each. No more. None. Let’s move on.

5. White Dwarf. For the uninitiated, this magazine solely deals with anything you might find in Games Workshop, i.e.: models of the wargaming genre. If you do happen to find a white dwarf in Games Workshop, well that’s just…erm…coincidence. He/she still won’t be featured. Or at least I assume they wouldn’t. That’s really the editors choice. And I’m not the editor. Anyway, I digress. We’re not in White Dwarf this week because we prefer making things out of paper.

6. Forbes. It’s their Celebrity 100 issue. The richest 100 celebrities. Given that 7 Reasons brings in approximately $2 in advertising revenue per day, we should be in this issue in circa July 43,676. Unless we have a spike, in which case we might make it into the January issue. That’s the aim anyway.

7. Motor Home. Marc and Jon in a campervan. I know what you’re thinking. And that’s why we’re not in this magazine either.

*One owned. The other, random.

September 5, 2010
Guest Post: 7 Reasons That Recycling Is Rubbish

It’s fair to say that the 7 Reasons Sofa Tour of The United States (Manchester, Scotland and rainy streets) is well and truly over now. While we have enjoyed our foray over the Atlantic (Pennines, border and road) in the past month or so, there is nothing quite like being at home. Taking over sofa duties today is Richard O’Hagan, who, apart from being a fanatical environmentalist (if this post is to be believed) writes about stuff for The Memory Blog, the Daily Mail and Cricket With Balls. You can follow him on Twitter and get directions to his house here. Over to you Richard.

Don’t get me wrong here, recycling is a good thing. At least for the next couple of generations. After which time we’ll have recycled everything so many times that no-one will really care any more, because everyone will have forgotten how to make anything new anyway. No, what I really object to is my local council saying that I have to recycle stuff, then only collecting half of the stuff they tell you to recycle.

1. Rubbish In Car. The council have dustcarts to take the rubbish away. Recycling is still rubbish. Why the hell am I having to put it in my car and drive it to the recycling point. It’s bad enough that you are using me to do the job you should be doing, do you have to take my vehicle as well?

2. Colour Blindness. They insist that I divide my glass into clear, green and brown. Apparently you can never cross the streams and mix green with brown. But I am colour blind. I can no more tell green from brown than I can give birth. Which means that 2/3 of my trip is entirely pointless. No, more than that, because where’s the bin for this blue vodka bottle? Or this yellow lemon juice one?

3. Wasps. What do wasps like most? Sticky, sweet stuff? Like, maybe, the fermenting dregs of booze in a bottle bank? Yes, at this time of year, going to the bottle bank – if you can work out which bin to put which bottle in – is like visiting a giant wasps nest. So now I have a smelly car, am worried that I might be putting stuff in the wrong bins, and am now risking death by wasp sting.

4. Foil. The council also insist that I recycle foil. But only clean foil. Which is completely useless, because I need the clean foil I have to put over stuff that I am cooking with. The whole point of foil, in fact, is that it gets dirty. And have you every tried to wash the stuff? It is like trying to wash custard skin. So now I have to choose the lesser of two evils and recycle less-than-clean-foil. Which leads to

5. Dirty Hands. Dustmen get given gloves. If the council want me to do their job, surely they should give me gloves. So not only do I get confused and stung by doing the recycling, I also have dirty hands. Although my car is also dirty.

6. Boxes. And then there is the cardboard box problem. To get the cardboard boxes to the recycling, you need to put them in something. Such as a bigger cardboard box. Which you then put into a bigger cardboard box. And then a bigger cardboard box. Until you end up with a box so big, it won’t go through the stupidly small, letterbox-like, slot they have put in the cardboard container. So you leave it on the ground, along with the boxes left by everyone else who had the same problem, because

7. Mountains. The council don’t believe in emptying the recycling until there is a mountain of cardboard that even Sir Chris Bonington would baulk at. Which means I’ve got dirty, my car has got dirty, and I have been stung and confused, simply to create a small version of the very big rubbish tip I still suspect the council of carting the whole lot off to anyway. Pah. Recycling is rubbish.

September 4, 2010
7 Reasons That I’m Sick Of The Lemons

On Monday, I started my bank holiday project: A batch of limoncello. It’s a simple enough liqueur to make, requiring a couple of litres of vodka, some sugar and lemon zest. A lot of lemon zest. The zest of twenty-four lemons. Here are seven reasons that I’m now sick of the lemons.

1. Peeling Them. Ever peeled a lemon? It’s the second dullest activity known to man (or woman). You have to be careful not to get any of the pith with the zest, so it takes a long time. I peeled twenty-four of the things. I have no idea exactly how long I was in the kitchen, but I do know that I had a ginger beard when I emerged from it. I had one when I went in too, but I was definitely in there for a very long time. Peeling lemons.

2. Poor Planning. “Errrr. Ummm. Errrr. Have a lemon, darling.” That’s what I said when my wife – not unreasonably – enquired what I was going to do with twenty-four peeled lemons. This is because, caught up in my enthusiasm for making the limoncello, I had forgotten that a by-product of lemon zest is lemons. Lots of lemons. I decided to put them in the fridge, certain that we would be able to use them.

3. Juice. Our fridge was already quite full. So full, in fact, that I had to remove several jars of jam, a bag of onions that pre-dated the internet, and all – except for two – bottles of beer, to fit the large, overflowing bowl of peeled lemons in. Eventually, two days later, desperate to free up fridge space for more beer, I had a brainwave. Lemon juice. I would juice half of the lemons. This would free up space in the fridge and enable me to put beer in there. Ever juiced twelve lemons? It’s the dullest activity known to man (or woman). After what seemed like a fortnight of squeezing lemons, I put the (surprisingly still quite full) bowl – now containing half the original number of lemons – back into the fridge. Then I had to remove the remaining bottles of beer in order to make room for the two bottles of lemon juice. Brilliant.

4. Drinks. As there was now no cold beer in the house, and many, many lemons, I decided to have a cocktail week. The things that I have drunk at home in cocktail week have included: lemon drop martinis, gin fizzes, whisky sours and tom collinseseseses. Hic. All of these cocktails contain lemon juice, of which there is still a lot. Probably enough to keep Amy Winehouse in lemon-based cocktails for several months. Still, one of the benefits of having had lemon-based cocktails all week is that they’re a perfect match for…

5. Our Food. The meals that we’ve eaten in the past four days have been (in no particular order): pancakes with sugar and lemon juice, linguine in lemon cream sauce with smoked salmon, fish finger sandwiches with tartar sauce and lemon, and home-made bread and lemon summer soup. I have no idea what we’re having for tea this evening, but I sense that it may involve a lemon. And I don’t want to eat any more lemons. I think I may be turning yellow. And then there’s…

6. The Smell. The fridge smells of lemons. The kitchen smells of lemons. I smell of lemons. My wife smells of lemons. The entire ground floor of the house smells of lemons. Our cat now lives in the garden because of the smell of lemons. Our neighbours have been looking at us strangely all week, presumably because of the smell of lemons emanating from our house. If you were to send a letter to:

The house that smells of lemons,

York.

We would probably receive it. Please do not send any circulars. Or lemons.

7. The Lemons Are Seemingly Infinite. Despite having consumed so many lemons that my blood is now 29% citric acid; despite having reduced half of their number to juice; despite having made my wife consume so many lemons that she could possibly use it as grounds for divorce – “Being married to him was horrible, m’lud. He filled the kitchen with bicycles and forced me to eat lemons.” – there are still many, many bloody lemons in the fridge. At the current rate of consumption, they will probably last for about three months…

…which is when the limoncello will be ready. Will this lemon-hell never end?

September 3, 2010
7 Reasons I Can’t Converse With The Cat

No doubt you will have read the title of this piece and automatically assumed it was going to be Marc talking about Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns. Sadly, it’s not. It’s me. Jon. And I’m talking about next door’s cat. Ginger. Though that might not be his real name. He might not even be a he. But anyway, this story starts on Tuesday morning. I have just finished writing Tuesday’s 7 Reasons post and I am walking into the garden with the day’s laundry. I pass Ginger on the way. Two minutes later I am attacking the washing line. Suddenly there is a ‘meow’ from behind me. It’s Ginger. He wants to talk. I don’t.

1. How To Address A Cat. ‘Hello Cat,’ seems somewhat rude. I don’t start interaction with a person by saying, ‘Hello Person’ or ‘Hello Human’. Unless he actually is called Hugh Mann, in which case I probably would. But given that I don’t know any Hugh Mann’s, I don’t. So basically, what I’m trying to say, is that addressing a cat as ‘Cat’ is rude. And I would also feel a prat.

2. The Neighbours. I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but in Kent, our neighbours live next door. And I note that they are in. Either that or Jeremy Kyle has popped round to open the windows. I can’t help but feel that if I can hear Jeremy, then he can hear me. And the last thing I want is for Jez Kyle to hear me talking with the cat he is supposed to be looking after. No, actually that’s the second last thing I want. The last thing I want is for the neighbours to hear me talking to their cat.

3. Subject Matter. Even if I could bring myself to indulge in a little reparte with the ginger one, I am not at all sure what one should reparte about. Whiskers? The location of Felix? How to trap a dog in a bucket? Some of these things I don’t even know much about. Though I do think giving the bucket holes for legs is the way to go.

4. Other Cats. Two months ago, I unbeknowingly moved into a cat hotspot. Which, I am delighted to say, sounds a lot more disturbing than the RSPCA would initially think. I just mean there are a lot of cats around. And by a lot, I mean at least seventy-three thousand. I imagine that Ginger has been sent out by his other feline mates to track down some unsuspecting humanoid who will gladly entertain them with stories of cat food in Tesco before they go off and have a scratch for the rest of the day. I am not that humanoid.

5. Commitment. Just say I do talk with the cat. Then what? Is he/she going to expect it to be a daily occurrence? Will he/she expect us to go for walks together? Will he/she start leaving me Snickers bars outside and expect me to return the favour with dead mice? When he/she goes a bit grey, will I be expected to re-dye their hair? Am I going to have to read a eulogy at their funeral?

6. Bullying. Whenever I find myself in a situation of awkward silence, I generally find myself making some stupid joke. Sometimes this stupid joke comes at the expense of whoever I am locked in awkward silence with. Sometimes this stupid joke is not seen as a joke. Sometimes this stupid joke is seen as an insult. Sometimes they walk off. Sometimes they slap me. Ginger is, as his/her name suggests, ginger. We are locked in awkward silence. Cats have claws. I can do the maths.

7. Language. This is a hypothetical situation as we have already established a conversation with the cat is not going to happen, but just suppose it was going to. On whose terms would the conversation take place? Would the cat reply to me in English or would I have to speak Catlish? Neither of us really own this garden so it’s not as if either of us could claim home advantage and insist on their own language. Yes, I hang up the garden owner’s laundry, but the cat keeps the garden owner’s soil warm by rolling all over it. We’re equals. And maybe that’s the way it should end? I go in and have a cup of tea. The cat has a scratch. Probably.

September 2, 2010
7 Reasons That Ex-Footballers Should Appear At News Events

One of the most bizarre aspects of the Raoul Moat story earlier this year was the arrival of Gazza during the police stand-off with Moat. Gazza turned up in a taxi with some beer, a fishing rod, some cans of lager and a chicken. This seemed like a one-off occurrence that would never be repeated. But then, last Sunday, the BBC reported that ex-footballers were turning up at the site where Chilean miners are currently trapped. They didn’t name any players, leading us to wonder if it was Gazza again, but that set us thinking. With their perceived self-obsession and sense of other-worldliness, surely there’s no news event that can’t be improved by the appearance of an ex-footballer? Oh, by the way, we know that Robbie Savage isn’t an former-footballer yet, but he does play like one.

1. Jamie Redknapp Appears At The Election Of David Cameron. “Dave, Dave, it’s me, Jamie. I brought you a Nintendo Wii and a lamb bhuna. That bird’s a bit fat isn’t she. Where’s my hand?”

2. Michel Platini Appears At The Liberation Of Paris. “General De Gaulle! General De Gaulle! It is I, Michel, of the Union des Associations Européennes de Football. I ‘ave brought you a bicycle and some cheese . Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure ze English pay for this abomination. Coming over here, liberating our France, who do they sink they are?”

3. Roy Keane Appears At The Trial Of Saddam Hussein. “Saddam, it’s me, Roy. I brought you some potcheen and absolutely no prawn sandwiches whatsoever. I grew a beard just like yours. Grrrr. I’m fierce, me. I never blink, look. Never. Grrrr.

4. Robbie Savage Appears At The Salem Witch Trials. “Hey witches, it’s me, Savvo. I brought you some hair putty and digestive biscuits. Don’t I look nice. I just came to let you know that I get all of my trainers for free. Hey. Hey! Put me down…Why are you tying me to a pole? I’ve got a Lamborghini.

5. Bryan Robson Appears At The JFK Assassination. “John, Jackie. It’s me, Bryan. I brought you some Brown Ale and an apple crumble. Ooh, that looks nasty. I had an injury like that in 1983, 1987, 1988 and 1991.”

6. Alan Hansen Appears At The Siege Of Troy. “Hey Trojans, it’s me, Alan. I brought you nothing. I did, however, find this large wooden horse outside the gates so I wheeled it in for you. I’ve been analysing your defence and it looks rock-solid at the back, both centrally and in the flanks. This siege is men against boys. Well done. Lawro would have been here with me but he’s got a cold and is a bit hoarse. He paid me to say that.

7. Peter Reid Appears During The Wall Street Crash. “Hey Bankers, it’s me, Reidy. I’ve brought you some Wagon Wheels and a motivational speech. Ahem. Though we find ourselves in adversity, things are never as bad as they seem and we can still turn this round before the end of trading…hey! You shouldn’t go out there, we’re on the eighth floor. Come back. Lads…lads…

September 1, 2010
7 Reasons The Port Of Dover Must Not Fall Into French Hands

The Port Of Dover has asked to be privatised. It’s down to Dave and Nick to make the decision, but if they reply in the affirmative it means the prospect of it being owned by the French is very real indeed. Obviously this would be a travesty. I’m still coming to terms with France owning the fake Blackpool tower, I’m not sure I could take anything more. Here are 7 Reasons (naturally) why it must remain English. Or at the very least, part Scottish.

1. Douvres. That’s French. And rather conveniently for the French, it is French for Dover. If the French take over I’ll have to go to Douvres. I don’t want to go to Douvres. I don’t especially want to go to Dover (it’s near France), but, given the choice, I would much rather not go to Dover than not go to Douvres. Douvres sounds like a household appliance. Why would I ever want to go near one of them?

2. Bouillaboise And Chips. I don’t like stew at the best of times, so goodness knows how I’ll feel to a French seafood version on the day the French takeover the Port of Dover. Probably quite nauseous. I like my fish battered and covered in salt and vinegar. I don’t like my fish tasting like fish. And that is what the French do. They probably won’t let me have chips with it either. I’ll probably end up with frites or something else sub-potato-standard.

3. La Porte D’entree En France. If Google Translate can be trusted, this is what The Gateway To England will become. “The Port Of Entry To France”. Or, if the Queen says something – either about factual inaccuracy or unnecessary use of excess ink – we might get away with, Aux Portes de l’Angletterre. Either way, it’s not good enough. It’s still French to me.

4. Payback. As I am sure you are all aware – or if you are not Wikipedia is aware for you – Calais was, correctly, owned by the Kingdom of England up until 1558. I am not quite sure why we wanted it, but we did. Which suits me fine. Sometimes there shouldn’t be reasons for things. Anyway, the fact that we owned Calais and the surrounding catchment area has been bugging the French for many years now. So much so that they are desperate for a piece of us. It was one of the things that kept Napoleon awake at night. Instead of going the Bonaparte route this time, the French are going to try and buy us out. We must not let it happen. Our cash machines must not be infiltrated by Euros.

5. Inconvenience. A) We’ll all have to start parking on the wrong side of the ferry. B) Everything will smell of garlic. C) Britain will be invaded by an influx of berets. D) French people might move to Kent and commute to France everyday. E) The Port Of Dover will change time-zones.

6. Il y Aura Bluebirds Sur Les Falaises Blanches De Douvres. It’s enough to have Dame Vera Lynn turning in her grave, which, as she is still with us, just goes to show how desperate this situation is. I don’t want my bluebirds sur les falaises blanches-ing, smoking Gauloises, drinking cognac and selling onions on from bicycles. I want them over the white cliffs. Doing Bluebird things; in an English manner.

7. The French Invasion. It is going to be much harder for us to invade (as detailed earlier on 7 Reasons) if we have to get past the French in our own country first. Okay, it’s not as if I don’t mind a challenge, it’s just that I will now have to redraw my Risk board and re-deploy some readers troops. It’s just hassle really.

August 31, 2010