"By Jesus said Paddy"

"By Jesus said Paddy I sing it so well
I think I'll get up and I'll sing it again
Over and over and over again."

I hear voices as I lay. Kentucky Fried Chicken brain, throat like sandpaper. I turn to my right as the sun pushes through the thin curtains highlighting the portrait - from The Face - of the beautiful black girl on my wall.

For a second I place my hand to the left of the bed to see if anybody is there. There isn't. I am home alone. Alone with the voices of Jesus and Paddy. But thanfully no apparition, no ghostly apparition, no Highgate vampire.

Not today, not last night and hopefully not today.

I shower and I'm fine. Lazy Sunday afternoon in my stately bedsit. Or maybe a stroll across the heath. Or down to Camden to see how the punks, freaks, rockabillies and soul boys are doing. Or maybe I should just walk.

Why not? I set off: Through Highgate Woods, up through the village, by the cemetery, down Swain's Lane and onto the heath. Not glancing back. Not looking. Not stopping at those gothic gates.

On the heath I am lost in my own world. This is not my place. I look different to the people on here. There is no reek of money off me. These are the folks with children called Jemima and Piers. Their dogs are pedigree and their friends are chums. They dogs not bum like where I am from. Nannies. Mary Poppins "80s stylee". Swedish au pairs. So cold and so concise. Like the heath itself.

I wander rapidly from the crowd. Bubble jacket to keep ot the cold. Ducks on the pond and duck down in my coat. Keeping me warm. Keeping me fine.

Sony Walkman screams: "Geno Geno".

I am that young soul rebel as I walk faster until I reach Hampstead village. I put my head in Meenys and check their preppie attire as the girls from the JFS take their coffees and shake their tousled hair. Flirting with the boys from Highgate School. Across religions but not across the classes.

I drop in the Flask for a pint and a peruse of the Sunday broadsheets. It is not my place but they do not bother me. In their grandfather's clothes with their arranged brides. And their sons in their hand-me-downs down - or is it up - from Cambridge. But they go their way and I go mine.

From Hampstead to Belsize to Primrose to Camden. A quick walk around the market and some Mexican food. From pudding and chips to Pollo Picado. From punk to post-punk in a couple of years. And now there are people in make-up and dresses thinking they are original.

Have they never heard of The Sweet?

And then I'm heading north. Through Kentish Town and Tufnell Park. Archway, Highgate and home.

Walking for England. Walking to clear the head and clear the nightmares of vampires and how these streets are not paved with gold.

The cowboys in America call it hotwalking; as they walk the bucking broncos around the ring to calm those pesky mavericks down. I walk to cool myself down. I am a hotwalker....

SHIT FASHION LABEL OF THE MONTH - FEBRUARY

AND STEP FORWARD HENLEY’S – ON A WANKER’S BODY VERY NEAR YOU NOW!!!

A DIFFERENT KIND OF SHOE

The small Finnish company is taking advantage of its sportswear legacy by reintroducing classic designs under the Karhu Originals banner.
As we try and get away from the endless adidas reissues we like the these stripped down Karhu Originals Olympic trainers. These low trainers are available in leather or suede and in a range of colours. They're so named because they were part of the Olympic uniform for the Finnish team in 1972 - but as they looked so good, the company decided to mass produce them.

They retail for around £70 - the Karhu site has a list of places where you can buy them.

http://www.karhuoriginals.com/

21 REASONS WHY PREMIERSHIP FOOTBALL IS DEAD

and that is before this 39th Step or whatever it is...

1. MOTD - It was always Match of the Day and Sam Leitch was the presenter

2. The chase for 4th spot

3. Cheerleaders - If want to see half-naked 13-year-olds I'll give Gary Glitter a bell for his contacts book

4. MOTD 2 and the despicable Adrian Chiles

5. £48 a ticket at Chelsea

6. No edge in the air around the ground/streets

7. SKY Sports and all who sail in that abomination of a TV station

8. Games at dinner and tea times

9. New kits (normally 3) each season

10. People going to the game dressed up and thinking they are in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

11. Programmes resembling magazines, costing a fiver and having nothng but shite in them

12. Irish and Scandanavians asking if you've "any spares"

13. Sixteen teams trying to finish in 17th place

14. SKY Super Sundays

15. Facist Stewards and Police. Don't stand up, don't shout, don't have a beer before you go the game

16. Football as product

17. Bling culture amongst the players. Let me run this by you: Putting a diamond stud in your ear does not make you a great footballer

18. And big black cars that cost more than a 3-bedroom house impress nobody other than that scouse slut Sheringham was rattling

19. Opta Stats, Pro zone, etc etc - You're trying to kick a ball into a net at one end and stop it going in the net at the other...

20. Starting elevens wth not one Englishman in them

21. Because we lose every week

I'm a Muswell Hillbilly Boy

“Well I said goodbye to Rosie Rooke this morning,
I'm gonna miss her bloodshot alcoholic eyes,
She wore her Sunday hat so she'd impress me,
I'm gonna carry her memory 'til the day I die.

Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

I’m in the pavement looking up at the stars. Except there aren’t any stars as it’s still sunny. My shoes are sticking to the tarmac and I’m smiling and I’m singing.

Soho never looks better than when you’re wasted on the pavement. And I’m singing and I’m laughing and out of the corner of my eye I see Guzzling spark out. The Salford national anthem is playing and the pigs will be here in a minute.

Out my right eye I see the trashed ice cream van and remember that Guzzling has only gone and tipped it over. He kept asking for a flake for his Guinness and then there was a crash and a bang and a wallop and I fell over. Marty ran. I tried to run but just kept singing and sticking to the tarmac and Guzzling collapsed.

The filth is here – never when you want one, eh?

The landlord of the French House - who is actually French - has identified Guzzling as the culprit and they are currently trying to pick him up in all senses of the word.

Shocked into action I check my pocket and roll the bottle of poppers under the ice cream van. Whizzed up and popped Guzzling is for it.

I somehow raise my feet from the ground and haul myself up. I walk in a circle and stumble into a table and chair but I manage to compose myself somehow. Guzzling appears comatose and I walk past him and start to make my way to the Cambridge singing quietly:

“Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

“Oh move along you fucking pissed-up wanker else you’ll be joining this waster here”, says PC Cunt

“Sure sir.”

And then I hear it.

Guzzling, quietly at first and then louder and then full blast.

“Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

Oh no!

“Oh yes”, says PC Cunt as I feel the steel on my wrists and they tighten the cuffs just that bit too tight and then comes the dig in the ribs. Always the ribs, and always the same response from me:

“Is that the best you can do?” and it is, as the second never hurts as much.

“I’ve got your number hit me in the face.”

But they never do.

It seems an age before Guzzling joins me in the back of the van.

“Vine Street it is then, Guzzling.”

Vine Street it is then, Rich.”

And we laugh and then we start singing softly:

"They'll move me up to Muswell Hill tomorrow,
Photographs and souvenirs are all I've got,
They're gonna try and make me change my way of living,
But they'll never make me something that I'm not.
Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

From a work in progress; SKIN AND BONE

Lyrics: R.D.Davies

"They shoot Old Skinheads, don't they"

If they do then they really should have shot this one this week. I've had everything from mild pneumonia to severe depression stopping off en-route at coughs, cold, cramp, more coughs, breathlessness, insomnia and lack of appetite. But you can't stop me bouncing back on my air-wear soles.



It's the weekend and I'm looking forward to:

A full English

Georgie Fame's 'Somebody stole my thunder'

The beginning of the 6 Nations

West Ham at home

Later 200 with Jools Holland

Sleeping

Chan Marshall's 'Jukebox'

Wondering at how magnificent The Felice Brothers are

Reading the Sunday papers while watching the rugby

Not having to bother about stupid transfer windows

Writing my book

Reading Henning Mankell

And learning shorthand

And wondering ... WHY?

It's a Wonderful Life

Well it's okay

Here are some things that are just a bit better than alright at the moment

The Felice Brothers

The 26th African Cup of Nations 2008
Not drinking

Hating Miranda Sawyer and all the other clueless journos masquerading as experts on abolutely everything!

The folks on http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/

Ana Ivanovic and Maria Sharapova final - essential viewing

The goings-on at Liverpool FC

The FA Cup 4th Round

"Robin Park's Barmy Army"

The beautiful Duffy

Orrell Anvils

Oxtail, Rice and Peas

1650 Breakfast

and of course as always: Julie Christie

Deal or No Deal - Deal you b*stards

It's television for the unemployed and the unemployable; the slackers and the students; the pensioners and parishioners of Middle England. Monday to Friday from 3.30pm to 6.00pm it is the Holy Trinity of television: From 'Countdown' to 'The Weakest Link' with (new kid on the block) 'Deal or No Deal' squeezed in between. There's even 15 minutes at 5.00pm where you can put the kettle on, check out how distressed Judy looks on Channel 4 or realise whatever it is that you are having for your tea it cannot possibly look (or taste) worse than what the celebrity chefs have rustled up in 8 minutes on 'Ready Steady Cook'. What is there not to like about that schedule?

Countdown has had a new lease of life since (well) Richard Whiteley breathed the last gasps of his own life and Des retired. Whiteley endeared himself to millions and is missed yet he was fundamentally useless. Des O'Connor is the Status Quo of light entertainment. Shut your eyes and he could be jousting with Eric and Ernie but it matters not a jot. And of course there is always the glint in those pearly white teeth. With O'Connor you just know there's something "wrong" there. What it is you don't know but it just nags away at your psyche. Carol Vorderman provides the brains and alludes to beauty. She has appalling dress sense but somewhere deep down she stirs something in a man's loins. There is also just that hint of jealousy going on between her and Suzy that sits in Dictionary Corner. She's the real clever one, the really good-looking one as she primes whatever z-list celebrity sits with her. We know that - and so does Carol. Des is oblivious to it all. But like all good quiz shows it is all about the presenters and us (the punters) sat at home. The contestants are dull to the bone - and throughout it's lifespan has provided more outlets for single persons than at the local library's Christmas party whilst us lot sit at home; doing sums in our heads and shouting out with glee when we get the conundrum. You never care who wins - it's just about passing 45 minutes before the real action begins.

Without so much a pause for a stairlift advert Countdown is followed by 'Deal or No Deal'

Noel Edmonds hosts the British version of the worldwide smash game show where any one of 22 players could win up to £250,000. Does their sealed box contain hundreds of thousands of pounds? Or just pocket change? Guts and instinct are the key to success as Noel gives real people a real chance to win real money. Well that's what the official blurb is.

This show has garnered as much publicity about Noel's TV comeback as it actually has about the show's content. Like Des he is timeless. But unlike Des he is a twat. From his 1982-stylee shirts tucked into his black jeans to his Swap Shop 70s haircut. And of course this is the man that taught George Michael all he needs to know about sculptured facial hair.

Edmonds is in his element and although he's undoubtedly a twat he has surrounded himself by even bigger twats - the contestants.

Again here is the official blurb:

There are 22 of them and they return each day until they are picked to play and hopefully win fuck all. The daily player chooses one of the 22 sealed boxes. No one knows what it contains. One by one the player opens all the other boxes, revealing the amounts within. All the while this gives them a better idea what prize may be contained in their own sealed box. And then again there is 'The Banker'. Periodically, the player will receive a telephone call from the 'Banker'. The Banker is always watching the player, trying to analyse their psychology, and has has no idea what the contestant's sealed box contains. The Banker's sole purpose is to try and ensure the player leaves the studio with the smallest amount of money possible. Based on the amounts of money the player has eliminated and their perception of the player themselves, the Banker makes a cash offer to buy the mystery box. Whenever The Banker makes an offer, the player is left with a desperate dilemma... take the offer, or risk losing everything!

Edmonds comes out with pyschobabble, the people with the boxes that have apparently bonded through being together for weeks roar encouragement and then shed crocodile tears when they open a box containing a large amount. 'The Banker' (Cockney rhyming slang here?) calls, Edmonds utters some nonsense then the contestant in the chair asks one of the others some advice and they sensing this will be their moment (knowing that they are too old and too ugly for X-Factor) seize their chance and go into Sir Alan Sugar Apprentice mode. Fucking hell it's all too much. No it isn't! It's just fucking luck which numbers you pick out. But by now us (the audience) are willing the idiot up there to end up with 1 penny. I mean they've just turned down an offer of £9,000. Come on you're wearing a Primark tee shirt - you've never seen £9,000 in your life before - take the offer. But no they can see £50,000 still available even though the odds are 6/1 they won't get it. And sure enough they end up with £1. Edmonds is consoling the person in the seat (dock), some bird's crying and we are whooping at the screen with delight. Bring on the next bastard and let's hope he/she falls fucks it up as well. Meanwhile Noel prowls around the set like a man at a Formula 1 convention as he counts the wads in his crinkly-bottomed jeans sniggering inside.

After the excitement and downright pleasure of the last 45 minutes it's time for:

"Any of the nine people brave enough to play The Weakest Link could win up to £10,000. They don't know each other, but if they want the Prize Money they have to work as a team. Eight of them will leave with nothing, as round by round, the player voted The Weakest Link is humiliated on the Walk of Shame. At the end of the show, the final two contestants go Head to Head. One gets the money, the other, leaves with nothing"

And away we go. Nobody ever wins anywhere near the £10000 and they never will because to a man and woman they are all as thick as pig shit. We know that, in most cases the contestants themselves know that and the show's producers and Anne Robinson definitely know that. She takes the piss mercilessly and shamelessly. Fat fuckers get it as do fashion disasters. Students are ridiculed beyond belief whilst those that think they have important jobs are dusted down with a caustic, nasty wit. Anne hates the pretty girls, destroys the biddies and eyes up the young lads that she undoubtedly would like a piece of. On some shows she's practically booking the hotel room as we reach the last four. As for the idiot contestants - they are irrelevant. We watch it for Anne Robinson alone. Of course it isn't as spontaneous as it looks but considering the old bird's got more skeletons in her closet than the Ghost Train at Southport she gets my vote.

So there you have it; more drama, comedy and excitement in two and a half hours than you get in 10 series of Casualty or whatever. O'Connor, Edmunds and Robinson - We salute you!

21 Everton Things

1. Drinking when people are at church – just doesn’t seem right but…
2. Andy Johnson (or should that be AJ) doing the A sign after scoring. Just knew that would happen even said so last week in 21 Derby County things: “Wot No "A" celebrations!?!?!?! Next one this Sunday at the JJB and hopefully not from Andy "Baldy" Johnson
3. Titus Bumbling Bramble. Again
4. The pitch with the ridiculous ridge/trench down the middle. Just an embarrassment, Father Jack. Either act like a premier league club or forget it
5. And on such matters, get some marketing in and attempt to fill those bloody seats
6. And on such matters again - More ticket office balls-ups (again)
7. Broke one of my golden rules and bought a pint at half time. And it was absolutely ghastly (and £2.60 a pint).
8. Loads of scousers in the Brick before and after the game and as normal all spot-on. Some of them even had decent trainers on!!
9. Wilson Palacios. Blimey is that a skilful midfield player wearing a Wigan Athletic shirt?
10. Steve Bruce getting bigger by the day. He’s almost as big as Baby Harvey now. Keep eating those pies, Steve.
11. Arteta or Cahill? Just who is the biggest whinging git? Close call but I’ll go for the Aussie Millwall man. Disgraceful behaviour right throughout the match
12. Phil Neville still getting away with being a woefully inadequate midfielder. Only slightly better as a full-back!
13. Got to say for thirty five minutes I thought we looked a decent side. Even allowing for the fact that Yobo, Yakubu and Pienaar were missing from the Everton line-up.
14. Rain all weekend but strangely dry for the ninety minutes.
15. Positive substitutions. Wot three strikers, three attacking midfielders. What is Latics World coming to? It wouldn’t have happened if Paul “Trust the Jeweller” Jewell was still here
16. “If you are a Premier League team, you need a decent pitch and that could certainly affect us." Steve Bruce in the Rugby Post today.
17. The bridge over the canal (again). Bloody disaster waiting to happen there. Just a case of getting your head down and let the crowd carry you onto it. Get a second bridge built!
18. Jason Koumas’ last appearance for the club?
19. Little Benidorm – as bizarre as ever at night. With some Thai Bride belting out numbers. I’ve heard worse. Oh and there were no fights. Well not what I can remember any way!
20. Waking up Monday morning and suddenly realising I’d had nothing to eat all Sunday!
21. FA Cup 4th Round next up and it’s not often Wigan Athletic fans have been able to say that. It’s on proper telly, the pitch will be even worse and there will be even more empty seats. Oh dear…

Mods, The Ivy League And Working-class Menswear

And again from a couple of years back - well it's Saturday and there's a pint in The Brick with my name on it!

"A mate of mine dropped me a text message the other week. He had been around Manchester on the Saturday afternoon and had dropped on Man United's mob. He was enthusing that they were all wearing semi-flares, Adidas shoes and not a gaudy label in sight. I concurred with him that this was indeed great news. And as we know in general where Manchester and Liverpool lead then the rest of the North West follows.

This whole dressing up at football was only in part about labels. It was also about "the look". For every £400 jacket there was an Israeli Army parka from Millets. The dressed-down look if it is indeed coming back is most welcome. Because football fashion was always a part of working class fashion and working class fashion has always been about simplicity. The general consensus of argument tends to be whether football fashion started in the North or in London. Yet there is always the counter argument that it is just an extension of the modernist look that was taken up by Londoners after the 2nd World War. Now I'm no expert but I'd like to delve into this latter theory.

After the 2nd World War a whole new-world literally opened up before peoples eyes. As rationing was phased out many products and influences entered the nation's senses. Most of these came from across the pond and nothing was more influential than clothing. In Soho the jazz bars would be full of American sounds and by the end of the fifties the clothes were also American. This was an East American cool that was based on the clothes that formed the Ivy League look from the influential colleges in America. Button-down shirts, penny loafers, wing-tip brogues and flat fronted chino trousers.

As the 50's became the 60's the sharp young lads around the cities of Britain began to appropriate this look but added Traditional English and European looks to it as well as the Jamaican rude boy look that the newly arrived immigrants had brought with them. By 1965 this was becoming a much sought after look and a lad from the East End of London called John Simons opened 'The Ivy Shop' on Richmond Hill. A shop that is, arguably, the most important menswear shop in Britain ever. Here he took the imported American clothes along with all the European and Jamaican influences and his tailoring skill and created the proper Modernist look. This wasn't the cartoon Carnaby Street mod that can be seen in Quadrophenia. There were no mirrors, rabbit tails and patches here. It was simple quality clothing. In 1969 he invented the Harrington Jacket that was a variation on the golf jacket that Ryan O'Neal's character Rodney Harrington wore in the then popular soap opera Peyton Place. That jacket is still a staple item in many a lad's wardrobe.

And that is the influence. As Mod split two ways with the hardcore tough mods mutating into skinheads and the "artier" mods moving towards the hippy movement those clothes from the sixties remain the constant among many a young buck's look. As well as the Harrington jacket much of the clothes that John Simons and others brought into the country and introduced to sharp dressed young working class men can still be seen today. The omnipresent Duffel Coat was worn by the modernists. As was the reefer jackets. Flat fronted trousers, Levi's and Crombie coats. The suit that never loses its appeal is a simple three-button slim fitting 60's influenced coat. The anoraks of Massimo Osti are strictly modernist in design. And take a look at your shoes. They can produce as many variations of design as they like but they will never better a pair of English brogues or an American loafer. As for boots next time you pass Jeffrey Tonks shoe shop in town take a look at the Clarks Desert Boot. It is perfect. As for the brands - John Smedley, Lacoste, Marks & Spencers, Ralph Lauren, Levi's, Barbour, Champion sweatshirts and everything else that is just right are made along modernist lines. Paul Smith has made his fortune from such ethics and produced some of the most desirable clothes you will ever see or wear.

And then there's Adidas. Adidas trainers with semi-flared jeans and cords might strictly be an 80's Northern casual revival look yet the semi-flared jeans can be seen on the arse of The Beatles on many of their covers while the classic Adidas trainers are purely modernist in design and spirit.

I realise this is an indulgence and will only be of interest to lads that are interested in clothes but hey that was always the modernist viewpoint. It was elitist and it still is. Let the others follow FASHION while the discerning amongst us will forever be interested in the CLOTHES. And that is the massive difference.

Best Trainers in the World ... from Bolton

From a few years back because, basically, it's raining, I'm tired and well ... I still feel the same about this footwear stuff.

Pic: the new Walsh PB Elite Racer

I’m not sure about everybody else but I’ve become tired of all these Adidas and Nike reissues that are springing up every couple of weeks. Sure they look good and the odd style even resembles the original but there’s something not quite right about it all. We’ve basically got to the situation where if you earn enough money you can simply go out and buy the stock and excuse me if I’m wrong but it was never about that. The last ten or so times I’ve walked into Ran and Size? I’ve just not been bothered, seen nothing to interest me. So what is a footwear fetishist to do?

Don’t tell me another of life’s (few) pleasures has gone by the wayside. Nah while I’m leaving the two main players aside for a while I could never give it up completely. It was hard enough to cope when Church shoes priced themselves out of this pauper’s range so whilst I moved from Church’s to Clarks it’s time to move onto something else in the trainer market. But what?

There’s Puma – but despite a couple of old school models they look just too gay. Too Disco Dave. K-Swiss is a total no-no and while there’s no denying that Reebok Classics are (well) classics they are ubiquitous. I could always go the whole rock and roll by getting a pair of Converse but the chunky frame might lessen the effect whilst I have never had the balance for the skateboard brands. Now New Balance I like and a couple of pairs lay neatly boxed at Hawkins Towers. It’s an option and then I remembered that classic that held sway in the North West for a few months in the 80’s: the Walsh Trainer. Or the Walsh PB Trainer to be precise. Blimey I’d forgotten about them. A quick Google and yes they are still there – and the trainers look utterly superb. Get the address, a few quid in my pocket and a few days later a new pair of trainers and a new love in my life!

My first insight into Walsh was in the early 70’s when my Dad bought me a pair of their wonderful hand made Rugby Boots. They did Low and High. Low for the backs and High for the forwards and all that rucking they have to do. They were simply the bees’ knees. But the story of Walsh Sports is more than just rugby boots. It’s about one man Norman Walsh and how he developed this iconic company. Norman was born in Bolton, Lancashire, in 1931. He started work for Foster Brothers Shoes in his hometown in 1945. While working as an apprentice shoemaker, he was asked to make sprinting shoes for the 1948 Olympic Games in London. During the late 1950’s, Norman worked closely with the Foster Brothers’ grandsons, Jeff and Joe. These two branched away from the family business and formed the legendary Reebok. In 1961, Norman decided to start his own business and took over a small corner of his father’s shoe repair shop and called the company ‘Norman Walsh Shoes’.

During the 70’s he moved away from the luxury leather boots and became interested in manufacturing shoes for the runners that traversed the local fells. It is a sport that is as arduous and gruesome as it gets and that needs a shoe to cover all terrains. During this time he linked up with the legendary Lake District fell runner Pete Bland and over the next five years they created the shoe that took the sport of fell-running by storm. – the ‘Walsh Trainer’. Its colour was, and still is, blue with yellow flashes. It had all the requirements for becoming a classic running shoe: no bulk, a great lacing system that gave a tight fit at the toe crease, a thin sole for minimum shock absorption, good heel cushioning for navigating those descents, and made from a quick-drying fabric. These were all the factors that contributed to winning races. Norman added a little rubber cushioning to the front area in the mid-1980’s and this design became known the P.B. Trainer, which is the most popular fell-running shoe of all time. They also look great with jeans when you’re propping the bar up.

Norman sold up in 1996 but remains in a consultancy capacity for the company that is now known as ‘Walsh Sports Limited’. Other trainers in the range include the PB X’treme’ which is a more robust shoe with a (gorgeous) yellow background and the ‘Raid’ which is an off-road shoe suitable for walking - another fine-looking shoe.

Away from the performance aspect of the shoes and the market it essentially caters for the time is surely right for the brand to be embraced by the trainer afficianados. A small range of trainers, extremely comfortable, all easy on the eye and importantly also made in Britain as shown by the discreet tabs stating “WALSH, BOLTON, ENGLAND complete with UNION JACK” - Wonderful.

Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads

Well if they are playing Fog on the Tyne on Talksport this morning it can only mean one of two things. Unless Gazza is back at The Priory then I think it is safe to say that King Kev, the Special K, The Messiah has returned to St James' Park.

I have quite simply never seen (or heard) anything quite like it. Dads with their fat-cherub-faced lads giving it the "Keegan Wonderland" for the benefit of the cameras. In what must be the greatest second coming since Jesus fancied a Cadbury's cream egg one Easter, Keegan has returned and the Geordie Nation has gone apeshit.

I don't think it is any secret but if Geordies didn't exist then you'd have to invent them! Throw in the world of SKY/Setanta/606/Talksport and you have a right royal circus. And enter the circus master supreme - a man called KEVIN.

Excuse me but what did he actually win at Newcastle? Sure, they scored lots of goals and they did indeed entertain but his win record was 55% and NO trophies.

His last managerial position was with Manchester City where he managed a 44% record and NO trophies. It is also safe to say he was indeed "England's worst-ever manager" with a 39% win record and NO trophies.

But, hey he's back and the Geordie Bootboys - the world's most loyal fans - are going to embrace him like there is no tomorrow! Don't get me wrong Newcastle is a great place and when you go up there you truly appreciate what a football town it is and they surely deserve some success but will they get it?

Football's changed since he was last there. He will do well to attract a Ginola or get lucky with an Asprilla. He'll probably start by bringing in Chris Coleman who - completely out of his depth -resigned as Real Sociedad boss yesterday. And of course Terry Mac will keep his job. Will Shearer be co-opted onboard. Who knows?

Last night amongst the handshakes, smackers on the lips and autograph signing, Keegan looked pale and ill. Adrfit from it all. Lost in the flashbulbs.

He may be "back home" but will it bring success. People are saying that Newcastle will be everybody's second favourite team again, which is of course be absolute bollocks. For every Giles from Cheltenham calling up radio stations there will be a Baz from Manchester that will hope he falls flat on his face.

Meanwhile it is just another twist in the Premiersoap. The Lovejoys of this world will love it. Thousands will whack school for tomorrow's press conference and Bolton will get stuffed on Saturday.

But where will it all end? It may just end in a host of trophies yet then again it may end in one of the murky north eastern lay-bys.

Whatever happens this story will undoubtedly run and run...

Now how did that theme song go

"Oh, what happened to you?
Whatever happened to me?
What became of the people we used to be?
Tomorrow's almost over,Today went by so fast,The only thing to look forward to is the past?"

GREAT COATS OF OUR TIME NO 1

WOOLRICH ARCTIC PARKA

From Oi Polloi's website

The Woolrich original Arctic Parka, with 100% goose down, polycotton shell, two handwarmer pockets, two button fastening outer pockets, one internal pocket and drawcord waist. Adjustable fur-trimmed hood with velcro throat tab.

This classic jacket was originally made for Alaskan pipeline workers (to protect them from the 40 below temperatures) and is the benchmark by which all other parkas are judged.

Check out American suppliers on the web - what with the weakness of the dollar and all that - oh and stuff your £680 Italian designerwear coats up your jacksie and go for the real deal.

Timeless beauty

Watching Love Story means never having to say you're sorry

Well there was nothing else on. I'd had my tin of Heinz Beef Broth and cheese and ham toasties so thought - why not, and sat down and watched the glorious load of tosh that is Love Story.

My excuse (and I'm sticking to it) is that Ryan O'Neal is quite simply the best-dressed man in cinema and (well) Ali McGraw is gorgeous.

As for the film: well you know what you are getting when a forlorn Oliver Barrett IV (O'Neal)'s opening lines are - "What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant? That she loved Mozart and Bach, the Beatles, and me?"

The action then pans back to when the rich Harvard boy meets the poor Italian-American and they fall in love. Simple story, simply executed and beautifully acted.

Add in an perfect oscar-winning musical score that helps to tug the heart strings, marvellous Cambridge, Mass. sights/sites and a lovely understated performance by Ray Milland as O'Neal's WASP father and that is about it.

Romantic films rarely work for me but this is exquisite.

*Hawkins holding back the tears to check the cut of O'Neal's sheepskin jacket and drool over the beauty of his MG TC car