New Blog

I got what might be termed a wild hair up my arse today, and have got my new blog up and running, with a view to actually contributing to it like I was with my old one.

It can be found at http://itchaway.blogspot.com

Yes, that's me firing a gun in the desert. You'd best watch your back, because I have proof that I can blast a beaver from 50 yards, right in its buck-toothed little face.

Georgeous

Well, England scraped through to the round of 16 by the skin of their teeth, promising us all that a win over Ecuador would be nothing short of miraculous.

Still, it was an entertaining game at least, and, being played so late, it meant I was able to actually watch the game in a bar and drink at an hour reasonable to people who are not alcoholics.

I met up with a friend in the George and Dragon. The more astute of you might have picked up on the Enlgish theme of the name, which unsurprisingly extends to the whole 'pub'. Yes indeed, this is as English as things get in Phoenix, with Brits from seemingly every part of the UK coming out of the woodwork to skive work in the true British spirit. There were a LOT of us there.

But the British clientele quota is where all real similarities with British pubs end. Here are some of the features of the bar, which don't quite correlate with the pubs of Britty:

1. It's air-conditioned.

2. It has a more than reasonable selection of beer and ales - 50 on tap, indeed.

3. It has real pool-tables, not the pocket editions we're used to.

4. The juke box contains more British acts than Oasis and Queen.

5. Table service.

6. Fast bar service.

It's dingy but actually a pretty decent bar.

The lovely view outside of extensive roadworks in the searing heat

I sampled the bangers and mash, and am delighted to report that it's every bit as microwaved and delicious as in any J D Wetherspoon pub. You may also be delighted to know that there was the obligatory 60-year-old Indian-Cockney alcoholic there.

Anyway, after disappointment through a late equaliser, I was able to boost my spirits with Stella Artois, beat up a lady and then graffiti a car outside:


You ought to see what I did to the wall of the toilets...

Come on you Blacks

Outside ASU's Art Museum

At this current time of foot-balls, I’d like to cast my mind (and perhaps yours) back to two years ago, during Euro 2004, when Zafar Janjua performed the finest improvised footy song down an entire tube train carriage which, as I recall, contained quite a few people. Imagine our delight when Zaf, in exchange for a sizeable sum of cash (a couple of quid, at least) paraded down the centre of the train spewing out complete footy-guff to some non-descript charty tune.

The lyrics, to paraphrase, loosely included the following:

FOOTBALL! That’s the name of the game!
We ALL love football (I know you do)
Lineker to Shilton
Shilton to Jesus
Jesus to Shilton –
GOAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The glaring chronological and positional errors (Jesus only made a brief appearance in the England squad as a substitude, but was never actually put on the field) I feel add to the charm of this tear-jerking anthem. I’m proud to say I was there at its conception.

Well done, that man.

Batty Boys

It's so hot in here. so very, very hot. I need to keep this brief. So hot.....

I went to a baseball game the other day. It was the Arizona Dimondbacks vs. San Diego Bottombandits and thankfully the Diamomdbacks won.

In all seriousness, I hadn't realised what a strategic game baseball is. There are so many things to consider all at once - things which to the players seem to come completely naturally - it was difficult not to get a bit lost sometimes. Also, there aren't a lot of runs scored per game. I was under the impression that there was plenty of hitting, plenty of scoring. but actually, the ball rarely gets hit squarely for any useful advantage...

The stadium is amazing. Siutuated in downtown Phoenix, opposite the basketball stadium (making the current time in both seasons an absolute traffic nightmare, with games often coinciding) the stadium is huge, with a massive roof which can be mechanically winched open or closed, depending on the weather.


Inside the stadium, the catering towards complete decadence mixed with low-budget entertainment was almost tear-jerkingly beautiful. Everywhere I looked were stunningly animated LCD advertisement banners and dot matrix displays, reminding me that McDonald's exists and which extortionate beer I should be enjoying. On the huge monitors - kisscams catch out old and new couples, who realise they are on screen and snog for 50,000 perverts. Between an innings, there is a McDonald's dance-off, where two grown men dance like handicapped children in order to be crowned the winner of the McDonald's dance-off competition that day. down in the corner is the private pool, which can be rented out for a match, so you can drink, swim and watch the game all at once (although the placement of the pool was curious - a well-placed home run could hospitalise anyone paying more attention to the pool than the game).

Everywhere there faint din of chatter and cheering. Every couple of minutes, the organ chimes up, and people scream "CHARGE!" when it reaches its climax. Grown men are caught on camera shoving small children out of the way on the concrete steps in order to claim a ball hit into the crowd. People literally risk their lives to be the first to grab mis-hits and home runs.


I could see myself getting addicted to this game. The best part of the game itself? The last innings. Generally, I was told, there is a trade-off between the stamina and the power of a pitcher. So, the best pitchers, who generally pitch less powerfully but who can go for multiple innings, go first. Best, second-best, maybe third best. But then, on comes the powerhouse to finish the job. He only needs to last one inning, and his job is to wipe the floor with his 90mph lobs of the ball. There is apparently a legendary time that a pitcher for the Diamondbacks pitched and a pidgeon flew into the ball's path and EXPLODED.

So exciting. I can't wait for the next time.