Pa's Tale

... but the garden looks nice.

There's no need to mention the Euro Cup Final except to rave about those little blokes in the Barcelona midfield. They have chewing gum on their boots so that the ball sticks to their feet. Man U couldn't kick them because they couldn't get near them. There's another cup final going on right now, but I can't raise any interest. Football's over for a few months. I did see a bit of the Lions in South Africa, and there is the European Open golf on Sky. A bunch of my mob went to watch yesterday, but I didn't think it would help my game to watch some fit young bloke whack the ball 300 yards. So I stayed here and had a pleasant, though incompetent round in the sunshine.

Lancs beat Yorks again in the 20/20 cricket - that's twice in a few days. Rather pleasing. Roll on the real cricket! It's six weeks until the First Ashes Test, during which time I will have played lots of golf and been to Italy for more of the same.

I wonder if I will be game to visit Florence while I am over there. Our first trip was in 1967, and we dragged Helen and Rick to the top of the wonderful cathedral dome, and also up the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Oh, and through the Uffizi. You didn't have to queue in those days.

There is occasional interest in the relative elevations of the high points of London, and I have discovered that Hampstead Heath (134m), Highgate (131m) and Shooters Hill (132m) are all about the same. The North Downs in Kent go up to 267m. And I have seen a strange cat on the golf course the last three days. It is hunting, and looks like a serval - spots rather than stripes, with an elegant tail that turns up at the tip. One of the chaps reckons that it is an expensive cross-breed. Perhaps we should catnap it for a ransome.

Well I said there's not a lot going on. My only current worry is how to arrange my menus for the week. Lamb chops, Jerseys, asparagus, various salads, fish cakes. Yum. When I complained to my prostate nurse about feeling a bit weary on the golf course, she told me to ask a pharmacist for something to take. So I did, and I am now swallowing a sort of multi-vitamin pill each morning. I can't tell whether it is helping, but my appetite seems to be enhanced. So I am eating more substantial lunches (haven't got round to having breakfast yet). It doesn't really matter if I get fat.

I'll post a couple of pics. One is the view from my living room, which always gives me pleasure.

What a win. What a season. Now they have to work out how to spend £50 million. What a nice problem to have.

They did it by playing football, while the Sheffield lot had thuggish tendencies, especially in the second half when they had no ideas except to lump it up the middle and hope for a lucky bounce. So even if Burnley don't survive, they have had a good time. After all, nobody from down below has ever beaten Arsenal, Chelsea, Fulham and West Brom in the same season.

And Bob was singing "We're goin' all the way, till the wheels fall off and burn". Then I had some "Bird of Paradise", Charlie Parker and the very young Miles. And ABBA sang "Take a Chance on Me". How was a chap supposed to eat his supper, what with all the excitement.

It was pissing down on Tuesday morning, so I stayed in bed, then did a bit of a shop at Sports Direct - 24 golf balls for £8.99, courtesy of Mike Ashley, who has spent millions while screwing up Newcastle. Though it didn't rain in Birmingham, so England were able to put a show on against the rather less than enthusiastic Windies. I felt sorry for the punters who had paid out a lot to get not much of a match (it had been even worse the day before in Bristol), but at least the weather was OK.

20/20-wise, Lancs gave Yorks a good kicking. Not that it matters. After all, it's only a game innit. (Only joking.)

Grounds for another whinge about the BBC. It seems that they employ more than 50 executives who are paid more than the Prime Minister's £190,000. I think that their names and job descriptions should be published. These are the people who hire plonkers like Ross for six million quid a year. And who sent 450 staff to Beijing for the Olympics - the biggest corporate jamboree anyone could imagine. Rant over, for the moment. And I have to remind myself that I shall never have to pay another licence fee.

I have been thinking about holding a garden party for my golf crowd and their spouses, but I couldn't handle forty people and it wouldn't be possible to do it by selective invitation. And I heard today that two of the blokes have already named dates for their own parties. There seems to be a waiting list, so I'll give it a miss. Giddy social whirl or what!

I may well have a snooze now (to recover from this morning's incompetent golf) so as to be fresh for the football. It's one of those games where I don't care who wins. (Could I admit to a sneaking admiration for Barça?) Burnley will be playing Man U next season. Charlton will be playing Millwall in the Third Division. Blimey.

It is criminal to sit in front of the box while the sun beams down outside. But the back grass has been mown, and the windows washed, and the laundry done. So the box it shall be.

There was a what one might describe as competitive Heineken Cup final yesterday. Leinster beat their soundalike Leicester by just enough. Today, Millwall ("nobody likes us, we don't care") were at Wembley for the play-off, and one-third of Sarf London were there with them. (The other two-thirds being Charlton and Crystal Palace persons.) A fast and entertaining game was won by Scunthorpe, which means that Millwall will be playing Charlton next season. Ho, hum.

But of course the really big game is tomorrow. Burnley play their 61st match of the season, and if they beat Sheff U. they will enter the Premiership. Come on Burnley, town of my birth!!!!

There is cricket going on at Bristol, where the Windies don't look too keen in spite of the sunshine. And there is golf from Wentworth, where Paul Casey looks like doing the business. And I had a brief look at the Monaco F1, where the bloke who starts in pole wins because he can't be overtaken. Very boring.

But I have a house and garden to run as well, so there is a list of jobs for tomorrow. I'm not idle, you know. I have just made a local discovery about a bus service which stops three minutes' walk away from my front door and goes to the North Greenwich tube station in just a few minutes. That, to me, is a big find. It's not that I haven't found it in the ten years I have been living here (well, it is really), but the service has only just been extended. I could be at the O2 in ten minutes if I ever felt the desire, so I may have to start looking at the gigs. Come back Bruce! And Bob!

Right. Back to the cricket and golf now. Asparagus and herb risotto again for supper. Quelle journée!

This wonderful explosion of contempt following the MPs' expenses revelations may and must force reform of the whole political process by which we are governed. The rottenness which has been eroding the whole business has been lanced like a boil (I don't know whether people still get boils, but I did when young, and I still remember the sense of relief when they burst and all the pus came out), and lots of questions can now be debated.

The ghastly Blair's screwing up of the House of Lords will take a generation to cure. "Ennobling" faithful party hacks and generous donors to the party kitty, so that they could be called "Lord" and "Lady" and get paid handsomely for just turning up, was no better than the hereditary system. And it wasn't just Labour - the other parties went along with it. Superpolitics gone mad. Phew.

An elected Senate is essential - has been for a hundred years - but the English are slow learners. We haven't even realised yet that we don't have an empire and that nobody gives much of a stuff what we think.

I wish that a video could have been made of the meeting at the White House between Obama and Netanyahu. It seems that nobody else was there, so frank words could be exchanged. The Israelis are tough guys, and tough guys are rarely nice guys. The Palestinians have run out of excuses in my book. There is only so much incompetence and corruption that can be excused. A plague on both their houses. Just look back 3,000 years - it was the same then. The same tribes bashing each other.

OK. Sport now. I have developed a strange ailment in my golf, which is much more interesting than politics. I am tending to play the first nine holes nicely then going to pieces in the back nine. It's a mental thing, but the NHS won't prescribe any pills to fix it. I can't afford to go private so I may have to sue them for neglect. No win no pay anyone?

I tried to get a ticket for Burnley's big match at Wembley next Monday, but none were available on general sale. 36,000 was the allocation, and they have all gone, according to the club's website, to season ticket holders. Never mind, I'll watch on the telly.

And the Aussies have named their Ashes squad. A lot of new names, and the really big guys have gone, so it could be a bit more equal. Pietersen and Flintoff, our big guys four years ago, seem to be less than healthy. We'll see.

Rick called from Schiphol. He and Pia are off on a much-anticipated trip to Japan, using airmiles and the firm's cash award to Rick for ten years of loyal and devoted service.

My Iraqi Kurd barber offered to find me a woman - I think he is trying to fix up his mother-in-law - but I had to decline. No woman no cry, said the bard, though I never really understood what he was talking about.

I have no pressing engagements tomorrow, so I may have to play golf again. Perhaps I'll play through my bad patch more quickly if I turn out five mornings in a row. I certainly hope so.

A random babble, just for a change.

The mysteries of science and big engineering - people have gone to Hubble and replaced various parts, 350 miles above Earth. And they expect to come home. Magic. Plus the need to take air to the Space Station. I never thought of that but the astronauts have to breathe something. And they have just fired two more telescopes into high orbit. Meanwhile, down here, they can't fix your central heating.

Speaking of space, I am advised by the media to get more sun or vitamin D, otherwise I will fade away. But other media tell me that too much sun causes cancer. I'll just take a chance, do what I normally do, and hope for the best.

I had a look at youTube, having nothing better to do, and noticed that Obama's fireside chat to the nation had received 17,000 visitors, while 659,000 had a look at the Norwegian fiddler doing his Eurovision thing. And our part of the world thinks that democracy is a living thing. An even more scary thing about youTube is that you are going to get to see it in HD. Absolute rubbish seen really, really, clearly.

More visits from goldfinches - they can sense the presence of nyger seed from miles away. And I was entertained by a show from Madison Square Garden: Clapton and Stevie Winwood, still rocking after all these years. And I had the traditional May supper - asparagus, then lamb chops and Jersey Royals.

In between times, I have had a swoonfest with Ella singing "These Foolish Things" and some 60 year-old Duke Ellington. And I got a prize from Ernie - £25 miserable quid. I'd be better off cashing the Premium Bonds in and going down the betting shop.

Sports now.(Well I said it was odds and sods.) Tickets for the Burnley v Sheffield U showdown go on general sale tomorrow, so I'll have a go. I must confess that WBA in defeat looked rather better than Burnley, but they all laughed at Hull and Stoke, and they have stayed up. And Burnley beat Fulham, Chelsea and Arsenal this year, let's remember.

A young Irish amateur won the Irish Open. He is a very large fat young man who has obviously never seen the inside of a gym. And a prattish person called "Prince William" has just told me that England should host the next World Cup, because the English are very keen on football.

And I'm playing like a drain, so I will have to keep going back for more until I discover the secret. It's only a matter of time.

Well, at least I'm honest. I called it "Odds and Sods".

By the way,if you double-click on the recent Greenwich pic, you'll get a good view.

It is always Saturday morning. I'm sitting up in bed with a sudoku and my coffee. The paperboy sticks the Guardy through the letterbox, so I have to read the sport section. I have made my food shopping list so I reluctantly get up and perform ma toilette, then go to Sainsbury's. It's always the same, though I am saving a few bob by buying their 3 for £10 offers.

Back home, there is a Test match on the box, then Man v Arse. I watch as much as I can tolerate (Man U playing for a draw at home - garbage!), and the cricket isn't much better. England have scored more than 530 against the Windies, who clearly wish they weren't there, and still Strauss won't declare. Ridiculous.

There is much chat about the inadvisability of trying to play Test cricket in May because of the crap weather, but it wasn't always like that. When I were a lad, the target for the best batsmen was to get 1,000 runs in May (Compton, Edrich, blokes like that), but nowadays, not many even get 1,000 in the whole season. But the weather must have been better in the early 1950s.

My golf was rather depressing on Thursday, so I took Friday off with the intention of stopping the house and garden from getting away from me. So I fitted some replacement parts on my golf trolley and went to the council offices in Woolwich to get my life certificate signed. (It is perfectly reasonable for my French pension providers to get some proof that I am still alive.) Downtown Woolwich is a big building site. There are new train and DLR stations, and a huge area has been demolished to make room for new Council buildings.

But I didn't feel like hoovering, so I just loafed. My to-do list is getting longer by the day, but somehow je m'en fous.

I thought that the MPs' expenses was a bit of a joke until I read that one bloke has been charging for a mortgage which was already paid off. That sounds not only like grounds for dismissal but also like grounds for criminal prosecution. To solve the problem of accommodation for MPs who live a long way away, there is a huge, well-maintained building in walking distance from the Houses of Parliament. I'm sure Betty Windsor would be pleased to welcome our elected representatives into her home in exchange for a smaller place in sheltered accommodation for herself and her ancient spouse.

Then we could simply pay MPs what we pay GPs and tell them to get on with it. "It" being, of course, the job of ruling us.

The Royal Navy, in the shape of HMS Illustrious, visits Greenwich each year (and my golf club entertains a team from the ship to a golf match and dinner). This year was the 100th anniversary of the Fleet Air Arm's first flight, which I think was a balloon, so there was a helicopter display. The black specks in the sky over Greenwich can be seen in the pic that I am going to attach. (It is rather a large pic KB-wise so Blog might not be up to it. Anyone interested could ask me for an e-copy. I received the pic from the Greenwich Council's weekly paper.)

I expect the rugby to be a lot more watchable - Leicester v London Irish promises a great ding-dong. You can't play for a draw in rugby, it's a man's game.

I downloaded (paid for!) Dylan's latest album, and for review purposes I sat through the whole thing over lunch. Now, I quite like Modern Times, and his band is good, but this new one is pointless. The last song, It's All Good, is OK but the title certainly doesn't apply to the rest of the old boy's dirges.

There is much mirth to be had from the revelations about MPs' expenses claims, and also serious questions about fiddling so as to avoid paying CGT. Hard to beat the Tory grandee's claim for cleaning the moat around his house though. I read that a BBC presenter was, fashionably, slagging off the MPs, and had to disclose that she gets paid £92,000. Nearly twice as much as an MP for a tiny fraction of the workload. And the Beeb harbours dozens of them. I think all BBC salaries over say £50k should be published so that the licence payers can see how their money is being pissed away.

Nature notes. Pigeons must have some kind of communication system. I have resumed filling the bird feeders, since the squirrel onslaught seems to have gone quiet, and within days the scrounging feral pigeons are back. They must tell each other where they might find some spilled birdseed.

The local fox has been visiting. Whenever I see him he is scratching frenzedly, fleas, ticks, whatever. He's not a happy fox, but at least he hasn't been crapping on my terrace.

Sports news. The cricket organisers are utterly hopeless. They schedule a mini Test series in May. The first one starts on a Wednesday and is all over by Friday. 20,000 tickets had been sold for the Saturday and will have to be refunded. At present day prices, that's a million quid. Then the second Test starts tomorrow in Durham, but nobody is buying tickets because the local football has reached crisis level, and it will rain anyway.

But Burnley had an amazing win over Reading, and will now play Sheffield United at Wembley to see who goes up into the Premiership. What a fabulous performance. I'm thinking of going to the game. Seat prices go from £34 to £74, but it's half price for over 60s. And I would quite like to see the new Wembley.

A dozen of my golf squad had a day at West Malling on Monday. In a gale, on a rather unusual course. So I didn't do very well. No surprise there, but a pleasant day out.

I went to Guy's today to see how my PSA is doing, and the latest reading is 0.12. Four months ago it was 0.25; four months before that it was 0.47. So they don't want to see me for six months, and the radiotherapy seems to have done its job. The Zoladex is making me rather portly, and my best Italian merino wool trousers no longer fit. Must go shopping.

The Guardian is printing recipes this week to provide dinner for two for under a fiver. I will try the asparagus and herb risotto tonight.

Here's a pic of the wiegala (I'm told it is pronounced Wye-gee-la).

I am very poor at prioritising. There is lots to do to whip this new hard drive into line, an area where I am less than competent. There is a lot of sport on the box - rugby, and Burnley in the playoff for promotion. I have hardly had time to get into the garden. And I keep telling myself not to bother. What has to get done gets done eventually. Oh, and it might be necessary to do some laundry and push the vacuum round.

But it was, as it always is down there, a good visit to Sheerness GC on Thursday. My partner and I were two down with three to play, and we won the last three holes. Too much food as usual, but I slept well.

The Test Match was a bit of a non-event, and was not very good preparation for the Ashes. Some of our blokes did well, but the Aussies will be smiling at the prospect of turning them over.

It is not too depressing to read about the expenses fiddles of our elected representatives at the Mother of Parliaments, because it has become what we expect. We rag on about the large-scale kleptomaniac tendencies of African Big Men, while our small men (and women - must include the ghastly Jacqui) fiddle small. But they invite us to wonder at what level they would stop the fiddles if there was no limit.

I have to download a couple of pics now to see whether the new beast is behaving. Then I will have a look at Burnley v Reading on the box. Fish cakes and chips and salad for supper. I seem to be getting through a lot of white wine these days. I know it's meant to be a diuretic, but I heard that some Aussie winemaker is working on a new varietal called Pinot More. Ho ho. (Sorry. It's spending time with leaky veteran golfers that brings this stuff on.)

An away-day with the lads at West Malling on Monday. I am booked in for a full breakfast, to see whether I can force it down. Then a visit to Guy's on Wednesday to see what the latest blood test has to show.

As I said, busy, busy, busy.

Pottered around the garden on Monday.Helen turned up in a friend's vroom-vroom motor, and told me about her new job. They tell me it's flattering to be head-hunted; I can't say because it never happened to me. So good for her.

To Guy's on Tuesday to see the vampire. Blood was duly taken, and we'll know the results next Wednesday. And then I took the computer to Doctor Nadeem to have a transplant. That was quite enough for one day, though I had to watch the men-against-boys ManU demolition of Arsenal.

I played in the competition today. Not very well, but at least I was out there. And when I got home, there was a message to say that PC was fixed. So I went to collect it from the doc and spent a lot of time setting it all back up. There is still lots to do - the appearance of everything is different, and I had to kick out MS which had tried to colonise everything. But these things are sent to try us.

Meanwhile, there was a Test Match on the box, and Bopara got a ton a Lord's (KP was out first ball, so he will have to try harder). I have to get some supper ready within the hour, because I would like to find out whether Barça can do their flash stuff when it really counts.

I have packed my jacket and tie for tomorrow's match at Sheerness. It's all bloody go round here. But I won't stop ... thinking about tomorrow. Yesterday's gone. Thanks, Fleetwood Mac.

Chicken salad for supper, then the footie and an early night. Out at 7am tomorrow for an hour's drive into Kent. I said it was busy round here.

The friendly match at Chislehurst was just that, and the lunch was as expected (though I did have an uneasy moment when the home Veterans' captain asked us to be upstanding for the Loyal Toast. "Gentlemen, the Queen". Yes, they still do it).

But I got over it, and got home through the school run. Not much supper needed on account of the lunch.

It was the fourth anniversary of Ma's departure - four years which have whizzed by. Sami was born, I had radiotherapy, Chris and Kate became medical students, my golf became worse. But don't stop thinking about tomorrow. Yesterday's gone.

So Friday morning arrived. It was fine, so I played golf. What a sensible idea, I hear you murmur.

I had promised to go to Crouch Hill for Christopher's 21st birthday party on Saturday, and I spent much time studying the various means of getting there and back. There was nothing under an hour and a half each way, what with walk, bus, two tubes, bus. It is 13 miles by road, taking an hour each way. This is the dynamic modern city of Gordon Brown's vision (and that of the Notting Hill Tory mob). So I made my apologies.

The alarming message on my PC monitor before it will let me start the system prompted me to buy an external drive to simplify the backing up of my stuff. It is amazingly user-friendly, and my badly filed old crap is now safely backed up.

The Heineken Cup semi-finals were worth the price of admission. First you got lots of Irish, with friends, bashing each other, then today you got a draw (thanks to two absurdly good conversions from the touchline by a Kiwi called Blair), then extra time, then a bizarre goalkicking decider. A daft way to decide a match like that, even though the better side overall won (IMHO). Suppose they had been required to play on until somebody scored. It might have taken a while, but the last man standing would have won it.

So Burnley are in the playoffs for promotion. They have already played about 55 games already, but let us not forget that they have beaten Arsenal, Chelsea and Fulham this season. Not many people can say that. Come on Burnley.

Another day off tomorrow. I'll do a bit in the garden.