Bolton v Liverpool 1-1
Charlton v Arsenal 0-3
Chelsea v Aston Villa 3-1
Everton v Man City 2-0 (hopefully!)
Sheff Utd v Middlesbrough 1-0 (great TV!!)

Sunday, 01 October 2006
West Ham v Reading 2-1
Blackburn v Wigan 2-1
Man Utd v CarToon Notwork 3-0
Tottenham v Portsmouth 2-2

Watford v Fulham 1-1

TD

Safe to say I had fun at Goodison Saturday with my son.

TD

Majority prediction in brackets (50 entries)
Everton v Liverpool 0-0 (2-1)
Arsenal v Mboro 2-0 (2-0)
Bolton v Watford 2-1 (2-1)
Chelsea v Charlton 2-0 (3-0)
Newcastle v Fulham 2-1 (2-1)
Portsmouth v Wigan 2-1 (2-1)
Sheff Utd v Blackburn 1-0 (1-1)
Man Utd v Tottenham 2-0 (2-1)
West Ham v Aston Villa 2-2 (1-1)
Reading v Man City 1-0 (1-1)

A story (well the opening lines of one)

I wake up. I want to kill my mother. OK? So what? I want to kill her every morning I wake up. But today is different. It’s a special day to me. This Thursday morning is the Silver Anniversary. It’s been 25 long and lonely years since that day. That day, THAT DAY, I have never forgiven her for what she did. And every day I have vowed revenge. But it takes courage to plunge the knife, to pull the cord around her rotten neck, to drop one pill too many in her black coffee, to watch her suffer and die. Every day I have concocted one of a thousand gruesome deaths to satiate my raw desire to avenge my father’s memory, to deliver the final deserving blows (one of many).

But why has it taken 25 years of pain and still I haven’t fulfilled my ultimate goal? I will tell you why. Because it has taken me 25 fucking years to find her and she doesn’t even know I know where she is.

In the beginning it was a tough childhood. Brought up on one of the roughest estates of glorious post-war rebuilt Britain. Bruised, battered, neglected. In short screwed up. A drunken mother and an absent father. Well, absent if down the pub away from the harridan of a wife qualifies.

So what was the balance sheet of childhood like? Education - none. Love – even less. One of four unfortunate, unwanted urchins, forced to steal for our tea. The oldest of four unkempt, reviled, revolting bastards. The scourge of the estate. First there was me, Graham Anthony Payne, then 2 years later the first of three sisters, Caroline Melissa. Then the twins – oh the pain that mother must have suffered bringing TWO little bitches into the world. Mary-Jane and Grace. Grace!! Never was a child more misnamed. So lacking in civility. But who could expect any more?

Father worked – when he was sober – on the docks as a stevedore. We barely saw him, save for Sunday mornings. He would go out before we woke, and return, drunk, past midnight, angry and looking for sex. We heard the repulsive noises through the thin walls as mother would “satisfy” him, briefly, Four little bastards, one bedroom, no hope, no future.

Father, we called him Father but we didn’t even know if he was. Poor bastard. Threw himself off the top floor of the estate one Sunday morning, 25 years ago, 25 years ago today. Couldn’t take anymore of the bitch. She drove him to it. Drove him to drink, drove him to the arms of prostitutes (Uncle George told me this much later). And I never forgave her.

It’s been 25 years, Nine thousand one hundred and thirty two days, and not a single day has passed when I haven’t plotted my revenge. How appropriate today would be I thought. What a perfect memorial, a perfect moment to pay her back.

My wife turns over, moans, goes back to sleep. Work seems a long way off this cold November morning. I can almost feel the cold wind through the windows as I stare at the barren fields beyond the garden fence. Birdsong permeates the crisp morning.

This paper was turned in by an Oakland High school student who received the highest honors at the school district's ebonics translation competition.

Assignment:

Please translate the following song lyrics from ebonics to standard English.

Artist: Notorious B.I.G. Album: Ready to Die Song: One more chance (remix)

First things first, I poppa, freaks all the honeys Dummies - playboy bunnies, those wantin' money Those the ones I like 'cause they don't get nathan' But penetration, unless it smells like sanitation Garbage, I turn like doorknobs Heart throb, never, black and ugly as ever However, I stay coochied down to the socks Rings and watch filled with rocks

As a general rule, I perform deviant sexual acts with women of all kinds, including but not limited to those with limited intellect, nude magazine models, and whores. I particularly enjoy sexual encounters with the latter group as they are generally disappointed in the fact that they only receive penile intercourse and nothing more, unless of course, they douche on a consistent basis. Although I am extremely unattractive, I am able to engage in these types of sexual acts with some regularity. Perhaps my sexuality is somehow related to my fancy and expensive jewelery.

And my jam knock in the Mitsubishi Girls pee pee when they see me Nava-hoes creep me in they tee pee As I lay down laws like I lay carpet Stop it - if you think your gonna make a profit

I enjoy playing my music loudly on my car stereo. Apparently, women enjoy this also because they become sexually aroused when they see me driving. Oddly enough, when I visit the Native American reservations, some of the more sexually promiscuous Indian women attempt to seduce me in their homes. Their intent is to divest me of my earnings. Such actions are unacceptable.
Don't see my ones, don't see my guns - get it Now tell ya friends Poppa hit it then split it In two as I flow with the Junior Mafia I don't know what the hell's stoppin' ya I'm clockin' ya - Versace shades watchin' ya Once ya grin, I'm in game, begin

Understand this fact: you can have neither my money, nor my weapons. I suggest that you inform your peers that we engaged in violent sexual acts. Currently, I am rapping with my associates, the Junior Mafia. I'm having some difficulty understanding why you refuse to approach me. I am attempting to make eye contact with you through my expensives glasses, and as soon as you respond with a smile, I will approach you.

First I talk about how I dress and this And diamond necklesses - stretch Lexuses The sex is just immaculate from the back I get Deeper and deeper - help ya reach the Climax that your man can't make Call and tell him you'll be home real late Let's sing the break

I prefer to open the conversation with light banter about my wardrobe and jewelery, then I like to discuss my collection of expensive cars. This is more than enough to convince you to have sexual intercourse with me. I am able to insert my penis further into you when I enter you from behind. Furthermore, you will be able to reach orgasm. I understand this to be a problem with your current sexual partner. He needn't be concerned about your whereabouts. Please phone him and inform him that you won't be home for a while. By the way, please sing the chorus of the song for me also.

She's sick of that song on how it's so long Thought he worked his until I handled my biz There I is - major pain like Damon Wayans Low down dirty even like his brother Keenan Schemin' - don't bring your girl 'round me True player for real, ask Puff Daddy

Your current love interest no longer wishes to hear your fabrications about the length of your member. After I had sexual intercourse with your woman, she became enlightened as to the proper way it is supposed to be performed; violently and immorally. It would be in your best interest to keep your woman away from me as my sexual prowess is very strong. If you are unconvinced, ask Puff Daddy.

You - ringin' bells with bags from Chanel Baby Benz, traded in your Hyundai Excel Fully equipped, CD changer with the cell She beeped me, meet me at twelve
Despite the fact that you attempted to win her at her doorstep with bags full of expensive clothes and a car (the lower end model Mercedes Benz which you financed by signing over your current vehicle) containing an expensive stereo and a cellular phone, your woman has contacted me through my pager indicating that we should rendezvous at midnight.

Where you at? Flippin' jobs, playin' car notes? While I'm swimmin' in ya women like the breast stroke Right stroke, left stroke what's the best stroke Death stroke - tongue all down her throat Nuthin' left to do but send her home to you I'm through - can ya sing the song for me, boo?

You, on the other hand, jump from job to job, barely able to maintain payments on the Mercedes Benz you purchased for your woman. Meanwhile, I continue to engage in sexual intercourse and commit lewd osculatory acts with your women. My only remaining option is to request that they leave my home and return to you because I have reached orgasm and no longer have a need for their presence.
So, what's it gonna be? Him or me? We can cruise the world with pearls Gator boots for girls The envy of all women, crushed linen Cartier wrist-wear with diamonds in 'em The finest women I love with a passion Ya man's a wimp, I give that ass a good thrashin'

The ultimate decision rests with you. Whom do you choose as your sexual partner. I can take you on cruises around the world. I will dress you in the finest jewelery and footwear. You will be envied by women worldwide in your fine clothes and jewelery. There is a special place in my heart for beautiful women. I will defeat your man in an altercation because he is effeminate.
High fashion - flyin' into all states Sexin' me while your man masterbates Isn't this great? Your flight leaves at eight Her flight lands at nine, my game just rewinds Lyrically I'm supposed to represent I'm not only the client, I'm the player president

You will be dressed in finest clothes on the runways of Paris. I will fly you to every state to shop for fine clothes and jewelery. You will enjoy sexual intercourse with me and your man will be forced to pleasure himself through manual stimulation. What a life! I'll return you to LaGuardia in time to catch your 8 o'clock flight. The timing is perfect becuase I have scheduled a date with a second woman who arrives at the same gate at 9 o'clock. I'll seduce her in the same way that I seduced you. I rap well and I am a positive reflection of my hometown. Not only am I a sexually deviant, misogynistic, immoral, wealthy, male prostitute, but I also sit on the board of directors of the organization that governs others of my kind.

An excerpt from this most beautiful of books:

I am standing on a corner in Monterey, waiting for the bus to come in, and all the muscles of my will are holding my terror to face the moment that I most desire. Apprehension, and the summer afternoon keep dying my lips, prepared at ten-minute intervals all through the five hour wait.

But then it is her eyes that come forward out of the vulgar disembarkers to reassure me that the bus has not disgorged disaster: her Madonna eyes, soft as the newly-born, trusting as the un-tempted. And, for a moment, at that gaze, I am happy to forgo my future, and postpone indefinitely the miracle hanging fire. Her eyes shower me with innocence and surprise. Was it for her, after all, for her whom I had never expected nor imagined that there had been compounded such ruses of convenience? Behind her he for whom I have waited so long, who has stalked so unbearably through my nightly dreams, fumbles with the tickets and the bags, and shuffles up to the event which too much anticipation has fingered to shreds.

For after all, it is all her. We sit in a café drinking coffee. He recounts their adventures and says, "It was like this, wasn't it, darling", "I did well then, didn't I, dearest heart?", and she smiles happily across the room with confidence that appals. How can she walk through the streets, so vulnerable, so unknowing, and not have people and dogs and perpetual calamity following her? But overhung with her vines of faith, she is protected from their gaze like the pools in Epping Forest. I see she can walk across the leering world and suffer injuries only from the ones she loves. But I love her and her silence is propaganda for sainthood.

So we drive along the Californian coast singing together, and I entirely renounce him only for her peace of mind. The wild road winds around ledges manufactured from the mountains and cliffs. The Pacific in blue spasms reaches its superlatives.

Why do I not jump off this cliff where I lie sickened by the moon? I know these days are offering me only murder for my future. It is not just the creeping fingers of the cold that dissuade me from action, and allow me to accept the hypocritical hope that there mat be some solution. Like Macbeth, I keep remembering that I am their host. So it is tomorrow's breakfast rather than the future's blood that dictates fatal forbearance. Nature, perpetual whore, distracts with the immediate. Shifty-eyed with this fallacy I plough back to my bed, up through the tickling grass. So, through the summer days, we sit on the Californian coast, drinking coffee on the wooden steps of our cottages.

Up the canyon the redwoods and the thick left-hands of the castor tree forebode disaster by their beauty, built on too grand a scale. The creek gushes over green boulders into pools no human ever uses, down canyons into the sea.
But poison oak grows over the path and over all the banks, and it is impossible even to go into the damp overhung valley without being poisoned. Later in the year it flushes scarlet, both warning of and recording fatality.
Between the canyons the hills slide steep and cropped to the cliffs that isolate the Pacific. They change from gold to silver, grow purple and massive from a distance, and disintegrate down-hill in avalanches of sand.
Round the doorways double-size flowers grow without encouragement: lilacs, nasturtiums in a bank down to the creek, roses, geraniums, fuchsias, bleeding-hearts, and hydrangeas. The sea blooms. The stream rushes loudly.

When the sea otters leave their playing under the cliff, the kelp in amorous coils appear to pin down the Pacific. There are rattlesnakes and widow-spiders and mists that rise from below. But the days leave the recollection of sun and flowers.

Day deceives, but at night no one is safe from hallucination. The legends here are all of blood-feuds and suicide, uncanny foresight and supernatural knowledge. Before the convict workers put up the road, loneliness drove women to jump in the sea. Tales were told of the convicts: how some went mad along the coast, while others became hypnotised to it, and, when they were released, returned to marry local girls.

The long days seduce all thoughts away, and we lie like lizards in the sun, postponing our lives indefinitely. But by the bathing pool, or on the sandhills by the beach, the Beginning lurks uncomfortable on the outskirts of the circle, like an unpopular person whom ignoring can keep away. The very silence, the very avoiding of any intimacy between us, when he, when he was only a word, was able to cause me sleepless nights and shivers of intimation, is more dangerous.
Our seeming detachment gathers strength. I sit back and impersonally say, I see human vanity, or feel myself full of gladness because there is a gentleness between him or her, or even feel irritation because he lets her do too much of the work, sits lolling while she chops wood for the stove.

But he never passes anywhere near me without every drop of my blood springing to attention. My mind may reason that the terseness only registers neutrality, but my heart knows no true neutrality was ever so full of passion. One day along the pass he brushed my breast in passing, and I though, does this Efflorescence offend him? And I went into the redwoods brooding and blushing with rage, to be stamped so obviously with femininity and liable to humiliation worse than Venus's with Adonis, purely by reason of my accidental but flaunting sex.

Alas, I know that he is the hermaphrodite whose love looks up through the appletree with a golden indeterminate face. While we drive along the road in the evening, talking as impersonally as a radio discussion, he tells me, "A boy with green eyes and long lashes, whom I had never seen before, took me into the back of a printshop and made love to me, and for two weeks I went around remembering the numbers on bus conductors' hats."

"One should love beings whatever their sex," I reply, but withdraw into the dark with my obstreperous shape of shame, offended with my own flesh which cannot metamorphose into a printshop boy with arms like chalices.

Then days go by without even this much exchange of metaphor, and my tongue seems to wither in my throat from the unhappy silence, and the moons that rise and set unused, and the sun that melts into the Pacific uselessly, drive me to tears and my cliff of vigil at the end of the peninsula. I do not beacon to the Beginning, whose advent will surely strew our world with blood, but I weep for such a waste of life lying under my thumb.

His foreshortened face appears in profile on the car window like an irregular graph of my doom, merciless as a mathematician, leering accompaniment to all my good resolves. There is no medicinal to be obtained from the dried herbs of any natural hill, for when I tread those upward paths, the lowest vines conspire to abet my plot, and the poison oak thrusts its insinuation under my foot.

From the corners where the hill turns from the sea and goes into the secrecy and damp air of forbidden things, I stand disinterestedly examining the instruments and the pattern of my fate. It is a slow motion process of the guillotine in action, and I see plainly that no miracle can avert the imminent deaths. I see the time, regarding equably the appearance, but I am as detached as the statistician is when he lists his thousand dead.

When his soft shadow, which yet in the night comes barbed with all the weapons of guilt, is cast hugely upon the pane, I watch it as from a loge in the theatre, the continually vibrating I in darkness. Swearing invulnerability, I measure mercilessly his shortcomings, and with luxurious scorn, ask who could be ensnared there.

But what huge shadow is more than my only moon, even more than my destruction: it has the innocently slipping advent of the next generation, which enters in one night of joy, and leaves a meadowful of lamenting milkmaids when its purpose is grown to fruit.

Also, smoothed away from all detail, I see, not the face of a lover to arouse my coquetry or defiance, but the gentle outline of a young girl. And this, though shocking, enables me to understand, and myself rise virile as a cobra, out of my loge, to assume control.

He kissed my forehead driving along the coast in evening, and now, wherever I go, like the sword of Damocles, that greater never-to-be-given kiss hangs above my doomed head. He took my hand between the two shabby front seats of the Ford, and it was dark, and I was looking the other way, but now that hand casts everywhere an octopus shadow from which I can never escape. The tremendous gentleness of that moment smothers me under; all through the night it is centaurs hoofed and galloping over my heart; the poison has got into my blood. I stand on the edge of the cliff, but the future is already done.

It is written. Nothing can escape. Floating through the waves with seaweed in my hair, or being washed up battered on the inaccessible rocks, cannot undo the event to which there were never any alternatives. O lucky Daphne, motion-less and green to avoid the touch of a god! Lucky Syrinx, who chose a legend instead of too much blood! For me there was no choice. There was no crossroads at all
I am jealous of the hawk because he can get so far out of the world, or I would follow with passionate envy the seagull swooping to possible cessation.

Apr 2005

Rod Liddle wrote this wonderful article in "The Spectator"

Recently, the champions of English football, Arsenal, took on Hitler’s favourite team, Bayern Munich, in a European Champions League match — and, I’m delighted to say, they got well and truly stuffed. I’m afraid that football brings out the patriot in me and I’m always inclined to put aside my club loyalties to cheer on a British — or, better still, English — team.
And so it was on that night in southern Germany: of the 26 players who took part in the match, only one of them was English — Bayern’s midfielder, Owen Hargreaves, who scampered around the pitch like an office boy on amphetamines for the last 25 minutes or so. And even Hargreaves is English only in the way that, say, Zola Budd or Prince Albert were English. But, still, it was enough for me. Play up, Bayern! In fact, just one of the seven English teams competing in European competitions this year contained a majority of English players — and that was my team, Millwall. And we went out in round one.
Talk to the FA and you’ll be told that the 2004–05 season has been a monumental success. It is true that we have been entertained, on our television screens, by some lovely football at times. It is true, too, that of the four clubs remaining in the European Champions competition, two of them are English or, more accurately, play their games on grounds situated in England. And the national side is arguably stronger than it has been for 35 years, possessing a midfield which is the envy of even Brazil or France. But this aside, the season has been a depressing and at times revolting spectacle, predictable in its outcomes, populated by ever more loutish, greedy and stupid players and petulant, duplicitous and arrogant managers. No wonder, then, that the fans are beginning to vote with their feet.
This season the Premiership will be won by Chelsea, with Arsenal and Manchester United fighting it out for second place. The FA Cup will be won by Arsenal or Manchester United and the League Cup already resides at Stamford Bridge. This triopoly is a desperately boring and stifling state of affairs. Further, the three clubs relegated from the Premiership will certainly consist of two of those promoted to it last year and most likely all three. The gulf between the divisions widens by the year, just as the proportion of English-born players at Premiership clubs dwindles by the year. The days when the League championship — and indeed a European championship or two — could be won by a side consisting of local players reinforced by canny purchases by a clever and inspirational manager, as was once the case with Nottingham Forest and Aston Villa, are over. For good. Today, success is solely about the amount of money spent.
I suppose we should be grateful for the arriviste Chelsea, fuelled by the, uh, undoubtedly perfectly legitimate fortune of the owner, Roman Abramovich. For the last eight months, in supermarkets from Berwick to Barnstaple, you will see chavs who have recently discovered that lo, they are Chelsea fans and thus obliged to wear the nursery-blue Emirates-sponsored football shirt as a badge of loyalty. But loyalty to what, exactly? Chelsea, with its billionaire Russian owner, multinational task force of a team, sharp Portuguese manager and geographical situation in a part of London characterised by wealth and endemic transience, is no longer a place or a tradition. The new fans, those who don’t remember Pat Nevin, never mind Charlie Cooke, are showing a loyalty to success and money, nothing else. They are the sort of people who will vote for Tony Blair on 5 May solely because they think he will win. People who live their sad lives vicariously through the success of others.
For those less easily assuaged, Premiership football has become quite literally a bit of a turn-off: the inevitability of its outcomes and the lack of genuine competition has made even that glistening array of goals on the TV highlight shows dull and pointless. Match of the Day’s viewing figures, earlier this season, were down by 9 per cent. Sky has had some of its lowest-ever viewing figures for games — and fewer people are turning up at the grounds, too. In the first quarter of the season 5 per cent fewer people paid to watch their sullen heroes in the flesh, and this followed a slight decrease the season before. But in any case, the turnstiles matter less these days: according to the accountants Deloitte & Touche, television broadcasting now provides the clubs’ major source of income, whereas only six years ago it was the smallest. So now, the real fans can go hang.
And where the money is most concentrated — at Arsenal, Manchester United and Chelsea but also, to a slightly lesser extent, at Newcastle and Liverpool — so you will see the most flagrant contempt for the fans, for the various impotent football industry bodies, for the referees, for the national team, for the sporting ethos — even for the TV viewers. That ruddy-faced mountain of lachrymose Scottish bile, Sir Alex Ferguson, refuses to speak to the BBC despite the fact that his club trousers millions from the BBC contract — apparently because the corporation had the temerity to investigate his son’s role as a football agent. And nobody calls him to order. What the BBC should do is withhold every penny to this flatulent, preening club until Ferguson complies with his obligations — or not show United at all, thus giving the rest of us a break. Manchester United, Newcastle and Arsenal players can cheat and brawl to their hearts’ content, without very much — or, usually, nothing — in the way of censure from their clubs, and the footballing authorities look on, supine. Chelsea’s manager, Jose Mourinho — an attractive man in many ways — can heap vitriol and accusations of partisanship on a top international referee, causing him to retire from the profession, and Uefa hands him a few weeks off from the dug-out, nothing more. They dare not cross the clubs with the money or the men with the clout. And all of the top club managers can withhold players from international duty — sometimes, it would seem, fraudulently — so that the pampered little moppets remain uninjured for the next stroll out against those children of a lesser God: Southampton or Charlton or Fulham.
These days, when the top clubs play the smaller teams in a particularly crucial game, the only recourse for the underdogs is to kick them off the park, as happened recently when Arsenal met Blackburn. This does not provide for an edifying spectacle but, still, I’d have happily clambered down on to the pitch to help Blackburn do the business, especially if it meant kicking Robert Pires really hard. We are grateful for the chance to watch Robben, Henry and Ronaldo et al weave their magic, but the pay-off is that somehow the English game has been left high and dry. For the real fans it has never been just about beauty — as a Millwall supporter, this is something I know only too well. It should also be about a sense of place and a sense of belonging, of commitment and community and something which transcends the obscene pay packets. But how can you explain that to one of those new Chelsea fans or, indeed, players?

I was really looking forward to this one - now I've heard who the ref is I might not bother going.

Graham "3 card trick" Poll - and here's 3 of his less than great efforts in previous Everton - Liverpool encounters:

Includes 1-3 last season (2 Everton off for nothing challenges in at least one instance) 0-0 at Analfield (missed Gerrard's lunge on Naysmith's testicles - the one which got Gerrard a long ban on review), 0-0 at Goodison (2000 - remember this?)

"Then, in the last seconds, Everton were again denied by the ref, when Westerveld took a free-kick quickly, it hit Hutchison in the back as he was walking away, and it flew into the net... GOAL! No, said Mr Poll!!!! He claims he had already blown for time. With the clock at 91:45 – 15 seconds short of the 2 mins of added time"

Well let's see if he can even things up just a tad but I wouldn't bank on it.

A fair even handed performance reflected in the appropriate result on the day shouldn't be too much to ask for!

Smart Ass Answer #5:

A flight attendant was stationed at the departure gate to check tickets. As a
man approached, she extended her hand for the ticket and he opened his trench coat and flashed her. Without missing a beat.... she said, Sir, I need to see your ticket not your stub.

Smart Ass Answer #4:

A lady was picking through the frozen turkeys at the grocery store, but she couldnt find one big enough for her family. She asked a stock boy, Do these turkeys get any bigger? The stock boy replied, No maam, theyre
dead.

Smart Ass Answer #3:

The cop got out of his car and the kid who was stopped for speeding rolled down his window. Ive been waiting for you all day, the cop said. The kid replied, Yeah, well I go here as fast as I could. When the cop finally stopped laughing, he sent the kid on his way without a ticket.

Smart Ass Answer #2:

A truck driver was driving along on the freeway. A sign comes up that reads,
Low Bridge Ahead. Before he knows it, the bridge is right ahead of him and he gets stuck under the bridge. Cars are backed up for miles. Finally, a police car comes up. The cop gets out of his car and walks to the truck driver, puts his hands on his hips and says, Got stuck, huh? The truck driver says, No, I was delivering this bridge and ran out of gas.

#1 SMART ASS ANSWER OF THE YEAR 2004

A college teacher reminds her class of tomorrows final exam. Now class, I
wont tolerate any excuses for you not being here tomorrow. I might consider a nuclear attack or a serious personal injury or illness, or a death in your immediate family, but thats it, no other excuses whatsoever A smart ass guy in the back of the room raised his hand and asked,What would you say if tomorrow I said I was suffering from complete and utter sexual exhaustion? The entire class is reduced to laughter and snickering. When silence is restored, the teacher smiles knowingly at the student, shakes her head and sweetly says Well, I guess youd have to write the exam with your other hand.