High, Wide And Prognosticated

I cannot blame those who will deride me for jumping the gun here, as the weekend isn't even over yet - but more disconcerting is my alarming lack of faith in my own club. Arsenal's cogent demolition of Everton will have had many betting men scrambling for their league prediction receipts in an effort to alter them before it's too late, and though Manchester City's victory over Blackburn was by no means a rout, there was enough evidence in the performance to suggest that are a genuine threat to the "top four" clubs. A simple one-time emphatic result against Birmingham today will not be enough to allay my doubts about their solidarity, and I refuse to give credence to the claim that they are in a strong enough position at the moment, to take the title this season.

Whilst I correct in my assertion that Ronaldo's departure from Old Trafford was set to have been accomplished by, at the very latest, today, I was similarly flawed in my prediction that Chelsea would emerge victorious in their campaign last season. Do I write off United too soon? Possibly, but Ronaldo will be missed sorely, assuredly not for his attitude, but for his prolific strike rate.

Most of us know about his groundbreaking performance during the 07/08 season, when he struck over 30 times in the league. Last time out wasn't as spectacular, but he still finished as second top scorer with 18 goals. Michael Owen, in comparison, as a full-fledged forward, and not a winger, was on the scoresheet 10 times less than this, whilst Antonio Valencia, the man brought in as a direct replacement for Ronaldo, only hit the back of the net 3 times. Granted, Owen has had his share of injury woes over the years, so he must be past that by now, right? Well, I don't see why that would be the case at all; Kieron Dyer, yesterday, only appeared in his second game in 2 years for the Hammers. If a player were to gripe about how they've been cruelly blighted by injury, on that front they need not engage in competition with Dyer, whose career has been littered by lengthy lay-offs.

Owen is a proven goal scorer, but I fear that his perpetual disability will attract more attention this year than his promulgated exceptional form. And Valencia's assist contribution will have to be gargantuan to make up the lost goals through other players.

What the MotD coverage filled me in on was the turmoil of Fratton Park. Portsmouth are in disarray, and look set for a long, difficult season. They've lost Defoe, they've lost Johnson, they've lost Crouch, and they've lost their first league game, with Piquionne, a French striker drafted in to seal the void in goals elsewhere, proving mostly unconvincing. Kanu long ago fell out of general favour, and Nugent still couldn't hit a tree if he were standing in a forest; you feel that David James will have to keep his team in with a fighting chance of staying up by staving off a fusillade of shots at goal until May. But James is no deity, and he will be peppered repeatedly week in, week out. An out-of-form James will all but assure Pompey's relegation.

The three promoted sides will all struggle, as they usually do, with Wolves best placed to decide their own fate. The Serbian Milijas looks a shrewd acquisition, and they are not short on strikers; Kevin Doyle, in particular, has performed well at this level before, with Reading. Hull will, once again, be dragged into a relegation dog-fight, but perhaps lasting for the duration of the season this time. As for Everton...well, regardless of whether they lose Lescott, the squad is paper-thin at the best of times; a wave of impairments will sink their Champions League aspirations.

My presumptions about the table last season proved not to be prophetic; 0 of 3 supposed teams were relegated, the champions were called incorrectly, and egregious mistakes could be seen in the placement of clubs like Newcastle United and Everton. Never fear; this season is likely to herald fewer surprises, and I finally feel confident about Wigan maintaining their Premier league status for a further - something I have not felt ever since they came up.

1. Chelsea
2. Liverpool
3. Manchester United
4. Arsenal
5. Manchester City
6. Tottenham Hotspur
7. Everton
   
8. Sunderland
   
9. Wigan Athletic
   
10. Fulham
    
11. West Ham United
    
12. Aston Villa
    
13. Blackburn Rovers
    
14. Stoke City
    
15. Bolton Wanderers
    
16. Wolverhampton Wanderers
    
17. Birmingham City
    
18. Hull City
    
19. Portsmouth
20. Burnley

Ok, so you may be looking at that table and thinking "Manchester United in 3rd?! Are you completely off your rocker?!", and you'd be right; not only am I going against the grain by voting against my own team, but I am discrediting their form over the past three years, which is insane. Second would be an insult, third is plain ludicrous. But United rode their luck a fair bit last time out, and are overdue for some serious misfortune. They were on a par with Chelsea in 08/09, with the same number of goals scored and conceded, yet finished 7 points ahead of them.

Realistically, I think this is the first season where the "top four" could finish in any order. Arsenal have Arshavin available to them for the whole season, and Eduardo is back, and already scoring goals. Liverpool's internal conflict seems to be over, and Torres looks hungry for more goals than ever. And Chelsea have now quelled the fire in Didier Drogba's stomach, convincing him to stay on at the club. To be frank, you can never seriously write United off. But City will push these four clubs the whole way, eagerly envisaging the slip-up of one of them.

The other big surprise on that table is probably Sunderland. Only 2 places - and 2 points - above Newcastle in the drop zone last season, I am excited at the prospect of two "phoenix" forwards; two players that fell out of form at separate clubs; only to be rejuvenated when united. Previously, this could apply to players that performed well when apart, but simply phenomenally when together; examples of this would be the partnerships of Dimitar Berbatov and Robbie Keane at Spurs, or the 90s camaraderie of Man Utd pairing Andy Cole and Dwight Yorke. Here, as pointed out by MotD, Kenwyne Jones and Darren Bent look capable of replicating such form to propel Sunderland up the table. Judgement made too soon? We shall see...Sunderland could very well be the surprise package of the season.

As for Hull, I didn't believe they could stay up last year before the season began, but I desperately wanted them to prove me wrong. Which they did; dramatically at first, until their true form kicked in at the turn of the year. A plucky performance against Chelsea, which earned no points, would appear to be the best they can hope for this year - a dogmatically hard work ethic with no reward - and I am resigned into praying for them without conviction.

The season just kicked off, and I'm already zealously awaiting the final whistle.

The Conical Chronicle

Had you waited for me? Would you ever leave without saying goodbye?

Was it fate? I couldn't help but feel we destined to be together when I saw you, resting by that lamp post, perfectly poised yet so very aloof.

I drew closer to you, hoping my tentative steps would not tempt your gaze until I was in range to caress to your delicate exterior. You would not turn towards me; would not avert your gaze from the pavement. I hug you tighter. But it does not quell your beaming sense of indifference.

I ask myself what I could have done to displease you. And the glow of your skin fades as I pull you out of the light.

You had not forgiven me for the previous week.

So I rest you back down, and step back, utterly disheartened.

No cone can love a man.

The blaze orange beneath the lamp post gently weeps unseen tears.

As I retreated back to the security of home after an evening at the George, I walked my girlfriend back to her front door (whom I will visit at work next week, despite her expostulations and claims that I shall feel unenthused at such a place), then proceeded to do the same with Vaishna after a pleasantly lengthy walk down the dual carriageway. It was mere moments after I had left Vaishna that I espied the traffic cone on the island in the road; the same traffic cone I had disturbed the previous week.

The time was roughly 1:30am at this point, and a strange desire, a yearning for adventure began to take me over. It was as though my primitive carnal instincts were rising to the surface in anticipation of a spontaneous substitute to returning home immediately.

Why must the world look on with contempt at such unorthodox love? Why must I be mocked by peers for adoring you so? They may mouth approval and gesture empty symapthies, but their eyes reveal their true emotion; their bafflement, their pity, their conceit.

They do not understand you. But I do. Perhaps not as completely as either of us would want, but more so than the pretenders, with their spurious pleasure towards our affinity. More truth would lie in their reticence.

They are too quick to discern faults and difficulties. And too slow to overlook any. They see precious little of the you that I see; a wild, untamed spirit with whom I bound across roads...

...and bask in the beautiful luminence of artificial light at the most opportune moments.

You tire quickly of stagnation and hurry off into the distance, as carefree as always. Sometimes you cover a great distance, leaving me behind to catch up on my own, and other you maunder in a hesitant manner...

...and stumble on some unfettered rock, which promptly halts your progress. I help you back up again, and in your caprice, off you go once more.

You would never imitate my tendency to perch precariously on fences and walls not intended to be leapt upon...

...or my constant vaulting across objects such as the common car...

...or my wanton need to climb great heights, which shows a palpable disregard for my own wellbeing, and it is now my turn to crumble to the ground...

...as you look on sternly, quite clearly unimpressed by all of my foolish antics. I can blame you not; I have held you up somewhat, but still you tolerate me. And I am thankful.

Unlike me, you do not take the purposeless risks, but rather the calculated risks.

And whilst I once had a problem stalling my rapidity, you reminded me that things are best taken step...
...by step...

...until we reach that beguiling destination a little later than hoped, but solidly intact; decidedly prudent.

We have almost returned when I choose to hold us up once more; this time to unnecessarily flaunt my lasciviousness (since I could simply choose to wait another 2 minutes instead). But I must show my affection sometime, no matter who is around to see.

And then we get back. You stand there, patiently on my front doorstep, expectantly waiting to be allowed in. But I cannot allow this, because in your current form, you are a lowly traffic cone, unworthy of admission into my abode as you would not appreciate my admiration, so I must leave you outside to be ravaged by the cold. But as a symbol, you are always welcome, and I indeed open the doors for your grand entry. For I love you so, as you do me.

I just wanted to remind you in print, my love, how much I cherish you, if it isn't always evident in speech.

Readers, your interpersonal relationships are not existent for scrutiny by others. They are there because they are precious to you. Don't allow yourself to be misguided by the opinions of others if you do not wish to take them seriously. Your life is important to you and you only; lead it as you will.

On The Big Screen

I'm off out to watch a cinema (oh dear, this is what happens when you try to type too quickly)...I'm off out to watch a film at the cinema this evening. The film is called Mesrine, and is about the life of notorious French gangster Jacques Mesrine, who partook in crime sprees across several countries, including his home one, and, at one point, had the effrontery to take a judge hostage. It certainly sounds thrilling, so I'm hoping it lives up to expectations.

Continuing on from the cinematic theme, I thought it would be a good idea to notify of upcoming articles in the format of film showings. Without further ado, I present to you:

TMROADY Cinemas
"Why settle for anything less, you clodpole?"

Now Showing
Screen 1: "Stupid Guides: Ostriches"
Reviews:
Nat Walton, Entertainment Weekly: "Hilariously absurd, and full of whimsy. A masterpiece."
Isabelle Clement, The Times: "Guaranteed to make you laugh. Clever and inspirational."

Screen 2: "Ten Empty Green Bottles"
Reviews:
Harry Atherton, Daily Mail: "Cliché yet shocking. Not a classic, but worth a look."
Natalie Gao, The Independent: "A disappointment on the surface, which manages to save some face with an exhilarating climax. Lacks general expedience."

Upcoming Releases
Screen 3: "Stupid Guides: Chopsticks"
Preview:
The comedy saga continues as foreigners try to adjust to a particular aspect of Chinese culture with amusing results!

Screen 4: "The Diary Entries Of Barnabas Pitt"
Preview:
First in a series; two strangers get acquainted with one another online, unaware of the potential dangerous consequences.

Screen 5: "Blind Man's Bluff"
Preview:
A gang of friends decide to play some poker. But there are some questions about the game that they want answered...

Hugely Anticipated
"Bisexuality: Pink"
Preview:
The long-awaited sequel to "Cardigans" looks set to hit the screens later this month!

"Last Train Home"
Preview:
Documentary. A couple of friends traverse the London Underground, and record their experiences. Release date currently unknown.

Apologies for the blatant self-aggrandizement, but I liked the effect, okay?!
See you all again soon.

Stupid Guides To Very Select Situations: #3- How To Teach Your Ostrich To Speak French

The ostrich. An elusive animal. Capable of many things: running at speeds of up to 45mph, withstanding drastic temperature changes in its environment, breaking into your car and then stealing your radio - without a shadow of a doubt, it is a remarkable creature.

They also look rather fabulous in bowler hats.

But that's nothing compared to what an ostrich can do to you should you ever try harming one of its young. These beasts have the power to kill you with a single kick. Remember that the next time you attempt to sodomize one (with penis or pseudo-penis), and save yourself the excruciating testicular or ovarian pain.

Which is why whenever you've tried teaching your ostrich how to speak French before, you've - more than likely - ended up getting nowhere. The beasts are unwilling to cooperate!

But are you one of that select minority which continues to remain firm in their resolute attempts to win the ostrich people over? If not, stop here, as the stupefying amount of awesome in the following may be too much for you to sustain your usual degree of demure. If so, do read on (not because you're at the nadir of the gene pool and need to have your fecundity obliterated by said ostriches, but because I need a job, and the more of you there are running off to live in the wild with their dearest animal, the better my chances of finding one that pays well).

1) First of all, you'll need feathers. Lots of feathers. If you're planning to connect with your average ostrich, then you sure as shoal are going to have to look like a damn ostrich. Oh, and I regret to inform you that nothing tawdry will work here; you're going to be forking out a serious amount of sterling if you want to look like the real MacKay; ostriches are supremely snobbish, and the slightest whiff of a knock-off will displease them no end.

Good lord, is that fellow wearing imitation ostrich feather? Well, I NEVER!

2) Next, befriend an ostrich. I know, I know, I expect to hear a few grumblings from you about how I'm going to tell you to trek to Africa and that's not particularly what you want to do...WRONG! Many an ostrich can be found on the streets of London, oft hidden in high-end stores, so scour areas such as Knightsbridge and Kensington. Yes, the recession has hit us all, and the ostriches have started to downplay their spendthrift disposition, yet they are fervently rapacious with regards to their love of imported bottled water. So, should you hear a customer ask for "Aquarel" mineral water in John Lewis, chances are you've stumbled across an ostrich incognito.

The incessant squawking may also be a giveaway.

3) Move with them back to the wild. It's true that the ostrich's natural habitat includes some of the aridest regions of the world (see: desert), but you've stocked up on that bottled water I was talking about before, so you'll be fine, won't you?

Idiot.

4) Spend a year in your new ostrich haven, making allies and learning the language. Note: real ostriches speaking half in English, half by screeching out their own names like a real-life Pokemon (they're all called "Sqqquuuuuaaaawwwwwwwwwwwk"). Flap your wings as often as you can to instil a sense of authenticity in your fellow ostriches, but never attempt to leave the ground, as other ostriches may find this suspicious, since the ostrich is a flightless bird. And never, I repeat, NEVER succumb to your basic human instincts by engaging in sexual activities with the birds. Go without, or stick it in a couple of zebras; seriously, what kind of sick freak are you for wanting to do that?!

5) Gain noteriety by assembling a cabal of evil ostriches, remembering to give them each some bad guy names, like "The Gizzard Gurgler" and "Ostreich", and plotting to overthrow the head honcho ostrich. This leader can be difficult to descry, but will usually answer to "King O" or "Big Bird".

Not this "Big Bird", who ruled the ostrich world from 1764-1772, despite being the quintessential drag queen feathered-fiend. And BRIGHT FUCKING YELLOW.

6) Introduce a set of awesome new laws which will allow the rest of the ostrich population to see just how evil your gang of avian rebels really are. Start off small by making it a requisite for everyone to attend "pimp handshake" school, and follow this up by forcing all ostriches to wear designer sunglasses and smoke cigars.

I'm sorry, but I found the notion of posting an image of a smoking ostrich immoral. So here are some getting crushed by short men instead.

7) OH NO! In the midst of keeping up the charade and convincing the ostriches you are actually a bird yourself, you completely forgot to teach yourself French. And you have no bilingual dictionary on your person (since, you know, you're pretending to be an ostrich, and ostriches don't have pockets). You're now stranded in the savannah with nothing but a few ostrich buddies. You just failed.

Double idiot.

But it wouldn't have mattered if you were more French than a...erm, croissant, because as it turns out, there is currently absolutely no way to teach even the most erudite of ostriches how to speak French. Sorry, ornithophiles, but you'll have to settle upon listening to your beloved speak in a cockney accent as opposed to the language of love. A word to the wise; an ostrich that speaks profane English may land you in some unwelcome situations...

Did you just sniff my egg, you son of a bitch?! WELL?!

And there's nothing worse than being in the headlights of a severely pissed-off ostrich.

Ok, maybe that.