Bubble

Is there a better way to kickstart your Boxing Day than with eggs, bacon, sausage and bubble? All washed down with a Bootleg Bucks? Nah, thought not. Team Medd, captained by on-loan striker James, played a blinder in the kitchen this morning with a breakfast/brunch combo that will certainly keep me going till the Number One Son and I spill out of Meadow Lane later this afternoon and make our way to the King Billy for a celebratory beer.

Black & White, and Red All Over

For those of you who are blissfully unaware of Bands FC, I strongly suggest you take a peek and bring yourself up to speed. Bands reimagined as football emblems/badges is an idea so simple, yet is the sort of lightbulb moment we all dream of having.
And with the, quite literally, thousands of both bands and football team to harvest, it's the gift that just keeps on giving.



Their exhibition is coming to town next month so I'll be sure to give it a good coat of looking at. Living in Nottingham we of course have two quality teams plying their trade in the city - Notts County and Notts County Reserves. Just kidding: Nottingham Forest play on one side of the River Trent, County on the other. When Brian Clough was in charge at the City Ground they said he used to walk on the very water that divides them; love him or loathe him, his presence is still felt around these parts.

And to show I have no axe to grind with the Reds, I'll lead with this. Forest rebranded as the Cure. And why would that be, I hear you ask. Quite simple really - it's that song innit?

And who else but Sleaford Mods could they have got for the County gig? I first wrote about them back in October 2014 and championed the excellent Tied Up In Nottz (you c*nt). And it still sounds every bit as powerful now as it did then.

Group hug?

Fans of Notts County don't see a lot of good times. It's mainly thin, not much thick. If it wasn't for the self deprecating humour of the fans there would be a lot of jumpers throwing themselves off Trent Bridge right now.

I've never been a fan of the pre-match huddle; as the wag who sat a couple of seats from the Number One Son last Saturday said - 'You've had ALL week.' Precisely. And now the manager says he's baffled as to where it's all gone wrong this season. He's baffled? What does he do all week?

In addition to the legendary Wheelbarrow Song The Kop now sing 'The football league is upside down' to the tune of When the Saints. Priceless.

I think it's time to lose the group hug.

Lions, Peacocks and Magpies

Charlie Resnick's Nottingham

I lived in Nottingham for twenty five years and frequented many of the same haunts as Charlie Resnick: The Peacock on Mansfield Road was the perfect oasis for a pint and a gleg of the Evening Post and, like Resnick, I acquired many of my jazz records from The Music Inn tucked away in The West End Arcade. If I was hooking up with friends in town it was de rigeuer to meet them in Slab Square by the Left Lion (never the right) and every other Saturday during the football season you'd find me down the Lane: Meadow Lane, home to Charlie's team, Notts County (The Magpies). Other salubrious venues where our paths might have crossed would have included the Arboretum, Bentinck Hotel, Warsaw Diner, Victoria Market, Golden Fleece and The Bell.

But, of course, our paths never did cross. That's because Charlie Resnick never really existed. Well, he existed in my head. And in his creator's head, John Harvey. The reason for this sudden bout of melancholia is, in part, down to having just finished Cold In Hand the last in the Resnick canon - going back as it does to the late 80s. Charlie loved, in no particular order, jazz, sandwiches, cats, beer and Notts County. Ditto that. However, this surge of nostalgia may just be because a small part of me, every now and then, wishes I was back there. Charlie Resnick may not miss me. But I'm as sure as hell going to miss him.

Not a Kidd anymore

Football on a Sunday afternoon still doesn't feel right; then again having the FA Cup sponsored by a German energy service provider doesn't sit right with me either. But in the same way I felt obliged to make the short journey from my house to Meadow Lane every other Saturday when I lived in Nottingham, I now feel equally compelled to turn on the TV every time Notts County have the cameras trained on them. Yesterday's 4th Round replay against Man City was, depending on which paper you read, David v Goliath or the paupers up against the millionaires. I won't bore you with the match details (Adrian Chiles and his ITV cohorts did plenty of that with their humourless quips and lazy research), suffice it to say that if you'd had a tenner on Man City thumping us 5-0 the drinks would have been on you last night.

But as good as the game was (and it was, the scoreline really did flatter the foreigners) the reason for this post is not to bitch about the result. Nor is it to wonder what possesses grown men to wear snoods: I'll leave that to people who are far more qualified than me. No, this little offering concerns Manchester City's No.2 - when the third goal went in and the Notts faithful were praying for a miracle, my thoughts turned to Brian Kidd.

Any seasoned campaigner will know Brian Kidd's track record. He was a hero at Old Trafford between 1963 and 1974 (including winning the European Cup on his 19th birthday) and then went on to further playing success at Arsenal, Manchester City and Everton before playing exhibition soccer in the States with Fort Lauderdale Strikers in the 80s. His return to Blighty has seen him coach and manage numerous clubs, most memorably his stint as the switch on Alex Ferguson's hairdryer (1991-1997).

Even his illustrious past, however, is not the reason I was thinking about Mr Kidd. Watching him on the bench (which at Eastlands means individual Parker Knoll recliners) I could only think that he must have a picture of Dorian Gray in his attic: the man never seems to get any older. Time, and the ageing process, seems to have stood still for Brian Kidd. Maybe he uses the same moisturiser as Cliff Richard. Maybe he goes into stasis every night. Or maybe he has sold his soul to The Devil.