Thirsty!

Watching Lawrence of Arabia many people particularly remember the scene where Peter O'Toole rides back into the worst desert in the world, rescues the poor Arab who fell off his camel (they never explain how he failed to wake up when he hit the ground!), and rides back to the astonishment of his Arab friends. Very entertaining since most of us have never been lost in a desert or so thirsty that we were about to die. Most of us.

Kids do crazy things. Some of the crazy things we did as kids make me wonder how I ever made it to adulthood. Particularly, we liked to “play” in the man-made limestone caves left behind after mining operations had moved on to another, newer part of the mine. Check out:

http://www.examiner.net/stories/102106/new_102106019.shtml

For some reason this was a popular past-time in the summer. Probably because it was very cool in the mine – compared to the 90 degrees plus outside. So, off we would go. We weren't completely stupid – just mostly, so we would take acetylene lamps for light. Once you were in the mine they were essential as there was no light. I mean no light as in no “hand in front of your face” light! The lamps were essential, but had only a limited life-span. The key point was that mining operations were still going on. Therefore, large trucks were constantly going through the mine and loading up with limestone before making their way back. It was imperative that the truck divers did not see you. Even though we were stupid – we knew we weren't supposed to be playing in a mine. The danger, as we foolishly perceived it, was that we would be “discovered” in the mine by the workers and get into trouble.

Of course, we were too clever for this. Timing our entrance to the mine so that we would be well inside before the next truck appeared was not difficult. They ran in about ten minute cycles. Having got in we were free to wander around the disused portion of the mine with only the rumble of the distant trucks to disturb the tranquility. For some unknown reason we did not even see this as particularly dangerous. Our only concern was not to get caught by the mine workers. It was easy to get lost. After you left the well- traveled road the trucks used, the rest of the mine looked exactly like every other part. Good thing we had our lights as after wandering about for a while we would eventually get bored and want to get out. The key was being able to establish by hearing alone the direction the trucks were coming from. Then we could follow the sound to the road and make our way out of the mine in the gap between trucks. Challenging, but not too difficult.

Inevitably, one day we got well and truly lost. And, as luck would have it, we were short of the calcium carbide pellets essential to power the acetylene lamps. When the lights failed we would have to wander about in the pitch dark until we could locate the trucks by hearing only. If we did get close enough, we would see their headlights – if not we were stuck. I don't think we panicked. We should have, but we didn't. Some confusion was caused when some thought the sound of the trucks was coming from the left – and others from the right. It took a long time but (as you may well guess otherwise I would not be writing this now!) eventually we spotted a truck, homed in on its headlamps and found the road. Still dodging the trucks at ten minute intervals we made it to the entrance and got out. Maybe by then we were scared enough to realise the stupidity of our actions.

What I remember most is being thirsty. Very thirsty. More thirsty than I have ever been. We walked down the road looking for somewhere to get a drink. Any drink. Eventually we found a small store and bought an RC Cola with the only money we had. Never has a drink tasted so good – even though we had to share it and were still very thirsty when it was gone.

I don't think we ever went back into the mine. Evolutionarily speaking we were winners. I'm sure some kids have died in very similar circumstances. The Arabian camel rescue courtesy of T.E. Lawrence still makes me cringe.

Bovinaphobia

What are those cows up to?

An old man of Swaffham is in hospital after being trampled by a herd of cattle. The herd was apparently spooked by the sound of gunfire and bolted in the direction of the 87 year old who couldn't get out of the way. He has not been named.

This is no joking matter, but I fear not many 87 year-olds could outrun a load of fairly pacey cows. I wish the un-named victim well and hope he makes a speedy recovery.

I must confess, I have some experience with cattle. See my blog of 16 March at http://www.malkauffman.blogspot.com/ if you are not convinced.

I mention this because it is amazing how many young people have no experience of farm animals or any concept of their how the animals live or the part they play in providing us with food and other useful products. Ask most children where beefburgers come from and they will say, “Macdonalds”. It is only in the last 50 – 100 years that most societies in the Western World have divorced themselves from the rearing and subsequent slaughter of the domesticated animals which so deliciously provide us with Sunday lunch. One unplanned consequence of this has been the total ignorance of a majority of the population as to how food, in particular meat, is produced.

Many children are frightened of cattle. This is not surprising when you stop to think about it. Most children only see cattle standing in fields – large fields. Large cattle. They are big. They look stupid. Therefore, they may be dangerous. It's a bit like seeing an unknown, large and stupid man in the pub. He's probably a jovial giant, but most of us steer (pardon the pun) clear just to be on the safe side. So, a child's “fear” of cows is not entirely unjustified – given today's divorce from the natural world.

I am reminded of George Orwell's comment about how he got the idea for Animal Farm. George, who was living on a farm in Oxfordshire at the time, saw a a small lad leading an enormous cart horse along a cart path. He speculated that if only the horse was aware of its size and power the lad would have no chance of controlling it. The rest, as they say, is history – though Orwell's real genius was in making the horse the stupidest animal on the farm – despite what horse-lovers choose to believe, this is manifestly true.

Most people in the 1930's would have recognised that cows and horses are not inherently dangerous because they have been thoroughly domesticated. They are large animals and if they should, for example, fall on you or step on you it would hurt. Fortunately, they do not “attack” humans by choice. Why should they? Because we feed and protect them their numbers are vastly inflated over what evolution and Mother Nature intended. In evolutionary terms the cows are winning. The price they pay is many of their genus are slaughtered to provide us with food. Still, there are millions more of them than would normally be expected to survive in the wild.

The idea that cattle might take umbrage at this “travesty” is, of course, suicidally nonsensical. They may as well complain to their MP about the quality of their feed.

That's why Mr 87 year old-timer being trampled by a herd of rampaging cows is news – just as man bites dog is bound to make the papers. This does not diminish his pain and suffering, but it does support the mistaken idea in many children's brains that cows and other farm animals are dangerous. This is silly. Children should be educated by having, if possible, opportunities to visit farms and abattoirs to form an opinion of their own. Bet we'd get a lot more veggies!

Veiled Threat?

Muslim - British Relations

Most of our politicians are missing the point in the debate about Islamic dress codes. As more and more prominent figures jump on an (apparently) anti-Islamic bandwagon, more and more seem to be taking a mistaken and possibly dangerous view. By refusing to put the debate into a proper historical context, leaders are mis-leading the British public, of Christian, Muslim or other faiths.

What's missing? Any analysis of Muslim integration into society must take into account the experiences of previous generations of immigrants. This is not being done. A useful contrast would be Afro-Caribbean immigration in the 1950's and 60's. Blacks who came to do the jobs whites wouldn't in the 60's soon ended up in ghettos. They replaced the earlier immigrants (Jews, Eastern Europeans) as the residents of our inner cities. Those original immigrants kept their colourful language, their culture and their sense of being outsiders. Their children and their children's children have not. Young black people in Britain today have many problems to overcome. They suffer from poor housing, poor educational opportunities and racism. They are still mostly ghetto-ized in our largest cities. They have, quite rightly, kept some of the elements of their native culture.

Yet, there is no debate regarding black hoodies. Are they a separatist movement? Should schools ban black idioms in speech? Should young blacks be forced into accepting main-steam British culture and be made to abandon their cultural heritage? Emphatically no!

There is no real debate on the above. Quite rightly. Because, most sensible people recognise that it is quite possible to integrate into society while retaining and celebrating elements of your original culture. Quite right. Young blacks in Britain may be of a different skin colour, have different speech patterns and noisily celebrate their cultural differences – what they don't do is retreat into a facsimile of their parents culture and refuse to interact with the rest of us.

Some young Muslims, apparently, do. Instead of looking for areas of common heritage, some young Muslims (who, by now, should be fully integrated into society) are going out of their way to emphasize their differences – instead of celebrating their common values.

This is very dangerous. At a time when differences should be becoming less important, some Muslims seem intent on making sure they remain. The outward, and very visible sign, of this is the “retreat” into Muslim dress by second or third generation Muslim Britons. At the very time you would expect young Muslims to be celebrating their integration into main-steam British society and values, the very opposite seems to be happening.

The debate is not about the right to dress however you wish. That is not the question. The debate should be about why you would want to dress in a way that sets yourself apart from the rest of the citizens. I expect to see white, British, non-Muslim women (say TV reporters) dressing appropriately if they are reporting from a Muslim country. This shows respect for the Muslim culture.

We could use some reciprocal respect from Muslim women in the UK. They have a perfect right to dress as they wish. They should wish to dress as others in their country do. If they don't – we should find out why? Fast.

Dr Pepper, Macdonalds and Rugby

Missed Opportunities

In life I have missed out on so many opportunities it makes me want to cry!

I like Dr Pepper. Always have. Given a choice I would choose a Dr Pepper over any soft drink. Always did. When I first moved to England there was no Dr Pepper. None. None, as in rarer than an aromatic anal digestive discharge. I was not amused. I wrote to the Dr Pepper Co. of Dallas, Texas in 1976 and politely asked if they had any plans to export my favourite drink to the UK. Their response? Not on your nelly.

What I should have done, of course, was borrow millions from a trusting bank in order to bankroll the importation of Dr Pepper. I would be living in a large house today and worrying about how to minimise my children's exposure to crippling inheritance taxes.

Within fifteen years Dr Pepper was available in every store and petrol station and was selling in the millions. I never even got a belated thank you from the Dr Pepper moguls for pointing them in the direction of vast profits.

The ubiquitous “Super-Size-Me” fast food chain that is Macdonalds is a similar story. In the early 70's fast food in Britain consisted of fish and chips and Wimpy. Both may still be with us but have been transformed by the might of corporate burger greed.

Wimpy was very odd. It was possible to get take-away burgers and chips – but they were exorbitantly expensive and distinctly unappetising. Mostly you sat in a very unwelcoming, small “greasy-spoon” and ate your choice of burger (there were only two choices as I remember, Wimpy or Wimpy with onions) from a plate with a knife and fork.

I distinctly remember suggesting that (surely) you could sell fast food hamburgers in the UK. I was laughed at. Ridiculed. Patient English “wise-achers” gave me pitying explanations (as if I were a small child in need of redemption) that it would be impossible to get the English to eat without a knife and fork. Could not be done. More chance of Maggie Thatcher being found in flagrante delicto with “Red” Ken Livingstone in the back of a Hillman Imp.

Stupidly I listened and the rest, as they say, is history. History would have judged me to be far-sighted, and (incidentally) very rich, had I sold the family silver and bought a Macdonalds franchise.

It is against this background that I read in the Sunday paper about a plan to make rugby both popular and competitive in the U.S.A. Some wise and rich man, whose name escapes me, has decided to set up a professional rugby league in the U.S. For players, he proposes to recruit some of the thousands of college American football players who have no chance of making it in the NFL.

Needless to say, I had this idea first! And, just like the others, did nothing about it. There is a pool of very fit, very fast, very athletic, and very large players in America just waiting to be tapped in to. College footballers could easily pick up the skills required to adapt to the rugby code. Current plan is to bolster the U.S. Eagles Rugby Union team. Perhaps a better plan would be to tackle Rugby League first. The learning curve is less and the sport calls for all-rounders rather than props who can scrummage and line-out jumpers who can soar. From there it would be a short step to Rugby Union.

This would have the added benefit of redeeming my long-lost faith in the importation of world-beating products from America. The Rugby League world would be conquered in less than five years. Max for Union? Less than ten.

You heard it here first!

Neanderthal Cojones

Scientists researching the DNA of another human species (if indeed it was one) Homo Neanderthalensis – or Neanderthal Man as he is better known – are in danger of muddying the already murky waters of human evolution.

Countless reports from reputable scientists tell us that there is no trace of Neanderthal DNA in the genome of modern humans. Anyone with an IQ three points higher than whale manure should be able to see that this must be nonsense. If you think modern man wouldn't jump on a Neanderthal woman - check out the city centre any Saturday night!

From the Sunday Times:

The jaw (of a Neanderthal), discovered at Kent’s Cavern, a complex of caves near Torquay, in 1927, was assumed to be that of a modern human. Initial radio-carbon dating suggested it was about 31,000 years old, putting it among the first modern humans to arrive in Britain.

However, new evidence suggests the jaw is at least 4,000 years older than that — and that it could be that of a Neanderthal. Archeologists say the fossil could yield vital information on how early humans spread across Britain and Europe in that period.

Fine. Except that this report makes no logical sense. The scientists (and I use the term loosely) would have us believe that they have had a specimen, which they were sure was a modern human, hanging around since 1927 – but have now seen the error of their ways and have “discovered” that it's really older and from a Neanderthal. Since they couldn't even get this simple bit of identification correct, why must we believe that there was no interbreeding between early modern man and Neanderthals? Just look around you. There are plenty of Neanderthal-types wandering the streets of our fair cities today. Many of them get arrested for public order offenses on a Saturday night. I used to work with an Irishman who was a modern Neanderthal – short, stocky, large nose, bulky arms and legs. Nobody is going to convince me that no Neanderthal DNA made it to modern times

From the same article:

Its aim is to draw up a chronological sequence for the arrival and spread of humans in Britain. It has made some spectacular finds, including evidence that dated the arrival of early humans in Britain to 700,000 years ago, 200,000 years earlier than had been thought. It also found that massive changes in climate drove human inhabitants out of Britain many times over.

Massive climate change? Heard that one before? Check out my blog of 12 September, Sandstone and Woolly Mammoths!

Sorry, I digress.

So, if the scientists can not readily identify such an obvious thing as DNA from another, albeit human, species; why are we so eager to send people to prison, or worse, on the basis of DNA evidence? Case after case of people being convicted using nothing but their own (purported) DNA for evidence litters the legal system. It's a modern litany. The Cold Case Scenario rules! People are going to jail all the time with nothing but “expert” DNA evidence to thank for their conviction. It's a travesty. What's worse, it's sloppy science. The problems which may arise from trying to extract Neanderthal DNA are exactly the same as extracting and processing modern DNA. That bit, unfortunately, you never hear about. Picking up a scrap of clothing from a murder victim 40 years ago and extracting a DNA sample is functionally the same as getting the sample from a long-deceased human – be he Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon. The only difference is the time scale.

People should not be convicted on the basis of DNA evidence alone. Let's stop it now, before it's you doing 20 to life.

Dangerous Dogs

Caydee-Lee

The death of any child is a tragedy. It is a particular tragedy for the parents and other family members, though the public can often be moved, quite rightly, to empathy.

Lee Burchell and his girlfriend Amy were looking after a pub, The Rocket, in Leicester and their daughter is dead. It's difficult not to feel distraught for them.

The Times reported: Neighbours said that the Glaze’s dogs, Bess and Bruno, were a familiar sight, prowling the roof of the building to discourage burglars.

One mother, Amy Grimbley, said: “Most adults are terrified of them, never mind kids. I’ve got a three-year-old and I don’t feel at all safe walking past them.

“The dogs are known to be vicious. They are guard dogs. They stay on the roof during the day and whenever you walk past you get the feeling they could just jump down and attack you.

“They are very aggressive. Everybody around here is petrified of them. The dogs were never allowed in the pub; they were kept upstairs in the living quarters.”

Please don't bomb my house or attack me in the street, but I'm more upset at the parents and relations of the dead baby than I am with the dogs. These were clearly dangerous guard dogs, trained to guard and attack. What were they doing in a pub in Leicester? Is Leicester a third-world enclave in the East Midlands where vicious guard dogs are necessary to protect the local boozer from roaming gangs of Taliban? And, if, as it seems apparent, the dogs were known to be dangerous; why did the parents of Caydee-Lee even bring the baby into the pub?

It is, of course, easy to be wise after the event. I've no doubt that her parents are suffering everyday with the remorse of not seeing the danger and doing something about it. I've no doubt they will suffer for the rest of their lives. I only wish the media would focus on the real issue.

Apparently, because they were on private property, the dogs were not subject to the Dangerous Dogs Act of 1991. This only applies to dogs in public places. What a crazy piece of legislation. I'm sure the public thought that the Dangerous Dogs Act was there to prevent attacks by dogs. Now we know this is simply not the case. Keeping vicious dogs in your home, pub, or place of business is fine and if they attack someone, well, so what.

It would seem to be little compensation to Caydee-Lee's parents to know that the dogs were being kept perfectly legally. Better compensation might be found in the sensible application of a Dogs' Act – which might prevent property owners from insisting that a grotty pub in Leicester needs the same level of protection from intruders as Fort Knox.

So, who is ultimately responsible? As harsh and uncaring as it may seem, it is the pub owners. Those dogs should not have been in the pub. The owners should have placed them in kennels whilst on holiday. I conclude that, tragically, in an attempt to secure their pathetic premises, the owners, the grandparents of Caydee-Lee, have contributed to her tragic death. I pity them.

Why the Super-Chavs of Leicester should be allowed to name an innocent baby Caydee-Lee is altogether another matter.

Dangerous Dogs

The death of any child is a tragedy. It is a particular tragedy for the parents and other family members, though the public can often be moved, quite rightly, to empathy.

Lee Burchell and his girlfriend Amy were looking after a pub, The Rocket, in Leicester and their daughter is dead. It's difficult not to feel distraught for them.

The Times reported: Neighbours said that the Glaze’s dogs, Bess and Bruno, were a familiar sight, prowling the roof of the building to discourage burglars.

One mother, Amy Grimbley, said: “Most adults are terrified of them, never mind kids. I’ve got a three-year-old and I don’t feel at all safe walking past them.

“The dogs are known to be vicious. They are guard dogs. They stay on the roof during the day and whenever you walk past you get the feeling they could just jump down and attack you.

“They are very aggressive. Everybody around here is petrified of them. The dogs were never allowed in the pub; they were kept upstairs in the living quarters.”

Please don't bomb my house or attack me in the street, but I'm more upset at the parents and relations of the dead baby than I am with the dogs. These were clearly dangerous guard dogs, trained to guard and attack. What were they doing in a pub in Leicester? Is Leicester a third-world enclave in the East Midlands where vicious guard dogs are necessary to protect the local boozer from roaming gangs of Taliban? And, if, as it seems apparent, the dogs were known to be dangerous; why did the parents of Caydee-Lee even bring the baby into the pub?

It is, of course, easy to be wise after the event. I've no doubt that her parents are suffering everyday with the remorse of not seeing the danger and doing something about it. I've no doubt they will suffer for the rest of their lives. I only wish the media would focus on the real issue.

Apparently, because they were on private property, the dogs were not subject to the Dangerous Dogs Act of 1991. This only applies to dogs in public places. What a crazy piece of legislation. I'm sure the public thought that the Dangerous Dogs Act was there to prevent attacks by dogs. Now we know this is simply not the case. Keeping vicious dogs in your home, pub, or place of business is fine and if they attack someone, well, so what.

It would seem to be little compensation to Caydee-Lee's parents to know that the dogs were being kept perfectly legally. Better compensation might be found in the sensible application of a Dogs' Act – which might prevent property owners from insisting that a grotty pub in Leicester needs the same level of protection from intruders as Fort Knox.

So, who is ultimately responsible? As harsh and uncaring as it may seem, it is the pub owners. Those dogs should not have been in the pub. The owners should have placed them in kennels whilst on holiday. I conclude that, tragically, in an attempt to secure their pathetic premises, the owners, the grandparents of Caydee-Lee, have contributed to her tragic death. I pity them.

Why the Super-Chavs of Leicester should be allowed to name an innocent baby Caydee-Lee is altogether another matter.

More Male, More Risks

Reading in the paper the other day that the male gene may disappear one day – outlived its usefulness. Could happen, I suppose. Don't hold your breath!

Article was expostulating that because males are prone to risk-taking being male is a risky business and, therefore, not a good strategy for long-term survival. Possibly the article is correct, but we will have to wait a few million years to find out.

It is true that males take more risks. It's in their genetic make-up . And, when you stop to think about it – it makes good genetic sense. Males need to take risks to provide for their families. Exactly the same today as it was 20 thousand years ago – only the risks today are in the boardroom - not the backwoods. Being a man means you trade off the comfortable (genetically speaking) life of a child-bearer for the uncertainty of attracting a mate and keeping her – a risky business. Putting it bluntly: women always know that the child they bear is genetically theirs; men are never 100% sure. That's the facts boys – get used to it.

So, in order to maximize their chances of passing their genes on to the next generation, men take risks to attract and keep a mate – and to provide food and shelter for their mate and their offspring as part of the bargain. I know this doesn't sound very romantic – but then again it probably worked for 1000 generations before anyone “invented” love and relationships, so maybe it has got something going for it!

As men we like to think that we do the choosing when it comes to picking a mate. Wrong. Women do the choosing and the criteria they use hasn't changed much in a very long time. They want a man who will provide for them and stick around! No good fathering children all over the place and abandoning them. Well, no good for women – great idea if you are a man and can get away with it!! Women need men who will stay around and provide. And provide. And provide some more! So, sorry, no commitment – no sex and no children. Simple plan – and it works.

Men pay the price. Because they take risks to attract a mate and risks to provide food and shelter, they may lose everything. They may be gone before they reproduce. That's the trade-off. Men are genetically programmed to take risks. As a way of compensating, mother nature provides about 105 males for every females born.

Don't believe me? Check out: http://www.sixwise.com/newsletters/05/06/22/why_are_more_boys_than_girls_being_born.htm

Globally, there are about 105 – 107 boys born for every 100 girls. And, in the highest sex birth ratio in the United States, which occurred in 1946, there were 105.9 boys born per 100 girls: at the lowest sex birth ratio (in 2001), there were 104.6 boys born per 100 girls. There were 104.8 boys born in 2000 for every 100 girls. Statistically, 1946 was a good year for the boys!

Now, this is interesting. Did mother nature realize in 1946 that a World War had just ended and more men were going to be needed to replace the ones who died in the war? Could the same thing have happened in 1919-20? Could the intervening 50 years of peace after 1946 have fooled Mother Nature into a false sense of security and account for the fall in the number of boys born? Sounds an interesting research problem to me!

Statistically, by about the age of five the numbers even out. Being a boy has risks. Male babies are not as likely to survive infancy as females. They are more susceptible to childhood diseases.

So, next time your young son is found climbing a tree and dangling from a high branch – don't shout too loud. You may frighten him and he may fall – taking your genes with him – and he may just be following a risky biological program which is beyond his power to add or detract.

Sandstone and Woolly Mammoths

It's almost impossible to pick up a newspaper or watch TV now-a-days without being accosted by some commentator or “expert” giving their alarmist views on climate change. It's good, of course, to bring to the public's attention legitimate areas of concern, but I'm not convinced by the arguments and there is functionally no debate on the scientific merits of climate change. The only debate “allowed” seems to be how much the climate is changing and how fast. That's it.

What is not in dispute is that the climate of the Earth has changed many, many time in the past. Changed - and changed dramatically. Evidence of early humans being driven out of the British Isles by shifting climate has recently been in the news. Our ancestors were here – left – came back – got cold and left again – etc. Some of these climate swings took place in relatively short periods of time – say 50 to 100 years. This occurred long before the advent of burning fossil fuels to power the industrial revolution. The truth is climate changes are a regular occurrence and a natural phenomenon. The problem is: climate change has become an industry and the intellectual property of some scientists who really ought to know better.

For example, consider the Woolly Mammoth. Some of these large herbivores have been found, preserved and frozen almost intact, in Siberia and Alaska. Many people wrongly see these creatures as being adapted to the cold climate of the northern latitudes. This is plainly nonsense. Anatomically the mammoth is very similar to the elephant. They require large amounts of vegetation to survive – in a cold climate they would need even more. The only sensible solution to the woolly mammoth “problem” is to assume they lived in a temperate or savanna type climate. Something very dramatic happened to the world's climate when the mammoth became extinct. And, it happened very quickly. Proponents of rapid climate change would do well to investigate the demise of the woolly mammoth. Their disappearance is recent evidence of rapid and dramatic climate change – and no fossil fuels were involved.

Where do fossil fuels come from? Our gas, oil and coal reserves are the carbon-based remains of plants and animals that lived millions of years ago. Some people seem to think that we “make” greenhouse gases. We do not. Nature makes them. We are simply returning to the atmosphere the carbon that was removed from it many years ago. We are not “making” greenhouse gases and it is nonsense to present the arguments in this way.

Where does sandstone come from? Sandstone is one of the most widely used materials for building. Layers of this rock were laid down during hot, dry periods in Earth's history – sometimes over millions of years. For millions of years the “normal” climate of the Earth was very much hotter than it is now. This is not disputed. Check out this web page for some interesting facts about the Earth's climate:

http://www.clearlight.com/~mhieb/WVFossils/Carboniferous_climate.html

Perhaps the most interesting part of this web page tell us that:

Average global temperatures in the Early Carboniferous Period were hot- approximately 22° C (72° F). However, cooling during the Middle Carboniferous reduced average global temperatures to about 12° C (54° F). As shown on the chart below, this is comparable to the average global temperature on Earth today!

Similarly, atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide (CO2) in the Early Carboniferous Period were approximately 1500 ppm (parts per million), but by the Middle Carboniferous had declined to about 350 ppm -- comparable to average CO2 concentrations today!

Earth's atmosphere today contains about 370 ppm CO2 (0.037%). Compared to former geologic times, our present atmosphere, like the Late Carboniferous atmosphere, is CO2- impoverished! In the last 600 million years of Earth's history only the Carboniferous Period and our present age, the Quaternary Period, have witnessed CO2 levels less than 400 ppm

Better read this again!! None of the commentators so concerned by “Global Warming” ever mention this!!

Conclusion: Climate change is part of the natural cycle of the Earth. Man's activities in burning fossil fuels are undoubtedly having some influence on the rising level of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, but present levels are historically low. It is a myth that rapid climate change has never occurred before. It has – and may well do so again.

In my opinion, we should be devoting just as much time, effort and money to combating population explosion and developing new sources of energy – chiefly fusion as pursuing “pie-in-the-sky” “Green “solutions to a problem we only understand imperfectly.

Wrong Way, Corrigan!!

East Dereham is a strange place. It is quite close to the Twilight Zone – but, incidentally, nowhere near West Dereham! No matter how many times I go to Dereham – I always have an uneasy feeling that I'm just about to get lost. It is very odd and very disconcerting.

Good to know that I'm not alone. Lots of people seem to have problems going the correct way on the A 47 near Dereham. Road was closed again this week as the Norfolk Constabulary vainly attempted to put right the chaos caused by someone merrily driving to their doom on the Swaffham bound carriageway – but going to Norwich. Wrong way, Corrigan!

Why does this happen so often in or near Dereham? Since you ask, I'll tell you. The road network around Dereham is the most poorly designed, ill-conceived nightmare ever constructed in the Western hemisphere. It's that simple. It's no wonder all except the locals find it difficult to drive to Norwich without killing themselves – or others. For example – as you wander around the Dereham one-way system near the town centre – vainly trying to follow the carefully misdirected signs to Norwich A 47 – eventually you reach the east end of town and are (seemingly) directed to turn left into an industrial estate in order to join the main road. Not surprisingly, this seems odd to anyone who does not live in Dereham – or have six fingers. I have driven past this sign many times secure in the belief that this cannot be the turning. It is. (Don't believe me – go to Dereham, if you dare, and look for yourself).

Going the other way is just as bad – but of a different style. Getting off the A 47 you find yourself on the slip road. It is a travesty. It is the shortest slip road in England and has the sharpest radii turn outside of Brands Hatch. I'd love to see the stats on how many accidents there are on this wonder of the road builders art. Think I'm exaggerating: log on to:

http://www.knowhere.co.uk/521_goodbad.html

Here you will find useful info about Dereham – such as the best description of Dereham I have ever seen – Dereham, a cemetery with lights. And, Dereham: The one-way system, you kinda get swept along, like a little fish in a river.

Enough about Dereham. The other really disconcerting and obtuse journey is from Gt Finborough in Suffolk to RAF Wattisham – a distance of about 10 miles. Now, this will make your blood run cold and possibly turn your eyeballs to ice-balls. If you leave Finborough School and turn left you go through Stowmarket and Needham Market and get to Wattisham. I f you turn right you go through the villages of Finborough and Hitcham and Bildeston and still end up at Wattisham? How odd is that? Typical Suffolk if you ask me. There is another more direct way to get there, but it is so confusing that I can not do it. Lest you begin to think I am just a little backward when it comes to navigating – I assure you that this is not the case. I'm very good. It's Dereham and Finborough that are the problem. Try them. You'll agree.

Football versus Cricket

Beefy, Baldy and Dennis

In the week where the England football team managed to overcome the might of Andorra – population 26 plus lots and lots of sheep; it only remains for your commentator to stress the stupidity of the football authorities – once again.

Every chance I get I continue to complain about how crazy the organization of football has become. Just occasionally I can get someone to listen and sometimes agree. This week the whole of the football season has to be put on hold (thereby dragging it interminably on and on) so that England can play the sheep-herders and then march gaily on to the bandit country of Macedonia – another football powerhouse. Result? A wasted week removed from the football calendar just as the season is getting underway. Crazy.

What is needed is a two-tier system so that the smaller nations of Europe can have a meaningful competition among themselves and the top teams are not endanger of a coma induced by jet lag or their top international players of being injured playing the Macedonian equivalent of Vinny Jones. Sensible? You bet. Possible? Not likely.

Picking up my EDP yesterday I also noticed that the FA Cup had reached its “preliminary round stage”. Unfortunately for Stowmarket they crashed out 0-2 to Dereham Town in front of 67 of the faithful. Ah – the romance of the Cup. What nonsense! I'm only amazed that 67 Suffolk morons could be tempted into the ground. Perhaps they had all been sucking too much red diesel from the tanks?

How we all love a giant-killing! I'm not sure Dereham overcoming Stowmarket quite qualifies, but it must be close. Surely? Not a chance. What makes it all the more crass and idiotic is that the non-league teams have a competition of their own – the FA Vase. If the Cup was organized on egalitarian lines I might see some sense in it. Imagine if Man Utd were forced to play in every round, not get a bye through to the the third round proper? Dereham Town v. Manchester United – now that's a fixture that would really put meaning into the “romance of the cup”. Likely? Not likely. The FA Cup operates exactly how I'm suggesting the European Cup should do. The big clubs don't have to play until the later rounds. Why not have one cup for the “big boys” and one for the small fry – with promotion and relegation – rather like the Davis Cup? Too sensible.

Conversely, either all clubs should be forced to play all rounds of the FA Cup or only the top 150 clubs in England should be entered. Result? Meaningless fixtures eliminated and the football calendar reduced by weeks. Sensible? You bet.

Which brings us neatly to the title of this post. Beefy is, of course, none other than Ian Botham – a Scunthorpe United player when not engaged in thrashing the Aussies. Baldy, affectionately named, Chris Balderstone who played cricket for Leicestershire and Doncaster Rovers and Carlisle United – among others and Dennis, the incomparable Dennis Compton who played for England and Arsenal in the 1950's.

Impossible to do now-a-days even if you had the talent. Why? Because the football season is now so long that it would be impossible to fit any cricket in. Result? All sports are steam-rollered by the football juggernaut and become marginalised. My solution to bring some respectability to the UK Olympic team for the London Games? Ban football in the two years previous.

Grokle Mania I

Radio (and Rodeo) Norfolk Presenter, Royston (Mr Norwich City Apologist) Waller:

Today our outside broadcast is coming from Wroxham in the heart of the Norfolk Broads as we get live reports on the progress the very first Grokle Mania event. Our first report comes live from Wroxham Bridge where Nobby Dinkling brings us up to date with the Grockle Bridge Ducking Event. Nobby?

Nobby Dinkling:

Yes, Roy the excitement here is really building up as we wait for the first competitor to reach the bridge and attempt to pass through unscathyed. Just coming into sight now is our first bridge ducker, piloting the aptly named Scouse Sea-Shifter, Little Stevie Scousegit, accompanied by his lovely wife Sally Scousegit. As they approach the bridge, a crowd of locals are gathering on the Wroxham Millenium footbridge to see if Little Stevie can (or indeed will) safely negotiate the first hurdle in what should prove a strength-sapping contest. I think by hanging the microphone over the bridge we may be able to get a word with the Scousegit. Stevie, can we have your thoughts as you approach this first event:

Stevie Scousegit:

'Ow am ay supposed ter get this boat under dat bridge.?

Nobby:

Well, it looks like Stevie isn't feeling too confident, but let's see how he gets on. Uh oh, looks like the Scouser has made the most elementary of mistakes. He's only gone and left his TV aerial up. Look out, Stevie! Too late. It's gone and the crowd of locals on the bridge are killing themselves laughing!

Stevie:

Bloody 'ell! Oo put dat thuz?

Nobby:

That's all we have from Wroxham Bridge – back to Roy in the studio.

Roy:

Well, who'd a thought it. Scousegit scuppered at the first hurdle. That's almost as unexpected as Norwich City signing a new player. Next we join our reporter, Sally Chinzoid, in the aisles at Roys Supermarket for the Grokle Mania shopping-stopping competition. Sally?

Sally Chinzoid:

Thanks Roy. We're here at Roys to see if our competitors can negotiate this tricky course and make it to the check-out. First to try will be Barry Ilkley Moor Bar T'at and his lovely wife Shelia, accompanied by their delightful children Little Bazzer and Stacy. First a word with Barry. Looking forward to this event, Barry?

Barry:

Waz tha' ewe say? EE were lookin at the Cheerios. Oi, look Shelia, they sell Cheerios in Norfolk, just like at home!

Shelia:

Get awa' wi' ya!

Barry:

Ere gill, sling ur trolley next to mine and clog up th' aisle so's Eye ken get a better look t'other side.

Sally:

Yep these Yorkshire folk will be hard to beat. They've already got the real local shoppers blocked out while they look stupidly at the tin goods and drool a bit down their chins. Nice touch that. Back to you in the studio, Roy.

Roy:

Thanks, Sally. Finally, for our last event we go straight to Roys car park for the Grockle Car Dodging. Our reporter there is local celeb, Wurzel Gumboots. Wurzle?

Wurzle:

Ooh ar!! Dis shud be gud!! Grokles hv t'back inta parkin space – wi'ut hittin eneeee ting!!

Furst oop – Wee Jockie McDum.

Jockie:

Aye, yer camp as a row o' tents mann! Aye can't be arsed!! Ya nancy sassenach! Naff off!!

Wurzle:

End o' story here Royston!

Roy:

Thank God. Fancy a look at my nude photo of Delia?

Ball Tampering?

As a cricketer and responsible blogger, I am obliged to comment on the ball tampering allegations against Pakistan during the Oval Test match.

I was fortunate enough to have tickets for the match on Saturday and enjoyed a good day out in south London. There were some rain delays, but the crowd were treated to a bit of an English fightback with Pakistani wickets falling at regular intervals and some fine batting by Cook and Strauss at the end of the day. All this is now, of course, mostly irrelevant.

My well-documented view that cricket can be a force for good and help to improve our understanding of different cultures is now completely justified in the worst possible circumstances. On Saturday, the crowd was entertained and appreciative of the efforts of both teams. There was no hint of what was to come. The only trouble was outside the ground; and it may have a surprising bearing on the outcome of the cricket problems, so I will explain what happened.

I was an early arrival at the Oval (despite the fact that the vaunted One train was delayed for 20 minutes out of Norwich), so I wandered down to the newsagents just outside the Oval tube station. I bought my paper – more about this later! As I was paying, I became aware of an altercation near the exit from the tube station. One of the tickets touts was in the process of being arrested. And, he was not happy. I had seen these “laddos” when I left the tube station for the ground. Touts are almost part of the game. At the Oval, of course, they are all apprentice “Del Boys” or, perhaps Peckham Pouncers. I paid little attention to them as I exited the station, but now I had to - for there was an almighty row erupting right in front of me. The Toutster was being arrested and he was not happy. Lots of shouting and screaming let everyone know that he was not going quietly. Two officers struggled to get the cuffs on him but eventually succeeded. He was not a happy bunny. Still, it must be an occupational hazard if your chosen career is touting. Hundreds of people were standing around watching.

Things were all fairly uniform and predictable when yer man decided to call one of the arresting officers a Paki b******. The officer wasn't amused and pushed tout-ie into the wall, fairly forcefully. Now a simple arrest for ticket touting became a racial incident. No doubt it will appear on some statistical analysis of racial incidents in London in 2006. Fortunately, the crowd, despite the touts protestations of police brutality, were firmly behind the police and ignored his pleas for the mob to come to his aid. By this time I was just about even with the exit from the Underground and saw one of the London Underground employees watching what was going on. I asked him how this all happened and he explained that the touts were gathered outside the station and were hampering the crowd exiting the station. He told them to move on; but they wouldn't, so he called the police. All fairly normal stuff, no doubt, for London. What particularly struck me was the crowd's reaction. They were very supportive of the police and not very impressed with the local wide boys. Walking back to the Oval I passed the rest of the touts sitting on a wall 20 metres from the tube station and looking quite sheepish. Made me laugh, I can tell you.

Now, dear reader, I hear you ask, what has this got to do with allegations of ball tampering by the Pakistani cricket team? You asked, so I'll tell you.

There is a very unpleasant undercurrent of racism in the reaction of some of the commentators and officials of the Pakistan team. Some seem to be accusing umpire Hair of being prejudiced against the Pakistanis or Asians in general. These are more serious charges than tampering with cricket balls.

The facts: both umpires at the match agreed that the ball had been tampered with. Otherwise, no action could have taken place. Nothing could be done on the instigation of umpire Hair without the support of his colleague, Billy Doctrobe. Fact number one. Both umpires concluded that the ball had been tampered with – under the laws of the game they do not have to identify the culprit or culprits – nor do they have to have video evidence as some commentators are calling for. Fact number two. After they have applied the law regarding to ball tampering – everything followed a sorrily predicable course. The Pakistan team were upset – did not come out to play and forfeited the match. These are the facts.

What has concerned many commentators, including some ex-Test players, is the (seemingly) lack of sensitivity of the umpires in applying the laws. Here the critics are probably right. Unfortunately, the umpires are not obliged to be sensitive. They are obliged to apply the laws of the game. This they did. They are, apparently, receiving the support of the cricket authorities. Most likely we have not heard the last of this. If the authorities support the umpires and suspend or fine the Pakistan captain, we may have a real crisis on our hands.

Cricket is the loser.

After sitting on my paper all day at the Oval, left it outside Macdonalds at Liverpool Street. Not a great day in the end.

Let's Do the Time Warp Again!

I like going to Aldborough. They have the most interesting antique cricket ground in Norfolk. It is literally on the village green – surrounded by homes and shops. A big hit brings the village gardens into play. It is altogether an interesting place to play. Actually it's an altogether interesting place – full stop.

For those who get lost leaving their front door, Aldborough is between Alysham and Cromer but a bit closer to Cromer. It's off the main A140 by a solid two miles. Even in rural Norfolk Aldborough is a bit out of the way which makes it all the more remarkable because it has the most remarkable facilities. Visiting Aldborough is like visiting the set of a 1940's British film or a clone of the TV series, Heartbeat.

In addition to one of the most picturesque cricket grounds around, Aldborough has: a post office cum general store; a Spar shop (built as an extension to someone's home – how they ever got planning permission for this is truly a wonder – it's only a stone's throw from the existing post office/general store); two pubs (one, like it's more well-know namesake on Aylsham marketplace, is called the Black Boys, the other is the more prosaically and ubiquitously named Red Lion - more about Black Boys later); an antique shop; a village butcher's shop and the headquarters of the Norfolk Cricket League sponsors, Knight's Sporting Memorabilia. Not bad for a village you can throw a cricket ball from one side to the other. I'm sure in the 40's there was many a Norfolk village in the same state – but, since then 99% of the “excess” pubs, butchers and village stores have disappeared – mostly courtesy of Tesco, Sainsbury's and Somerfields. Somehow Aldborough has been left in a time warp.

Whilst chatting to one of the fielders who happened to play for the home side, I reminded him that when I first played at Aldborough (say 20 years ago) we got changed in the pub, the aforementioned Black Boys. Nowadays changing and drinking is in the Red Lion. After confirming that my memory was indeed correct he dealt a hammer blow to the “outsiders” (from London – these particular ones) who had taken over the Black Boys a few years ago and prompted the mass emigration of cricketers to the Red Lion. Fascinating stuff. Apparently these East End refugees had no idea how to run a pub – certainly not in Aldborough in any event. Inevitably, they sank without a trace and the pub changed hands, but the cricketers stayed loyal to the Red Lion, so there we repaired for the after-match drinks. Oddly, the barman (perhaps landlord as well?) was rather nattily dressed in a splendid waistcoat (among other items of apparel, of course) and cut a real dash among the local drinkers. Could be this is fairly normal for Aldborough? Could be.

I learned of all these interesting developments in the history of Aldborough whilst standing at square-leg chatting to one of the “local” fielders. All afternoon folks arrived at the Spar shop, went inside and, after a few minutes, came out and drove off. I thought it was odd that so many “locals” were driving to the shop? And, why was it open on Sunday afternoon until 6 p.m. ? Could Aldborough be the centre of a white slaving ring? HQ Cocaine? Illegal Bookies R Us?

I say there is something odd in Aldborough. Get up there and check it out some Sunday. It's a pleasant drive and plenty of pubs to choose from – for its size!

ave Europa nostra vera Patria

August is right smack in the middle of the “silly season”. This is the time of year when there is, by tradition, no real news – so papers have to find some – or manufacture some at least. I particularly like the story about farmer David Lucas who had a lucrative sideline in making and exporting gallows. “Had” is the operative word here as the EU has stepped in to stop him in his tracks by passing a law that makes importing or exporting equipment that could be used for capital punishment illegal. Praise be the EU!

For a harsh moment there it looked like the continent was about to be overrun with gallows masquerading as tourist attractions. The EU has saved us from that fate by banning the rather splendid woodworking sideline of farmer Mr Lucas and killed a thriving export commodity – all in one smooth movement. Hallelujah!!

Or, is this just an EDP silly season report? There are some clues in the article. Mr Lucas' business partner has come forward to explain that it's all a bit of a joke. Mr Lucas didn't really sell gallows at all. He was just your average fan of capital punishment and liked to talk it up. According to his business partner that is? Take your pick.

I suppose the real give away here is the photo of Lucas next to the article. We see a rather splendid gallows (just like the one children draw when they play hangman) complete with rope and hangman's noose with Mr Lucas neatly poised underneath. How to describe Mr Lucas? Charitably, if possible. He is a tall gent with a shock of grey-ish hair that stands up as if he facing into a gale. His patriarchal beard is flecked with grey as well, and he gazes into the distance as if straining to see the approach of the next miscreant to be hanged. He is wearing trousers and jacket of a nondescript colour and fabric- best described as muddy green, or perhaps slime green might be more accurate. They appear to be held up with a bit of thick string which doubles as braces. His shirt was once white and features contrasting buttons in the ubiquitous muddy colour. His open collar reveals an undergarment that (hopefully) is supposed to be grey and not just filthy! In the appropriate attire he could be an Old Testament prophet or a double for Charlton Heston in Moses. The photo is by far the most entertaining feature of this article.

The news that Mr Lucas intends to start a new political party is reported. For The People Party is the name of this new political initiative but no policies are announced, as yet. Mr Lucas' has always been interested in capital punishment according to his business partner.

Amnesty International do not see the funny side of this story. The are outraged that such activities have been going on in the UK and welcome the news that the EU are to outlaw the export of execution equipment. It makes one wonder where you would have to go in order to buy illegitimate equipment. Will the EU drive the gallows makers of Britain underground? Will Amnesty International need extra investigators to track down these depraved manufacturers? Or, is the whole thing too silly for words? I know where my money is. The Michael has been well and truly extracted.

Clarkson's Beetroot

Jeremy Clarkson is not everyone's cup of tea. Fair to say that many regard him as a ponce who defends the gas-guzzling Chelesa tractor brigade against the common-sense view of responsible environmentalists. He does, however, write entertaining articles in the Sunday Times – often on subjects that have nothing to do with motoring.

Last Sunday he bravely wrote about how he found blood in the toilet and spent many enjoyable hours in a Heath Robinsonesque self examination of his rectal passage. It was quite funny, and he had the good sense to point out what a serious health risk bowel cancer is. The punch line came as he entered the kitchen to be told by his wife that their recent consumption of beet root had made a red mess in the toilet. Clarkson breathes a great sigh of relief. It really is quite funny.

This reminded me of when I lost my wallet at a cricket match last week. Have patience dear reader, there is a connection – believe me. Leaving the match – we got stuffed by the way – for the pub, I began to look about the car for my wallet and couldn't find it. Went to the pub anyway. Got out of the car and began to look carefully for the missing wallet. Found my glasses where they had fallen behind the passenger seat. No wallet. Took all the kit bags out. No wallet. Went in the pub and got a beer and did a re-think. Still no wallet.

On the odd chance that I had left the wallet home I rang “she who must be obeyed” at home. Asked her to look for the wallet and ring me back. Enlisted support from one of my team and we searched the car again. No wallet. Also, no phone call. Rang her back. “I thought you were going to have a look for the wallet and ring me back!”

“I'm upstairs looking under the bed right now!”

“I only wanted you to look in the usual places – is it in the dining room?”

“No.”

Went back inside the pub, finished my pint and apologised to all – explaining that I had to go home now to report all my credit cards missing. Drove home in about an hour and started to ring all the credit card companies and banks to cancel the cards. This takes quite some time as most of the call centres are either in Glasgow or Poona. Eventually finished in about two hours and sat down for a well-deserved late supper and a glass of red wine. Of course with the new chip and pin system my money was (theoretically) quite safe – but, nevertheless it is quite a worry. I deserved the glass of red.

Went back into the computer room and started to rev up the digital highway. Noticed my wallet siting on the top of the computer table.

Women.

Clarkson's beet root may well be more humorous – but my “missing” wallet is streets ahead in the exasperation stakes.

Chips on Yarmouth Market

I like Gt. Yarmouth. Not many people do, but I do. What I particularly find attractive is – even though Yarmouth is quite large – whenever I go to Yarmouth I seem to run into someone I know, even though I have not lived there for 25 years. It's really more like a small village rather than a town.

One of the great traditions of sea-side towns, and Yarmouth is no exception – is buying and eating chips on the market. In Yarmouth, it's almost a religion. Go to Yarmouth. Shop. Get chips from a chip stall on the market. Eat chips. Go home. It's got to be done.

Chip stalls on the market are like little gold mines. There must be more than 10 of them and they all charge exactly the same price for chips. I'm sure real Yarmouthians could tell you which chip stall has their favourite chips and why, but I have always found them to be much of all the same. Same quality. Same taste. Same price.

That's actually quite odd – if you think about it. Wouldn't you think that there would be some competition among the chip stall holders to gain more market share by dropping their price? Not on your nellie – a Yarmouth market chip stall is a license to print money! There is no competition. The price is fixed – maybe not formally – but fixed just as surely as eggs is eggs. Whether they actually have a cartel meeting to fix the price I don't know. What I do know is that it is impossible to open a chip stall on the market to compete with the established traders. The chip stall pitches are passed from generation to generation and are never up for tender. There are no available new licenses for chip stalls.

I first became aware of this anomaly in the 1970's when the potato crop failed. Exactly why it failed escapes me but fail it did. Consequently, potatoes were in short supply. Chips on the market went from about 15p a packet to 40p almost overnight. Not surprisingly, all the chips stalls put up the price at the same time. People grumbled in the queues. But, still they paid.

Of course, it was not Ireland in the 1840's – next year the crop was back to normal. What happened to the chip price? Nothing. It remained the same. I innocently asked if they were going to drop the price now that the potato shortage was over. Not for the first time in my life I was viewed as some kind of dangerous nutter, or, possibly, a native of a small planet in vicinity of Betelgeuse. Just blank stares. I'm sure the stall-holders would have brought back burning at the stake for anyone guilty of this heresy if they could have. These folks would have been great fans of the Inquisition.

I have no idea what price the chips are today. I no longer go to Yarmouth to get my hair cut. But, that's another story.

Blattered

Can't quite leave the World Cup – not just yet. I keep tying to, but Sepp Blatter won't let me.

Not content with his outburst regarding the officials running onto the pitch and pointing out errors made by the referee, he now thinks maybe more referees on the pitch may be a good idea. At least that's what the EDP reported on 6 July. The headline seems to imply that Sepp is throwing his not inconsequential weight behind this idea. The article does not actually say this – but, why let the facts get in the way of a good story.

According to the article, experiments with dual referees have taken place in Malaysia (that hotbed of footballing expertise and home to the world's most fanatical fans?) and Brazil (perhaps on the beach?) with “encouraging results”. Unfortunately, there were unsatisfactory reactions in Norway and Italy. Intriguing.

Has anyone noticed? These experiments have either been held very recently or attracted nil publicity or reaction from the press. Certainly, I have never heard of them. Has anyone?

I'm intrigued. Could it be that FIFA is actually thinking about the absurdity of the game as it stands? I'm not convinced. We already have a referee, two assistants and fourth and fifth officials. Having two referees doesn't seem to be much of an improvement to me. Unless players are deterred from sharp practices and the game is, as a consequence, opened up providing more scoring opportunities and goals, providing another referee is probably pointless. It is the dearth of goals in the world cup that makes every decision by the officials a critical one. And, as an entertainment, football suffers because the point of the game, to score goals, is so seldom a feature.

For example, in the World Cup so far goals have been in short supply. In the group games there were an average of 2.41 goals per game. The round of 16 produced 15 goals at 1.85 per game. Quarter finals and semi finals produced only 1.5 goals per game – despite the extra time played in many of these games. England – Portugal played for 120 minutes and produced exactly nil. Result: the completely unsatisfactory penalty shoot-out.

It seems so obvious to say, games should be decided by goals scored. Most of the gamesmanship we see in games is a direct result of the scarcity of goals. Lack of entertainment is caused by no goals. Unless Sepp and FIFA are going to do something to try and get more goals into the game, nothing much is going to change. Players will try every trick in the book to get opponents sent off – simply to get enough room on the pitch to score a goal. It's all so sad.

Get goals back into the game and most of the problems will disappear. If they are honest, supporters will admit that what they really want to see are goals. If the authorities don't provide them with goals, they would be quite justified in voting with their feet.

Poll-Axed!!

Looks like England's World Cup referee, Graham Poll, will be coming home before the team. After what can only be described as a shocker, Poll will most likely be told that he is surplus to requirements.

What is interesting in this fiasco are the reactions of FIFA President, Sepp Blatter and Sunday Times stand-in columnist, Rod Liddle. Neither one is even close to the mark.

"Silly Sepp", quoted in the EDP, thinks that referees are human and will always make mistakes, but Poll's errors were inexcusable. For those who may have missed the match, "Our Graham", who throughout the World Cup (in an astonishing act of parochialism) has been touted by the English press as "The best referee in the World" and a shoo-in to referee the final if England are not in it; gave three yellow cards to one Croatian, missed an Australian player being rugby tackled in the penalty area and a more than a few obvious handballs. Not a good day at the office.

What is more interesting than Poll's shortcomings as a match official is Blatter's comments regarding what Graham should have done. He said, "We have had four officials and what is not understandable is that nobody intervened." He is referring to the referee's assistants and the fourth official in the stands. He goes on, "I can't understand it. There are people there and one of them should have intervened and run on to the field and said, STOP, STOP!"

Right. Now this is exactly what is so exasperating about football and Mr Blatter. He is the world football chief and he is echoing what I've been saying for years and years. I blogged about this only a few days ago! Perhaps Sepp has been reading my blog. Stop the game, run on to the field and tell the referee that he has made a mistake and get it right. That's what Sepp is saying. Are you listening all you who masquerade as football purists?

Just for icing on the cake, FIFA communications director Marcus Siegler admitted that had Australia lost they would have had grounds to request a replay! Fantastic! This is the premier football tournament in the world?

In the Sunday Times, Ron Liddle is standing in for Hugh McIlvanney. Shame really - I like Hugh's style and wonder what take he would have on this woeful situation. Ron tried the humorous/exasperated/bemused and befuddled approach. Conveniently forgetting how the media have shamelessly built up Poll, he blames most of this fiasco on FIFA's instructions to referees. Ron thinks that FIFA are trying to take the physical aspects out of the game. Was he watching the same game? It was precisely because both sets of players were playing a version of a well-known computer game, Street Violence, instead of football that the problems occurred! Graham's problem was that the players were not playing the game. He could have easily sent off six or seven. He would have been crucified. This was a no-win situation if ever there was one.

Just to confirm that Ron is out of touch he then goes on to echo my sentiments regarding club v. country. Stopping short of advocating central contracts (the only sensible conclusion) he does, at least, acknowledge that players who are picked for England should be taken completely out of the club's control. His adjunct that if you don't want your players injured or unavailable for club selection because of national commitments you should stop signing international players is likely to be met with a shrug of the shoulders by managers who realise that the fans wouldn't permit it. That's how thick they are. The fans - not necessarily the club officials, I mean.

Crazy, Crazy

Stercus accidit, indentidem

Some misguided souls still wonder why not everyone gets excited by the World Cup. The France versus South Korea match was an excellent example.

After running themselves to death in the stifling heat and getting nowhere, much less threatening the French goal, the causal observer could be forgiven for thinking that the Koreans were just making up the numbers in their recent match against the Gallic former World Cup winners.

That is until the idiotic way in which the game is played conspired to rob the French of a victory. In the most prestigious tournament in the football world, something as simple as making sure that when a goal is scored the referee and his assistants are informed (if, for some reason they should happen to miss it?) would seem fairly elementary. Not so in the crazy world of FIFA (Famously Idiotic Fatuous Ass*****). There was, apparently, a move to micro-chip the ball to alert the referee when it crossed the line, but FIFA decided that it was too complicated/sensible/fair.

So, whilst the rest of the world are able to watch the video replay - which clearly shows the ball well over the line before the Korean goalkeeper pushes it out - the referee and his assistants are blithely unaware of this important happening and simply carry on. This really was one of the most buttock-clenching moments in World Cup history. Rather like the cricketers who don't appeal because it is so obvious that the ball, which has flown to second slip, has come off the outside edge, only to be bemused and befuddled as the umpire calmly walks off to square leg; the sight of the French players wandering around thinking about appealing for the goal to be given is one not easily forgotten.

Just for good measure, some Sunday papers have been castigating Messrs Lineker, Wright, Hansen and the rest of the BBC World Cup broadcasting team for their inane comments and lacklustre performance. Think I'll join in. This was their golden chance. They could have taken on the establishment and made a real case for using technology, where appropriate, to make the game fairer. Instead, they reverted to type - concentrating on the pressure the French coach is now under (wow, I'd love to read his report on the referee and his assistants!) and the failure of the French team to win the game. Ironic. They did win the game! 200 million people saw it. Only the idiots who organise football could possibly overlook an important feature of the game, namely a goal.

Is it any wonder that some people, St. John-like crying in the wilderness, are questioning the very basis of the game? Football is inherently a silly game. It was designed to be played by 19th century British schoolboys and gob-smackingly stupid, fatuous amateurs. Yet, if you suggest that the rules of the game need to be brought up-to-date folk look at you as if you are Tim Nice but Dim's educational advisor. This is rather ironic considering the intellectual achievements of David (I can string a sentence together and I am a gay icon) Beckham and Wayne (I think Chav is a compliment and my girlfriend is only marginally fatter than I am) Rooney.

Technology should be used to ensure that when a goal is scored the referee is informed. It's not exactly rocket science! Remember the furore when technology was introduced to Wimbledon to adjudge line calls? Now it is not an issue. So should it be in football. Not an issue. But, let's not stop there.

Football could be a much better game. Let's make the 18 yard box only 15 yards. For heaven's sake, the sky will not fall down and the "additional" three yards will make for more goals and more excitement. While we're there, let's make the goals themselves 30 cm higher and one metre wider. Move with the times! They were designed for lads in long pants and leather boots that (when caked with the mud of the British winter) weighed five pounds a piece! The sky will not fall!

Problem is FIFA is even more bureaucratic than the UN or the IOC. There is more chance of the EU voting to become the 51st state than FIFA actually managing to manage the game. I'm just waiting for England to be knocked out by a "goal" that isn't, or by "scoring" a perfectly good one that escapes the notice of the referee.

Actually, now that I think about it, this wouldn't make much difference. If it was a French referee, the Sun would run a campaign to boycott French goods, under the headline, "Frogs Spawn Agincourt Revenge!" and then retreat to the usual pap they publish. The morons who inhabit the stadia would, of course, miss the point completely. It would be left to the England captain to hammer in the final nail and announce (in his best Estuary English), "We was robbed! Even though the lads done brilliant."

I'd laugh myself silly.