Penalties...

The only thing England need to learn about taking penalties is you need a big pair of bollocks.

Compare Youngs penalty to Pirlo's? Young hit it harder and in a straighter line. Yet even as they stood to take them I knew Young would miss and Pirlo would score. Why? Because Pirlo looked confident and Young looked like he was afraid of Andy Carroll's reaction if he missed.

It is the same confidence that lets the Italians retain possession. There players aren't better than ours, but they aren't full of fear. When you are full of fear the space looks smaller and you fall deeper and deeper and create the problems that you imagine will happen. We managed to put fear into the Italians in the first 20 minutes but after Pirlo came into the game it calmed them down and we started panicking.

So come on England, everybody says you played with heart but now you need to play with bollocks as well.

Slow down, get a job...

Not much been going on, other than me starting a new full-time (spit) job, working for somebody else.

After a few years being self employed the discipline of doing what I am told is now something I am having to re-learn, but it is nice having a guaranteed pay check at the end of the week. In these times of fiscal uncertainty it is a decision I had to make for my family, who deserve security, ahead of my own interests. That isn't to say I don't intend to carry on trying to sell my creativity, it is just going to occupy less of my time for the next few months.

So I would like to apologise for the slowing down of the blog. I will be writing more regularly again soon, and maybe even on topics people want to read about. But until then I humbly beg for patience from the people who have taken the time to read my humble words.

Hodgsons Army

Sorry, but this is another football blog (albeit my first in a while).

I had the joy of watching 70 minutes of England vs France yesterday and to all those who have doubted the appointment of Hodgson as England manager I put to you this performance proves he is the right man for the job.

Before the tournament people have written England off, and with good reason. A change of manager with only two friendly matches to prepare, Rooney missing for two matches, a host of injuries including Lampard and Barry, two players with a more than reasonable claim to be in the centre of Midfield and let us not forget the existence of John Terry. Oh, how I try to forget the existence of John Terry, the ultimate embarrassment to being English.

Yet watching against the French the England team displayed something they have rarely displayed for most of the last 20 year. Heart. England have always been known as a passionate, committed team and this has made up for our technical weakness against countries which have a more cultured or tactically aware football mentality. Yet since Venables in 1996, other than a brief period under Keegan where he displayed that heart wasn't everything, we have been trying to emulate other European nations in our mentality. Keeping the ball, trying to defend one goal leads, being timid when the game is crying out for courage.

Against the French we showed an awful lot of heart and defensive discipline and organisation. Yes, we fell back into the bad habit of defending deeper and deeper when we had a lead to protect, but other than that 10 minute patch at the end of the first half we looked like a team that could defend all day. The organisation is astounding when you consider that for most of the previous 12 years we had managers who had received their footballing educations in Italy, home of defensive organisation, and we had never looked capable of defending a lead during that time. But it was the return of English heart that was the most wonderful to behold.

Let us not forget that France have now not lost for 22 games, a phenomenal run in international football, and are on form one of the best teams in world football, yet for 90 minutes we matched them and deserved our point. More than that we had several chances to take all 3 points. OK, there were a few scares, but that is something we have to expect from a team with the attacking options of France.

Nobody is yet saying that England are among the favourites for this tournament, but if England can keep showing the never-say-die trenches spirit and add just a little bit more quality going forward then we can at least look forward to leaving the tournament with our heads held high rather than leaving in ignominy and shame.

And looking forward, when Hodgson has the chance to shape his own team, things have a slightly more positive taste than they have for many years.

 Goodbye Golden Generation, hello hope.

Responsible parenting.

There are times when being a responsible parent leaves little to be desired.

While you have to admire the sheer self-centredness of people like the 19 year old who was so upset that her partner was arrested for drunk driving with her baby in the car she got stoned then drove home at midnight, forgetting her baby was strapped into his travel seat on TOP of the car. All credit to her, she noticed the baby was missing when she got home. The jubilee weekend will see pubs across the country welcoming families to join in the festivities. A small number of these families will get totally drunk and will lose forget about their children, other than maybe grabbing a couple of packets of crisps for them to keep them quiet. They will enjoy the weekend.

It was difficult to keep keep these in mind today when I found myself at a pelican crossing in torrential rain. Ever since he has been old enough to walk I have been showing him that you press the button and wait for the green man before you cross. We got caught out today in the rain. It was only a 5 minute walk to the shop so, while my son was in full rain gear including hood, cap and brolly, I was in a thin jacket and hoody. The rain, rather predictably, started when we were half way to the store. By the time we got to the crossing I was soaked, cold and miserable, and my three year old rain excitedly to press the button to cross the road.

There was not a single car in site, there hadn't been all the way up the road. Most people were too sensible to be out in the weather, or if they had ventured out they were in a pub getting drunk with their loved ones. It was sorely tempting to cross the road with him and ignore what I had taught him. It was easy to think about all the drunk families who, in all likelihood, would suffer no ill consequences from their irresponsibility, other than years from now the probability their children will be emulating them.

With these thoughts I looked at him and the temptation went away. I might be teaching him how to cross a road, but being a parent teaches me anew about responsibility everyday.

He didn't choose to come into this world, and the unwritten contract parents sign is to love, protect and nurture our children. Getting rained on is a small price to pay to help him grow up the right way.

Emptying the Cookie jar...

Have you ever had a repeat visit to a website after months away and been delighted that they remember your name? A wonderful level of customer service that high st stores just don't match anymore; a delightful return to the glory days of the Grace Brothers. There may even be a little strip of side adverts which are the not-so-subtle equivalent of Mrs Slocombes pussy.

Have you visited a shopping site and been amazed that they are recommending the things that you like to buy before you have even logged in? What wonders of prescience the internet brings with it. Why bother with the hassle of travelling to a shop when the internet not only is polite but also saves you all that bothersome browsing by showing you exactly what you want before it even knows you are there?

Have you ever noticed that the adverts at the side of the page often match your interests nearly exactly (people often don't want to realise this, especially when you are repeatedly being offered what turns out to be Russian brides and Discreet Hook-ups- but these are your interests, whether you like it or not).

Well all of that may be about to change due to new EU rules which govern the use of cookies. The laws relate to established data protection laws and, while initially they will not be punishing offending websites, they will have the power to issue fines.

At this point I many of you will be saying why the fuss? I like cookies, they go great with my morning tea. You may also be aware that occasionally you need to clean the cookies from your computer but most people aren't aware why and that is the crux of the new law.

The assumption when you visit a website is that they have remembered you, so when you return they are simply acting like a greeter at a traditional store where you are a regular. Alas, this isn't the case. A cookie is a small file that they store on YOUR hard drive, it takes up almost no space so isn't really noticed, but on this file they store your name, buying history etc... they may also acquire other information about you which is stored for future use. It is common for them to store your login details on them, so when you next visit the site your computer automatically logs you in and enhances the whole internet experience by meaning you don't need to go to all the bothersome trouble of typing a user name, which may be as long as your WHOLE  e-mail address, and a password which those nefarious bastards often insist includes the confusing mix of numbers and letters. Numbers and letters. In one password. The Bastards.

Of course it is no big deal, right? They are not inconveniencing us and the amount of date stored on your hard drive is like a drop in the ocean on modern multi gigabyte drives. But the fact remains they are using your property to store something without your consent. What would you say if your local builders merchant stored a few pallets of bricks at the bottom of your garden without your consent? It wouldn't really inconvenience most of us, to whom the bottom of the garden is visited as briefly as is required by the lawn-mower and as infrequently as our better halves let us get away with. But you still would not allow it. Of course if they asked you and you thought about the amount of grass two pallets of bricks would cover you might allow it. You might even think it was in your best interests.

Cookies make our lives easier in many ways. And if informed people agree to them then, of course, there is no issue. Previously the fact that the information was stored on your own property was seen as enough to escape the data protection laws. The nice shopping websites forgot about you the moment you left (apart from information gathered for marketing reasons, but usually that was anonymous and who cares provided next time you visit they know you like Jam so they can offer you five different types without you having to click through those two or three links to get there) and in that they are exactly like the Grace Brothers of old; they only remember you when they want to sell you something.

Some cookies are insidious and continue to store information about you after you leave a site-these are commonly covered by anti-spyware software but these things are not fullproof and not everybody has an effective one installed on their computer. So if you want that, ahem, fact-finding search into Thai ladyboys, or whether it is safe to give yourself a caffiene enema, to stay secret from the rest of the web cookies may not be your friend after all.

Most cookies are harmless and exist to enhance your web experience (indulge you idleness). The new laws don't prevent the websites from using your computer to track you, but they do insist you are informed about it. They have to tell you what will be stored and you will have the option to say no.  This will usually take place by way of a pop-up box with a box to tick. One more chore I know, but it is one that can protect you from unwanted intrusions

Little league pool.

I am a keen amateur pool player, with amateur being the key word.

My preferred game in the traditional pub 8-ball. The object of the game, for those not in the know, is to pot your 7 coloured balls and then  pot the black "8" ball. Sounds simple and when you watch the really good it looks simple too.

Last night I played my second match since rejoining my old team after a two year hiatus. My first had ended in a deciding frame defeat against one of the leagues better players. I, perhaps, should explain that the team experience is different. No player can play more than one "end" or frame and the captains have to pick players end by end out of the squad available. It is a best of seven match, although dead ends are played due to frame difference in the league. So my first frame back was in an away match playing with the scores at three each. I acquitted myself well but lost on a black ball game.

So yestereve I was selected again. It was a cup match and we were three-two down, our captain had one the frame before me to bring us back into the match from three-one down.

So here I was, once again put into the high pressure frame against a good, solid player. I remember I potted the first ball and went onto yellows but I ran out of position. What followed was one of the most intense, gruelling and ultimately enjoyable half hours I can remember. I had forgot the shear joy to be had when playing under intense pressure (I know it is only pub league but when you have 15-20 people watching with a vested interest in the result it is pressure), of trying to outwit, out skill and out psych your opponent. Too many players think pool is all about potting, and obviously that is important, but preventing your opponent from playing and forcing them into risky shots or to clear a pocket they don't want to is part of the game too. An important one when you are playing in the highest tier of your local leagues three tier system, I assure you.

The match, ultimately, was going to be decided by my frame. Although it was only the sixth end my opponents team only had six players. If I lost they won four-three and if I won we won by the same score. After the match I was shaking as the adrenaline finally had chance to take over.

And next Sunday we are in the drawer for the next round.

Man flu

There is much mirth about man flu. So many mock this terrible ailment, but it is the single biggest killer of quality time in the UK.

I am suffering from man flu at the moment. For four days I have been barely able to breath, I have had an headache that feels like a race of brain-dwellers are using excavation to decide if there is more to life than relaying electrical impulses requesting chicken soup. During their rest periods the bang-bang-bang is replaced by a general ache that covers several of my most favoured lobes and tells them that any movement will result in a return of the excavators.

My body is aching. Many wonderful people took part in the moonwalk last night. I was unable to join them by way of being a man, and 130 miles away. But this morning my body has decided to be in sympathy for them. Which it has also preemptively done for the last three days.

Light is very much on the side of the excavators. Every ray of sunshine, and thankfully these are rare in Birmingham, is met by renewed vigour by the excavators and the chorus of supporters they have banging drums in previously quiet sockets. The excavators have also decided that the best place to put all the brain meat they are digging out is in my ears. I imagine them surreptitiously dropping small chunks of my grey matter down their trouser legs hoping the guards, my sorely underfunded white blood cells, don't notice. The net result is I can't hear anything.

We won't talk about the sinus.

And the only known cure for this terrible ailment is plenty of sympathy coupled with regular, nay frequent, cups of hot chicken soup.

Yet women, the only people immune to the plague of man flu (the clue is in the name) walk around laughing at us and treating our despairing murmurs begging for assistance with disdain. If they do offer sympathy it soon becomes evident that it is sarcastic and it is purely another ruse to make us get back to the list of chores that always seems to be three times as long during these times of distress.

Men everywhere are suffering and we cannot do chores while craving chicken soup.

So please, please, woman of the world. When you see a man with man flu give him sympathy, ply him with chicken soup and if you could be so kind as to leave the football on that would be super.