The subject of flying is not one I am entirely enamoured with. Flying in planes that is – not just flying by yourself, that would be an altogether different prospect. Planes, airports, taking off, landing, sitting in a long metal tube surrounded by other people (I’m not that keen on people if I’m honest but that’s another post) waiting for the drone of the engines to keep me on edge for the next god knows how many hours...I’m not a good flyer. There’s nothing particularly in depth or complicated about my fear, it’s purely the fact that I don’t really want to die, thank you very much, and a plane crash seems to be a pretty sure way of that happening. OK, so statistically (I hate it when people talk statistically) it’s not – you’re more likely to be killed by a donkey, apparently, but to be honest I’d rather take my chances. Although I’m not sure donkeys cover as many destinations as Easy Jet.
I was pleased this week therefore to read the story about a flight that was prevented from taking off from Manchester and a man arrested because his bag smelt funny. 80 minutes the flight was delayed and the substance causing the stink in his bag was found to not be explosive, as initially thought, merely corrosive. So that’s all right then. What I’m particularly please about though is that the staff flagged it up – his bag smelt a bit funny and they bloody noticed. Hooray - for once, I am mildly reassured by something in the aviation industry. Here's some men in suits being cautious: The man, incidentally, is still in Police custody, so it’s possible he might have been carrying this stuff with less than honourable intentions. Or it might be like one only a week ago when a similarly smelly bag was regarded as suspicious – that one could be explained simply, however, thanks to a broken pot of nail varnish. It makes me wonder what the rules are for getting a job as a baggage handler – presumably if you suffer anosmia, you’re out.
I can’t quite believe it – I’m going to write about football again. I have an excuse this time though because the football reference is only a lead into the main story, which is actually about a restaurant. Restaurants, incidentally, are one of the reasons we’re here, in case you didn’t know. Have a look here. That’s the point of this whole thing.
So, now we’ve got that cleared up, let’s get back to business. I’m going to start with a name: Rio Ferdinand. If you don’t know who that is I wouldn’t worry – it’s largely irrelevant to the story, you need only absorb the fact that he’s professional footballer, one of the ones on £100,000 per week or some ludicrous amount. One of the ones that lots of people pay £40 every weekend to go and shout at.
He plays for Manchester United does our Rio. That’s one of the clubs in...actually, if you don’t know what Manchester United is you’d probably best stop reading now and go and do something else. Does the garden need weeding? That’ll do – go and do that. I’ll continue with Rio for those that are left. He’s opening a restaurant. Here's a photo of Rio, possibly doing something he'll soon be familiar with: "One margarita and a chicken salad please."
Or maybe not.
Such ventures always amuse me because, of course, Rio Ferdinand isn’t actually opening a restaurant, he’s funding one. His mates are opening it, or associates, or business partners or whatever you want to call them. People who would perhaps not otherwise be able to afford a prime city centre location for a brand new restaurant were they not friendly with our Rio (I’ve no idea why I’ve started calling him ‘our Rio’ but there you go – I can’t stop now or else it would seem silly).
I’ve no problem with this. If I were earning £100,000 per week to kick a ball around I’d probably buy some stuff like yachts, nice cars, big houses and restaurants. And one of those big watches they wear – yes, I’d like a big watch with diamonds on it. One that is so big it overlaps my wrist and my jumper sleeves are unable to stretch over it. Although I wouldn’t be wearing a jumper, of course, it’d be a silk Gucci smock, or some such creation. With Prada flip flops and a beanie hat made from Dodo wings.
Where was I? Oh yes, our Rio and his restaurant. He’s calling is Rosso because a)It’s an Italian restaurant and Rosso is an Italian word and, b)Rosso means red in Italian and Manchester United – the football team he plays for – play in red. Can you see what he’s done there? Against the odds, and no doubt reflecting the fact that our Rio is still in touch with his roots, we’re told the restaurant will be “not...ridiculously expensive, it will be good food at a good price,” which sounds like a reasonable idea, considering most people like good food at reasonable prices. Footballers – not so stupid after all.
On the rare occasions when I will feel inclined to comment on matters of the pitch, it is not fuelled by a huge passion for the game, rather a passing interest, and more often than not with a bemused eye on what is taking place on the neatly tendered grass and surrounding stadia. This week’s commotions naturally caught my eye – how could they not, being a citizen of this fair city, a reader of local and national press and not a hermit (for surely you must have to be one not to have heard). Mr Adebayor was a naughty boy at the weekend, in some people’s eyes. He allegedly stood on someone’s face on purpose – not a pleasant action in anyone’s book, especially when the someone was a former ‘teammate’, although presumably only through circumstance rather than kinship.
It’s the other offence that inspires me to put fingers to keys in this instance, however, the one for which Emmanuel is being chastised so virulently by the press and Arsenal fans alike. Was it another stamp, or perhaps a fist this time? No – he celebrated a goal. And ran down the pitch then fell onto his knees. That’s it. OK, so it was to gloat in front of the fans of his former club, against whom he had just scored, but that’s all it was – a celebration, a gloat. I scored a goal against you. I put the ball in your net. Nah nah nah nah nah.
The furore is of course not helped by the reaction of the Arsenal fans, who proceeded to try and bombard Mr Adebayor with a variety of objects, one of which struck a steward, rendering him unconscious. It’s interesting that some Arsenal fans have labelled his actions ‘disgraceful’. Celebrating a goal and in some way rubbing it in for the opposing fans? Hmm...because that never happens in the terraces, does it (NB: It does. I’ve been to football games. Someone even said something rather disgusting about someone else’s mother, the relevance of which to the game I couldn’t quite gather).
Anyway, would all this have happened had Emmanuel not performed his celebration? Well, no, but that’s hardly cause to chastise the player. You cannot explain a violent act by blaming it on a non violent (although admittedly confrontational) one. ‘Just ignore them’ a mother would say to a child taunted in the playground, ‘They’ll get bored eventually.’ Maybe Arsenal fans should take note, for their extreme reaction was no doubt what Mr Abedayor was after. They should maybe have remained perfectly still and quiet, a few checking their mobile phones, others swapping pleasantries and discussing the weather, some simply looking to their feet and waiting for the ball to be returned to centre and the game restarted. Ignore the show off, he’ll get bored after a minute or two.
I don’t think football rivalry quite works like that though.
Following my observations here a few weeks ago, and the news that the council were going to start charging the cretins who keep driving into the bollards in the town centre, it seems some people are still determined to ruin their vehicles, or those of the company for which they work, all in the name of skipping a few hundred metres of road.The latest driver to fall foul of the ‘ignoring warning signs and lights and think I’ll be able to scoot through’ disease even has the audacity to be arguing his case, albeit anonymously (presumably he’s had enough of looking stupid in public).Although, if I were quoted as saying something like, “We were launched into the air. It lifted the van so quickly that I smashed my head on the windscreen,” as he was, I’m not sure I’d want my face attached to the article either.
The argument between driver and council this time is that the bollards are only meant to be active from 11am.The driver claims to have attempted to cross over at two minutes to eleven.The council claim it was two minutes past.The state of the front of his van seems to provide a pretty conclusive answer:
Accusations of tailgating are being strongly denied although one fails to see how it could have happened any other way, as the bollards are set to stay up once the first car after 11am has passed over them.Unless the driver simply drove into a fully positioned bollard.Then he would look stupid and I’d definitely not want people to know who I was if I’d done that.
