Lake District - July 5th

Well, that was an experience. My first proper day's mountain walking alone ever, not hindered by less fit and/or reckless sensible family members. I can definitely say I exploited the lack of both restrictions. Last year I did St Sunday Crag alone in an afternoon, which was absurd. The thought of ruining a great walk by going at a ludicrous pace has haunted me ever since, and I was determined to do it at a proper speed now. And I did start off relatively leisurely, circling round the foot of a hillside on a nice track. A short, gruelling haul then brought me above some crags, with the usual wonderful views of Patterdale and Ullswater behind me. Climbed gradually up the side of a steep hillside with Grisedale, another narrow, pretty and largely deserted valley, to the right. Sadly by now I could see the cloud on the mountain tops ahead was sometimes lifting, sometimes dropping but not, overall, going anywhere. And as I made the final ascent up to St Sunday Crag it stooped to embrace me like a lover. All I could do at the top was try to remember the fantastic views I'd glimpsed all too briefly the previous year. The plan then was to carry along the summit ridge to, finally, get up Fairfield. I then made a discovery, however. Walking alone through mountain clouds freaks me out. It's a completely irrational fear. The path was clear enough. I just hated not seeing what was on either side of it. Even though the choice was between fairly steep drops and very steep drops, and even though it was, in fact, a simply enough task to avoid actually dropping down any of them. At one point I got so spooked that I turned back for a minute. The cloud then lifted again, however, I saw into the void beyond (fairly steep drops, for the record) and could continue. Nonetheless, I decided to sod Fairfield once again and descended a precipitous little path to Grisedale Tarn.

The sensible option now would have been to make a leisurely stroll down the other side of Grisedale. Instead I opted for an absurdly ambitious circular route, beginning with a peak with the suitably ridiculous name of Dollywagon Pike. Climbed up to it via a steep, zig-zagging path. Fairfield remained stubbornly in the mists but the mountain on the far side of Grisedale Tarn made an impressive sight. A party of loudly shouting urchins were in the distance, a helicopter inexplicably carrying two large cylinders in a net went overhead, but thankfully both soon vanished into the valley beyond. Down came the cloud again as soon as I got some height and I started to feel put upon. But it continued ascending and descending, sometimes allowing an impressive vista of that far valley and the mountains beyond. Dollywagon, High Crag and Nethermost Pike all came and went fairly quickly. I didn't technically climb any of them, the path passing just below the summits. Even I, though, am not daft enough to scramble over shale and rock, risking a plummet down the cliffs on the far side, just to add three names to a list.

And then came Helvellyn. It's odd climbing Helvellyn this way. In the normal ascent from Patterdale, you're slogging up for hours and it's looming above you the whole time. Here it suddenly leaps out at you, announcing itself with the demonic line of jagged rocks which is Striding Edge. Ate lunch close to that ridge, telling myself that there was no way on earth I was going down on it. The final climb up to the summit was short and the scene up there familiar. A trig column, a sheep and a hell of a lot of cloud. Shortly afterwards, my irritation turned to panic again. I'd intended going down by Swirral Edge but couldn't work out where it began. Though there was a cairn, I couldn't see what lay beyond it. As with Monday, it could just have been another warning/evil cairn. Then the cloud abruptly lifted again. And it was glorious. The views were amazing. Striding Edge and the sheer cliffs beneath Helvellyn's summit were on one side; a row of mountains basking in an unearthly light rose up on the other. More practically, I could see where I should be going – or so I thought. Trekked down what felt like Swirral Edge, a passable but impressively narrow ridge which gradually broadened out as it descended. But the path then stopped running parallel to Striding Edge and started climbing another hill, neither of which were according to the map. A bunch of jokers on top of that hill reassured me that I was on the right route. However, after spying an abandoned old dam across the stream below and deciding the puddle beneath Helvellyn's flanks was in no way the Red Tarn, I realised I was in fact coming down into the wrong valley. After another few moments of panic, I assured myself I'd still get into Glenridding, just down the road from Patterdale. My impressive navigation continued after I'd zig-zagged to the foot of the valley. I followed an old industrial track for a while, then decided I needed to be on the other side of the stream. This required a scramble down to the water, some perilous leaps from stone to stone, another scramble up the far side. Consulting the map again, I noticed there was a perfectly good footbridge further on. Oh, and my original path would have served perfectly well anyway. Hey ho. Glenridding valley, incidentally, is less picturesque and more interesting than most in these parts. This is due to parts of it having been quarried to fuck at various times in history, leaving gaping wounds in the cliffs. There was a very odd little settlement too; a sprawl of buildings which resembled an old mining village, except that they were all new and pristine. I somehow made it to Glenridding itself without getting lost again, winding through woods and past a pleasant looking campsite. Was about to start tramping along the road to Patterdale when, luckily, dad's car drove past and stopped and I piled in gratefully. To paraphrase Harry Pearson: a walk with everything except full-frontal nudity.

Lake District - July 4th

Never sure if I just perceive that everyone else is in a bad mood at a certain time and go into a sulk in sympathy; or if I just go into a sulk independently. Regardless, I was in a sulk for much of the morning. It didn't help that we went back to the same town by Windermere (Bowness, I think) that we went to on Sunday. Which we hated then and vowed never to return, and hated last year and vowed etc. Hung about for a while again and had coffee at the same nasty café. The swans, though, cheered us up later. A mother, rather than chasing away anyone who ventured near her cygnets, had turned the brood into a tourist attraction. One swan was sat in a puddle, somehow not noticing that the largest lake in England was about ten feet away. And several more surrounded me pecking hopefully at my pockets while a juvenile tried grabbing the cigarette from my hand. (Typical bloody teenager.) We went on a Windermere cruise afterwards – again like last year, though at least from a different place. The ride might have been pleasant if it wasn't windy and raining. It was, however, so I stayed below deck most of the time. Windemere's an odd lake really. Sometimes it looks like Loch Ness, a big, grim stretch of water surrounded by mountains. At others it's more like the Thames around Marlow, the banks covered with garish mansions and privilege.

Had lunch at a rather exasperating parking place, then some of us drove back to the house to do some walking. I set out on my own again, intending to go up Patterdale for a while and then climb up to Anglesey Tarn. This had to be hastily amended when I realised the 'path' I'd seen on the map was just a boundary marking. Headed up the valley anyway on a pleasant track, through farms and patches of woodland, passing a barn full of weird angora goats. Turn around when I reached the sprawl of barns which is the 'village' of Hartsop, doubled back for a while and then climbed up to Bordale Haus again. This was supposed to be a gentler climb than the one from our house, winding gently across the hillside. I suppose it was overall, though the last stretch was a hell of a slog. Turned the other way once reaching Bordale Haus to climb a 'peak' called something like Stony Spiky Crags. What it actually was was a big grassy nodule without a path or any clear summit. Once again, though, good views from what I decided was the top. Dad's birthday today so we went on our customary meal out. We'd intended to go to the White Lion again but it was pretty much full, so called at the Patterdale Arms hotel instead. I feared this would be too snobby. You can only get so much upmarket in Patterdale, however, especially as we slummed it in the bar, and it was actually pretty nice. Fortunately we left just as the coachload of cheery pensioners from Leeds were rolling up.

Lake District - July 3rd

Had a couple of hours to myself first thing this morning and the weather was decent, so I thought I might as well do Plaice Fell properly this time. Yomped up the steep climb to Bordale Haus, the 'damp little gap' and another sharp ascent up to a secondary summit. This took me onto a patch of moorland festooned with jutting outcrops of rock. Lovely views, to Patterdale and Ullswater on one side and a rather empty valley on the other. Not especially peaceful, however, thanks to the bird life. Not just the inevitable skylark, the bird which doesn't know when to shut up, but a great flock of crows which rose up cawing belligerently in a Hitchcock-esque fashion. I made the little scramble up to the rather ostentatious chimney which is the summit of Plaice Fell and enjoyed the views down to the lowlands bathed in sunshine. A feature we haven't really experienced here; I got drenched in a rather predictable shower on the return journey.

Got back to the house just as Auntie Margaret and Uncle Steph were rolling up. They were just visiting for the day, happening to be in this part of the world on the slow trek around England which is their springs and summers nowadays. They seem in good enough spirits, all things considered. Their brass band is doing well too, even putting up a reasonable showing against the powerhouses from Yorkshire and Lancashire; where, I'm happy to report, all the brass bands come from. We had one of Christine's gargantuan buffet lunches and sang Happy Birthday to Bill, who turned 64 today. (Hopefully this Beatles milestone will encourage him to stick to lowlands walks.) Afterwards we drove to Glenridding, a village at the head of Ullswater. Inevitably it's a tourist-cum-walkers haven. It's never too crowded though and the houses, somehow all built entirely of slate, look grim enough to prevent excessive quaintness. We braved the rain for a stroll, watched a wedding party getting drenched (file under 'Looked Like A Good Idea On Paper') and walked through a nice meadow to the lake itself, which naturally gained a few more rocks courtesy of Emily and Gemma. Messed about the house for a long while afterwards, me mostly filling in the time by chasing after Emily roaring. Not the most eventful day but very nice nonetheless.

Lake District - July 2nd

Walking day today, at least for those of us – me, Gav and Bill – still able to climb mountains. And not all of the trio are, in fact, really able to do that, but more of that later. Set off from a pub just beyond Brothers Water, walking up a pretty and largely deserted little valley. We were going parallel to the main road for a while but it was inaudible, drowned out by the torrent which was Caiston Beck. Today it was mostly dry with even, God help us, a few patches of sun. Last night it rained like a bitch, however, and as a result the water was flowing down any depression in the ground with stones at the bottom. 'Pivers' we called this combination of path and river, or possibly 'strath;' though on occasion they became paterfalls.

Fortunately the ascent wasn't too steep, up the valley until we left the official river behind and reached a pass at the top. Had lunch and did a steepish little climb to what may or may not have been a summit. Got into a bit of cloud here, just thin enough for us to realise how great the views would have been if it wasn't for the damn cloud. The idea originally was to do Hart Crag, with Fairfield an additional extra. But we were going so slow that we abandoned even Plan A, leaving Hart Crag as a final peak looming over us. Unfortunately me and Gav couldn't work out where the Softie's Path began and tried relying on cairns to guide us. These just led to the tops of cliffs; and overhanging, life-threatening cliffs at that. We couldn't decide if the cairns were meant to say 'Danger! Cliffs!' and were, by an oversight, made indistinguishable from the ones proclaiming 'Follow Me! Safety!'; or if they were, in fact, evil. Finally we found the actual path, which was blindingly obvious if only we'd waited a little longer. Somewhere amidst all this blundering about I think we climbed Dove Crag though it's hard to be sure.

The path, and sometimes strath, down was one of those constructed stairways which theoretically make it easier but are agony on the knees. It led into a very nice, narrow gully with another beck gushing along the bottom. This valley, Dovedale I think, was even more desolate, with only a couple of barns which even estate agents would struggle to sell as 'fixer-uppers.' Sadly my enjoyment was hindered by Bill's worsening condition. We've been here before. He's got Parkinson's, he's in his mid 60's and he patently can't do mountain climbing anymore. He was barely able to walk for the second half today, swaying and falling over constantly. There was a terrifying moment when he plunged sideways and briefly disappeared down the slope. Luckily he only fell a few feet and had only vanished into the bracken. Still, for his own safety if nothing else, he needs to be told: that's it. Eventually we struggled back to the car, completing quite a short walk which somehow took us over seven hours. Lorna seems addicted to playing the 'Cock A Doodle Doo' game with me, a rather tedious imagination game she concocted based on the concept of cockerels crowing in the middle of the night. Though there are some interesting spins; I liked it when the hens we bought to lay us breakfast eggs instead hatched a thousand chicks which blocked out the sun.

Lake District - July 1st

A nice change in the weather today; torrential rain all the time replaced by torrential rain half the time. Mostly starting just as we were getting out of the car, but hey. Another radical break with family holiday traditions was that we stayed out the whole Sunday rather than rushing back for lunch. We didn't explode. First drove to Windermere, to the same touristy little town we stopped at last year; and I still can't remember the name. Wandered down the same lane, fooled around the same beach and I got pretty much the same photos of Emily and Gemma lobbing stones into the lake. Had coffee, hung about for ages outside a remarkably ghastly little shopping arcade. Then drove a short way along the lake for lunch at a picnic resort. Great drops started falling when we were part-way through, sending us scurrying for the shelter of the trees; it just needed ants attacking the sandwiches during the first half to complete the cliché. Afterwards we caught a care ferry across Windermere – or perhaps another lake, even mum seemed confused by the layout sometimes and she was navigating – in what looked suspiciously like sunshine.

Our next destination was Beatrix Potter's former house – no doubt we'll be digging up the bones of Wainwright and Wordsworth later in the week. (Although Wainwright's ashes were apparently scattered all over Haystacks, something which made me determined to never climb the mountain again.) I wasn't enthusiastic about this and, hey, I was right. The house itself was nice enough, a trim and well-proportioned structure albeit covered with the sort of quaint ambience you'd expect. Unfortunately they've recreated the traditional lighting inside, a nice idea but it meant you could barely see a damn thing. One semi-visible exhibit I enjoyed was a publisher's letter accepting one of Potter's stories – 'Wee Little Fairy Boots' or something' but rejecting several others. Reasons given were that they were "not topical" or "obviously a children's story", suggesting that Wee Little Fairy Boots was a sophisticated modern satire. Drove an adventurous route back, along roads inundated by flood waters and up the lunatic haul to the Kirkstone Pass. Stopped for a few minutes there, parents trying to find ravens/peregrines/some other damn tweety thing, me staring at the grim black clouds lapping at the cliffs about twenty feet above.

I sprung out like a jack-in-the-box almost as soon as we got home to climb some, if not all, of Plaice Fell on my own. The usual wonderful views soon emerged; the head of Ullswater at one end of Patterdale, squat and rectangular Brothers Water at the other, a patchwork of dry stone walled fields in between, the Helvellyn valley beyond managing to be both bright and deluged. To climb Plaice Fell you toil across the hillside, over assorted gushing streams in this weather, reach a damp little gap in between two peaks and wonder what to do. I headed left for the summit, feeling a little silly climbing a mountain in the late afternoon but muttering over and over "You don't need a reason to climb a mountain, you need a reason not to climb one." Then the rain started, I had my reason and so turned round. This may be a reason I mention over and over in this diary.

Lake District - June 30th

In the absence of any more snide articles about David Cameron or religious fundementalism, or any desire to write them just now, I'm descending into the most despised area of all blogging. Namely, publishing my holiday diary to a vast audience who don't care one bit. The question 'have I no shame' has finally been answered.

Patterdale 2007

Right then. The family holiday is in the Lake District this year. Which isn't as epoch-making as it would once have been because we did the same last year. Same family members, same part of the world, same valley, even the same damn house. Only I was too lazy to write a diary then, so this one will have some semblance of originality. The house is called Broad Howe, a whopping great early 20th century micro-mansion with all sorts of unexpected chambers and a kitchen big enough for a banquet. It allegedly stands on land owned by Wordsworth, who planned to build on the plot but couldn't be arsed, though I'm not convinced by that rumour. The trio of Wordsworth, Wainwright and Beatrix Potter loom over the Lakes like Titans and all roads must lead to them. (There may have been a mixed metaphor in there). The valley is Patterdale, which stands at the head of Ullswater. It's absurdly picturesque, particularly where we are. The slopes of Plaice Fell, which I climbed last year and fully intend to climb again, rear up behind us. An anonymous but impressive nodule dominates the view across the valley. Striding Edge would be visible just beyond if the cloud wasn't so low, which it always damn well is. Strange that when you come back to a place there's all these details you'd forgotten but recall when you see again. The little lumps just outside the gardens, for example, the tree trying with insane if admirable determination to grow on top of a rock. I do, however, remember the streams of sodden walkers trudging past the gates with grim expressions; and remember the feeling of smug relief that I'm not them.

Set off from with mum and dad from York about 10-ish. It's quite a short drive, though took longer than expected due to most of the road network apparently being replaced. Had coffee at Scotch Corner, at a Moto enlivened by a vast Geordie hen party. Turned westwards across the Pennines, the scenery getting more impressive. And grim – as I've hinted, the weather today alternated between heavy showers and light showers. More is forecasted and, what with the recent floods, Peter yesterday advised be to get onto the highest peak and start gathering two of every animal. First to hand would apparently be llamas and Highland cattle, which seem to have appeared in a great multitude across the northern English countryside. Had lunch in a particularly heavy monsoon close to one of the various half-derelict castles which lurk around here. Later stopped at Penrith, a sort of junior market town, to do some shopping. I took against Penrith actually, though on reflection that was solely because somebody had turned the signs to the toilets around. Still, prejudices have to come from somewhere; and it is a miserable little hole. Got our first views of Ullswater shortly afterwards, which is always nice to see. It's admirably basic, a big, grim and largely empty slab of water with cliffs running almost straight down to the water's edge. We drove along the sliver of land wide enough for a road, stopped for tea at an aggressively quaint café at a National Trust place, saw a lunatic swimming the lake without a wetsuit, stopped yet again at a tourist/walking resort to solve the Great Potato Crisis. (Which I'm really not going to relate here). Amazingly, our next stop was actually our last. My sister Christine and her twin daughters Emily and Gemma were already there. Christine's husband Gav, their eldest Lorna, my uncle Bill and my Grandad rolled up not long after. The twins, being about two and a half are remarkably mobile these days, more so than most of the rest of us. Though they're still young enough to be amused by silly faces; luckily as that's pretty much the only string to my bow. Especially since the Roaring Game, as practiced with both them and Lorna, was vetoed by mum and anyway seems to be knackering my throat.

Yet More Pointless Self-Indulgence!

Until I think of something worthwhile to write about, a first XI of my all time favourite football players. Bear in mind that I only really started watching in 1990 and only feel a strong bond towards people I've actually seen play. No doubt Pele and Alfredo di Stefano were better than, say, Matt le Tissier, but I've only got other people's word on that.

Goal
Dean Kiely
I was always going to be hopelessly partisan somewhere so I might as well get it over with. Kiely was part of the triumvirate of great York City players who took us from the depths of the fourth tier to near the top of the third in the early 1990's, knocking Man Utd and Everton out of the League Cup for good measure. (Jon McCarthy and Paul Barnes were the other two titans, incidentally). The big clubs were always sniffing around him but he somehow got sold to Bury, revealing a chronic lack of ambition by both us and him. He did eventually get to the Premiership, a key member of the Charlton side who punched above its weight for many seasons. In truth, Kiely was never the greatest keeper in the land. He had to pretend to be Irish just to get some caps and even they rarely used him. It's telling, though, how quickly Charlton declined after Alan Curbishley lost faith in him and flogged him to Portsmouth. What's happened to York since his departure, meanwhile, is far too painful to relate here.

Full Backs
Cafu
A marked contrast to his long-term full back partner, the flashy and useless Roberto Carlos. Rather than showboating Cafu simply worked his flank tirelessly; always skilful, sometimes dangerous but never forgetting he was part of the team. He was actually rather better at supplying his strikers with crosses than protecting his own goal. You don't want your Brazilians to be too defensive, though, and better managers like Phil Scholari could adjust to their full backs effectively being wingers in disguise. Cafu played in three consecutive World Cup finals, winning two of them. After his final one, in 2002, he was literally put on a pedestal and showered with thousands of origami swans. And why not?

Paulo Maldini
Emerged in the late 1980s as an assured, stylish and handsome star. Absurdly he's still around today, and preparing to play in yet another Champions League final, albeit somewhat slower and a little less handsome. Maldini epitomises all the virtues of Italian football, the qualities we wished it would show all the time: elegance, astuteness, composure on and off the ball. He won a bucket-load of trophies at Milan and God knows how many Best Groomed awards. The only blemish in his record is a poor showing at most international tournaments. His worst was probably 1998, probably because Italy were managed by Cesare Maldini. Little Paulo had to endure the worst nightmare of all grown up men: getting yelled at from the touchlines by his dad in front of all his mates.

Central Defence
Franco Baresi
Maldini's defensive ally for Milan and Italy for many years but, in some respects, his total opposite. Baresi had a lined, pock-marked face straight from the Middle Ages, possibly a Pieter Brueghel painting of carousing peasants. And he could represent the dark side of Italian football. He wasn't thuggish and certainly not theatrical. But if he wanted to stop an attacker then that attacker would get stopped, by whatever means available. Often a glower alone was enough to make people pause. In the early 1990's, there were few sights on a football field more terrifying than Franco Baresi in a strop.

Des Walker
Some central defenders are praised for their passing and composure on the ball. Which is fine, but not what they're paid for. They're there to protect their goal; and few could do it better than Walker in his prime. "You'll never beat Des Walker" the Nottingham Forest fans sung in the late 1980's and early 90's, a period which also included England's surprising appearance in a World Cup semi finals. He had a single-minded approach to his role, doubtless fostered by Brian Clough screaming at him whenever he dared cross the half-way line. But he wasn't dirty, able to rely on his anticipation and phenomenal pace. Sadly the second half of his career, after he left Forest, was a disappointment. Opponents of Sampdoria and Sheffield Wednesday found they could now beat Des Walker with relative ease. Still, as my friend once said, he was always just a few inches of hair away from looking exactly like Jimi Hendrix.

Midfield
Zvonimir Boban
Boban's biography would be as much a recent history of the Balkans as anything. In 1989 he entered Zagreb folklore by aiming a dropkick at a Serbian policeman when a Dinamo-Red Star match turned into anarchy. Then followed years of international exile thanks to the civil war which that riot heralded. Finally he emerged, no longer a Yugoslav but part of a new entity called Croatia. And he was a key part of the Croatian side which romped to the 1998 World Cup semi finals, as much a nationalistic campaign as a sporting one. Not necessarily all praiseworthy. But Croatia were admirable in their bloody-minded determination to make the world respect them. Also in the way they achieved this through sporting brilliance rather than just tiresome aggro. Boban was the most technically gifted of the bunch, a wonderful passer who liked to lurk dangerously behind his strikers. He did good service for Milan for years too, ironically forming a fine partnership with the Serb Savicevic. Nowadays Croatia have lost all the fervour of a new nation and never get anywhere.

Matthew le Tissier
A wonderful anachronism in the 1990's. He stayed loyal to one club his whole career, the relatively humble Southampton. He played football out of a dream rather than a coaching manual. And in an era of muscular pretty boys he was laid-back, often overweight and always hideously ugly. The much-derided Alan Ball found the best way to handle le Tissier; just give him the ball as much as possible and let him get on with it. The result was a stream of brilliant individual goals – some so good they were almost farcical – and a generally mediocre Southampton side consistently finishing high up in the league. England, of course, messed it up. Le Tissier was always played out of position and scapegoated at the first opportunity. As a result, he only won nine caps and we always exited tournaments early. He departed with a typical fairytale flourish, however. Southampton's last ever game at The Dell, and who comes off the bench to score the winner in the last ever game of his career? Well, it was never going to be Francis Benali.

Georghe Hagi
The 'Maradona of the Carpathians' first caught my eye when Romania faced Argentina in the 1990 World Cup. Not only did he have a great nickname, he comprehensively outplayed the original Maradona. Hagi remained at the centre of a string of stylish Romanian sides over the next decade. He was a standard midfield genius really, capable of orchestrating his whole team and opening up the meanest defence with an inspired pass or bendy free kick. Oddly enough, his brilliance only really showed at international level. Another fine tournament would lead to another move to a big club. Hagi would soon fall out with his employers and get kicked out to somewhere like Brescia. Then the next tournament came around… The one exception was his Indian summer at Galatasaray, who he inspired to the 2000 UEFA Cup. He got sent off in the final, mind you, but that was mainly due to the theatrics of 'Honest' Tony Adams

Stephen Gerrard
Only just got onto this list, with two factors counting against him. His protracted struggles against temptation whenever Chelsea make an offer; and his poor showing at international level. But so far he's always resisted the evil West London-Siberian alliance in the end. And if his failures for England are genuine, he can at least claim the excuse of ten team-mates under-performing alongside him. In a Liverpool shirt, Gerrard can be phenomenal. He's capable of destroying the opposition through sheer force of will. The cup finals against West Ham and Milan epitomised his value; a belligerent determination to triumph which dragged his whole side forward. There's also something endearingly juvenile about his constant runs into the box, his attempts to do almost everything. Watching his workrate makes me think that some modern players deserve, if not their full salaries – who the hell does? – then perhaps a tenth of them at least.

Attack
Hristo Stoichkov
Think 'Bulgarian' and you probably picture somebody poor, humble, inconsequential. Then you've got Stoichkov. A petulant, brutish bully, he had explosive pace and a phenomenal shot but often just seemed to terrorise defenders into getting out of his way. He swaggered into the highly impressive Barcelona side of the 1990's. With Romario alongside him and Johan Cruyff in charge, it's a miracle that even the Nou Camp was large enough to accommodate their egos. Stoichkov also led Bulgaria to the semi-finals of the 1994 World Cup. En route they knocked out Germany in one of the most emotionally satisfying games I've ever seen; definitive proof that classic Teutonic arrogance had been surpassed by new egos from the East.

Gabriel Batistuta
Unlike Stoichkov, and unlike Maradona who he replaced in Argentinean hearts, Batistuta wasn't about attitude or politics. He was about goals, basically. And he scored a phenomenal number of them from an absurd range of angles. He didn't dribble through whole defences like Henry or Weah, but nor was he simply a goal-hanger. Just give him the ball a reasonable distance out and he'd probably score, however implausible this appeared. My favourite of his was for Fiorentina against Argentina. Batistuta receives the ball but the angle is tight, there's no immediate danger. A second later, Arsenal are a goal down and heading out of the Champions League. And off the field, despite looking like a rather bad rock star, 'The Archangel Gabriel' lived up to his name. (Though presumably didn't tell any virgins that they were pregnant with Our Saviour.) Sadly his trophy chest remained rather empty, thanks to his loyalty to Fiorentina and playing for various Argentinean sides never quite as good as they first appeared.

Substitutes from: Oliver Kahn, for being the goalkeeper I should have chosen rather than Dean Bloody Kiely. Marco Materazzi, for scoring in the 2006 World Cup final, scoring in the penalty shootout, having a shot cleared off the line and getting headbutted by Zidane (but otherwise enjoying a quiet game). Ronaldinho, for being both brilliant and the most butt-ugly marketing icon in history. Zinedine Zidane, as Ronaldinho but read 'second most butt-ugly marketing icon in history'. George Weah, for being a wonderful individualist who actually wanted the job of running a basket-case like Liberia (even if the Liberians didn't want him.) Oliver Neuville, for looking and sometimes playing like a frustrated insurance salesman in a Billy Wilder satire. Roberto Baggio, for being the tragic hero of 1994 and the only man ever to get away with wearing a ponytail. And so and so on…

Stomach Churning

Another reason for friendly bombs to fall on Slough. Masterfoods, makers of Mars, Snickers and Twix amongst others, have started introducing rennet into their products. Rennet is made, charmingly enough, from cows' stomachs. Some cheeses have it too, some prefer a vegetarian substitute. When the latter is used it makes absolutely no difference to taste or texture. But now, for no good reason, you can't be a vegetarian and eat a bloody Snickers.

As I've probably mentioned before, I despair of capitalism sometimes. Not because of it's greed or callousness – it's supposed to be those things – but because of it's incompetence. We live in an age of targeted marketing and saturation-bombing advertising and zippy-zappy internet techniques to get us to buy things. And why bother? When a huge company just fiddles with its recepies to exclude millions of people from its potential market.

In Masterfoods' defence, they don't seem to fully understand the issue. A spokesman said only "extremely strict vegetarians" would be repelled while "a less strict vegetarian should be fine." Now, look. Not eating stomachs isn't just a stance taken by the fundamentalists. It's not on a par with only consuming fruit which has fallen naturally from the tree. Not eating stomachs is pretty much at the heart of the matter. Oh, and in case you were wondering, we don't eat hearts either.

I think Masterfoods have taken Dylan Moran's line a little too seriously: "I'm a vegetarian but I'm not a hardcore one. I mean, I eat meat."

The Subcomandante and the Siren

Why do writers of romantic and erotic fiction do it? Surely even a job at Burger King would be less miserable. Grinding out tale after tale of unlikely and generally undesirable liaisons between gimlet-eyed men and feisty but sweet-hearted women. Some authors are single mothers, I suppose, tied to their homes by their children; some pensioners likewise by their infirmities. And a few are Latin American revolutionaries trying to support the struggle of an indigenous people against an unjust social system.

Like Subcomandante Marcos, leader of the Zapatista revolt in Mexico's Chiapas region. Famous for sporting a quirky balaclava-and-pipe combo, he's got a new book coming out soon. It won't be Mexico's answer to Das Capital. With endearing honesty he admits his motives and adds, "There's no politics in the text this time. Just sex." The Colombian guerrillas sell cocaine to fund their rebellion. This seems a healthier option. Well, more or less healthier, all things considered.

I assume Marcos is using an assumed name on the book cover – or rather, another assumed name. He's a man rather protective of his identity. And 'The Princess and the Pauper by Subcomandante Marcos' doesn't really have the right ring to it. Which raises the intriguing question – is he the first to come up with this idea? Or are some of your Isabella Heavingbosoms and Otto von Shagathons also courageous rebel leaders in disguise? I'd like to think so. Though, of course, others, maybe be supporting less worthy causes. There may be neo-Nazis and genetic cleansers paying the troops by writing of fiery but forbidden love. Defenders of copyright are always telling us that bootleg films and albums often support hardcore criminal activities. The same warnings should go through your mind the next time you consider buying a Mills & Boon.

Giant Heads In Vases

How good exactly is the new Doctor Who? That was one of those hypothetical questions. The only answer any sane man can give is 'extremely'. Its inventiveness, humour and unabashed absurdity make it the best light entertainment show the BBC has produced for years. The best anyone has, almost. It's not quite at the level of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, the Hamlet of far-fetched drama, but sometimes it comes close.

Last week's episode, for example. This addressed one of my regular complaints – that the Tardis rarely bothers leaving Earth, or even London, anymore. Well, it kind of did. The strange planet it landed on was actually New Earth. Specifically, of course, New New York (or Really New York or something like that). It's a start, I suppose.

Incredibly New York, You Don't Get Newer Than This, has a problem, naturally. Remember all those clichéd sci-fi cities with rocket cars whizzing joyfully through the sky? Forget it here. The rocket cars are all stuck solid in a three dimensional subterranean gridlock. Whole lives can be spent travelling two miles on the motorway. Actually reaching your destination – well, that concept's so implausible that few even contemplate it. Instead the Promised Land has become the motorway fast lane where, legends say, you can almost reach 30 mph.

Unfortunately the legends also say that monsters live in the fast lane and these ones are true. Specifically, giant crab type things which live off the billowing clouds of exhaust fumes. It's not explained why they also attack cars but, well, they're monsters aren't they? And there's worst. There are no destinations any more. All of New Earth has been wiped out by a mutant happy drug. The only power left is supplied by a giant head in a vase and his catwoman attendant. (And this is why I keep banging on about Doctor Who; I can't over-emphasise how much pleasure I got from writing those last two sentences.) All there's left is the motorway.

That's one of the great things about the series. It takes a fairly obvious piece of satire and then turns it on its head. The remnants of a civilisation survive precisely because they're in a permanent gridlock. The motorway has saved them. And, by extension, cars are good. Which other wannabe fashionable show would have the nerve to say that nowadays?

There's parts of it that are less good. Forty five minutes is still too short for a whole story. In particular I'd have liked to find more out about these people stuck permanently in their cars. Not why some were half-cats – a surreal touch better for its lack of explanation. But why they were all so patient. There was no cussing or honking of horns. They even broke off occasionally to sing hymns. It certainly distinguished them from the motorists of old New York. Or even, for that matter, Really Dead Old York.

I've also still got misgivings about David Tennant as the Doctor. At times he attempts Christopher Ecclestone's intensity, at others he goes for a Tom Baker-esque eccentricity. Really, though, he's just a slightly more interesting Peter Davison. And as it's biologically impossible to be less interesting than Peter Davison, that isn't saying much. Freema Agyeman, despite being remarkably attractive, isn't my favourite either. She's settled in quickly but only by making herself a Billie Piper clone. It seems that for the foreseeable future all of the Doctor's assistants will be bright, brassy Cockney girls; just as they always used to be simpering things only good for screaming.

Side issues, however. Doctors and their assistants come and go. The series will remain great as long as there's Russell T Davies' scripts, funny, inventive and never quite going where you expect. Plus, of course, giant heads in vases and their catwoman attendants.