So it’s Monday again. Sunday wasn’t very silent and I didn’t have enough photos for a blog post, so forgive my absence! Plus, it got that there was a lot of other stuff going on and I got way too excited to write a blog post!
My Monday tune today is Razorlight with ‘Vice’ –
Not only is this a stonking good tune but Johnny Borrell bears more than a passing resemblance to the guy I was seeing back in 2004-6, on and off. It’s the hair and the mouth. He’s one of my favourite ex-boyfriends now and it’s funny that we fell out so much (we really did – we both love arguments and won’t give in if we think we’re right – and when you’re arguing on moral topics, it’s impossible to be right) and I used to make him sleep in the spare room. We spent a lot of time together in London when I was working down there – in fact he is the one who coined the perfect date, taking me on the London Eye at sunset for a champagne toast. Unfortunately, he’d open his mouth and just spoil everything.
So, much love to my ex, who told my friends he was a pole-dancer and still spends much of his time being silly and childish and argumentative, and then telling me about it, as if he wants my approval for his argumentative ways.
Much love to Manchester. In specific to Manchester City. This is the reason I was otherwise occupied yesterday. I’m not much of a football fan in reality. I used to watch it a lot when I was younger. In fact, the summer Phil went to work for Keycamp in St Hilaire de Riez, I watched each match faithfully, cut out the match reports from his favourite newspaper, and sent him a full LJ-style match report. I also played a lot of football in my time as a grown up and coached the girls’ football teams in schools I worked at. However, nobody could disagree that yesterday’s football was monumental.
Manchester City – long time exiles and second-fiddle to United – 44 years without a league title – more than many City fans can remember – won the league in the last minute. Literally, in the last minute. I was desperately hopping from United to City and back again. United had to win for a City draw or loss. It seemed unlikely. United away. City at home. City playing relegation-dodgers QPR with a vibrant 5-match win pattern under their belt. It was destined to be their year. City played 18 matches at home – drew 1 and won the other 17. It seemed like it was in the bag. United haven’t been on good form recently either – and it just seemed like there was a blue mood over the city.
Then at 20 minutes, Rooney put United ahead at Sunderland.
It wasn’t a bad thing. City fans knew they needed to score, and so they did. City went back on top.
Then QPR scored. QPR and United fans cheered – United went back on top.
And those minutes dragged on. Then QPR scored again and it seemed an almost-certainty that United had won. All the United players were gloating already on Twitter and Facebook.
It was heart-stopping. In fact, if my brother-in-law hadn’t had a few mini-heart attacks yesterday, I’d be surprised. He’s blue through and through. To have come so close and bottled it.
Not only that, City were playing like demons. 30-odd shot at goal. They were playing like they meant to win.
Joey Barton – ex-City player, now at QPR, down-and-out thug with a prison sentence behind him – got sent off, and not only did City cheer that this dirty player had been sent off, but it seemed more likely that City would win against 10 men. Joey Barton is a disgrace to the game – tried to take out three or four other players on the way out, including Mario Balotelli. I would pay very good money to see an ice-hockey style ‘in the wings’ fight at this point between Balotelli and Barton.
But it wasn’t happening.
QPR just got more and more determined.
90 minutes. City are 2-1 down. They just aren’t coming back.
You’d think, anyway.
But then, in United style – well-known for injury-time goals – City scored. 2-2. But it still wasn’t good enough. You’re in stoppage time and you need two goals. It’s like Mission Impossible. You’ve had 80% of the possession, hundreds of shots on goal and you’re down to the last minutes. Ironically, had it not been for the Joey Barton demonstration, there wouldn’t have been so much stoppage time. And, in the fourth minute of five stoppage minutes – City scored again. The only other time I’ve felt so heart-stoppingly, breath-stoppingly anxious was in the last 20 seconds of the England-Australia 2003 Rugby Union World Cup. Jonny Wilkinson’s drop goal is just up there with the last 5 minutes of the City match yesterday.
3-2 City. United, win behind them, have lost the league on points.
I don’t really care who wins the league, generally. It’s fabulous for City to win it because my brother-in-law has never seen them win it – and United can afford to be magnanimous.
It was a good, good day for Manchester and it would have been fabulous to have been there. I was there last year when United won the league and City won the cup – but nothing rivals winning the Premiership.
So huge and big loves to
b) Manchester City
c) My bother-in-law and my step-dad who both love City
d) Mario Balotelli because he is absolutely crackers
And no love for Joey Barton. Well, maybe a little because he obviously had no ‘up-bringing’ to speak of and he did give City lots of stoppage time in which to win.
pictures via The Guardian
So, I’m off outside to enjoy the lovely May sunshine, albeit with a cold breeze and to get the rest of the flowerbed finished. Steve has been executing my ideas for a flowerbed – and it looks fabulous. I am highly impressed. Pictures to follow. Yesterday, I was toiling over the vegetable patch whilst he dug up the plot. Today, it’s time for mowing, strimming and pruning. I’ve got a segment of the vegetable patch that got too weedy for hoeing, so I’m digging that over.
Finally… Much Love Monday poem.
It’s Walt Whitman with Patroling Barnegat
How I love this poem!
How a present participle can rule. And you never thought a little thing was so important?
WILD, wild the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending, 10
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,
A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage trinity warily watching.