onionbagblog

For all their cold, European coolness, Stereolab write bloody good pop songs. The melodies and hooks aren’t hidden away underneath all the electronica, despite their best attempts. It’s makes for a compelling combination.

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You can’t write a standalone para on a hit and miss blog post to sum up what John Robertson meant to Forest fans. Especially when it’s half bashed out on Christmas Day. The obits in His Majesty’s Popular Prints will no doubt do justice to the Miracle Man in the morning.

But woh. Robbo. That hit hard. It’s been no secret down at the World Famous that he has been seriously unwell for a while now. His lifestyle and laid back approach to life looks like it finally caught up with him. It was such a shame that he couldn’t make the Malmo reunion down at Trentside last month.

One by one, we are losing that transformative Forest team from the late 70’s. Tricky Trevor - now that really hurt, Big Larry, and now the most talented man from a squad of misfits and geniuses. Robbo manages to make both categories.

My own memories from that period are hazy. In my defence, I was only seven years of age when I first visited the World Famous. I definitely saw Robbo play in the Championship season. Likewise in European Cup matches. My memory, and any lack of physical memorabilia, means that I can’t pinpoint specific matches apart from the League Cup Final replay away at Old Trafford in ‘78.

Robbo famously fell out with BC when he did the dirty and briefly signed for D***y. But he was only the collateral damage. The real story was the lifelong friendship between Clough and Taylor coming to an end over that particular deal.

Robbo did find his way back to the City Ground, but the magic was gone. The Miracle Men team had long since been broken up. He was a bit part player, brought in to show guidance to a second generation of Clough kids that was starting to shine. What a role model to have, on and off the pitch, etc.

I was surprised to see him follow Martin O’Neill into management, first at L******er, and then surprisingly up at Celtic. The Good Cop, Bad Cop pairing was incredibly successful at both clubs, almost on a level with what Clough and Taylor achieved.

O’Neill somehow found the energy to return to Celtic last month. Robby’s days on the touchline were over many, many years ago. It has been a slow decline, but his legacy will always be untarnished at Forest. He was the tramp with the scruffy shoes and greasy hair, that provided the perfect pinpoint cross for Francis to score THAT goal.

And now they’re both gone. Measuring moments in your own life around these external storylines can get a little unsettling. Especially so on Christmas Day.

What a man.

“Love and intellect, that’s a good combination for young super-achievers.”

Via Dave Winer.

How Cycle to Work was saved

tl;dr Centrist social democrat dickheads can’t pick a side.

I use to own a copy of this over 35 years ago. From memory I absolutely adored it. I barely recognised a song, apart from the Velvets cover, when I played it back this morning. It’s still a decent album. It just didn’t leave me hanging, wanting more. The mood is more late night than early morning. The ambience thing with the single mic works well. But not the masterpiece my memory wanted it to be.

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The man with the blue guitars

Lovely heartfelt Chris Rea obit from the always excellent Richard Williams. Rea was so misunderstood by the mainstream, especially around this time of the year. I’d argue that On the Beach is his true seasonal classic.

“Talk about a Häagen-Dazs-aster”

Ice cream entitlement. Arf.

The perfect beat, so to speak. This sounded like the future in 1983, and still feels the same now. the beats are so crisp. There’s also some half decent rhythms behind all the pulsating electronica. All good groups need a persona. The Soul Sonic Universe added to the mystery by building comic book characters around the music. Recent years have sadly soiled the legacy.

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More wine bar wanker music.

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By all definitions, Fulham is not a proper football club. There. Let’s get that out of the way: No London tradition, tourist fans and Jimmy bloody Hill. Quite an opening statement. But still. Fulham is not a proper football club.

And that’s pretty much the Crap Match Report written the morning after the night before, in an attempt to explain a Forest performance that can’t really be explained.

tl;dr Christ, we were shit.

It’s not fair to focus on any particular Forest player for the woeful away display. No one really played above at best, a six out of ten. High line defending led to me having a cold sweat, last seen in the dark days of Ange the Clown.

Fulham weren’t all that, either. This was a game where both teams seemed nervous to over commit. If you wanted to witness a couple of clubs battling it out for mid-table obscurity, then this was your game.

Both teams were scared of making the first - and game defining - mistake. Forest blinked first with a Luiz poorly timed tackle that led to the pen. His first contact was fine; but he came back for a second nibble, leading to the first and only goal of the game.

There wasn’t a lot that Big John could do to save the Jiménez penalty. I’m scraping around for positives, but I thought that Victor otherwise looked like a safe pair of hands in place of Sels.

Forest were dominant in the second half, without ever looking like scoring. The home crowd was restless. I refuse to be undone by a bloke called Kevin.

And so without calling out anyone in particular… CHO went AWOL. The best you can say about Savona is that he is learning on the job. McaTee Meh. I’d be amazed if he is still around at the World Famous when the transfer window closes.

This has been a shit show of a season, with so much crap flying around behind the scenes. It will continue this way as we try and stabilise. The secret is not to get too carried away by the highs of Anfield, but equally don’t get too down by an away defeat at a London tourist club.

Fulham is not a proper football club. Which means that the result doesn’t count. So there.

We had TWO crews out along the Muddy Banks for a WivGigs Monday social row. And this included carrying a passenger in one boat, as a game of musical chairs took place on board as we made our way downstream towards Buoy 16 and beyond.

A little bird spotting took place by those that were bothered. Apologies, but a bird is a bloody bird. I’m here for the water, and hopefully a little peace and quiet.

That said, the flyover from a flock of geese was half decent. They might have been pigeons, but the personal touch as they made a flight path directly above us was a bit of a moment. I wasn’t alone in looking for geese / pigeon shit on my club clothing once they had buggered off to the other side of the Muddy Banks.

It was incredibly mild out there. The musical chairs meant that I found my way towards the front of the boat and on stroke. I refused to take off any layers. That boat can be full of crap with all the mud. My OCD mind would meltdown at the thought of river shit soiling my clothing.

Keep on moving, Jase. Keep on moving. Which meant that soon I was coxing. In a boat full of females, I held off with my OH SO FUCKING FUNNY cox joke. It was probably for the best.

Bateman’s Towner and Brightlingsea was soon within sight. Buoy 16 was reached.

“Anyone fancy the Rat?”

Oh go on then, Why not. Rat Island was entered. Here Be Rats, etc. We took the opportunity to stuff our faces with festive food.

The row back to the Sailing Club was a bit of a slog, tbh. I had a pressing work shift and wanted to get a move on. This was no time for bird spotting.

Oh.

I had to do a runner at the end on the Sailing Club. I took some water in on my wellies.

Arse.

Why is Andy Warhol Shite?

Bill Drummond reflects, thinks, then acts.