Random meanderings on football, books and bike theft

Like, I assume, the rest of you, I'm listening to Hull v. Stoke City on Radio 5. We're 2-0 up and guaranteed survival, which pleases me mightily, though I'd like Hull to stay up too. I'm particularly happy that the entire world is listening to the match on the World Service. What a great way to encounter the quality, the class, the sheer magic of the English Premier League.

Over at the Hawthorns, West Brom are storming to a win over Wigan too: fantastic. We always beat them, they play attractive football and their fans are brilliant, so I hope they pull off a great escape.

I should be writing the final piece of this month's PGCE essay, but I've wasted the day reading the Guardian - which means ripping out more book reviews, leading to more purchases. There's a brilliant essay by Elaine Showalter on her favourite eight overlooked American female authors - a good corrective to the endless lionisation of cigar-chewing, gun-toting grand old men of American letters.

The only wrinkle on the day was the end of Neal's birthday. He left his bike at Wolverhampton Swimming Pool overnight, and found this morning that some utter wanker has smashed it up, really gone to town on it. If it had been stolen, I could understand the logic, but the sheer mindlessness of deciding to smash up somebody else's bike because it's there completely defeats me. (Obviously, the security cameras are only trained on the car park - cyclists are beneath the attention of all authority). Still if anyone has a housemate with spokes stuck in their shoes, let me know.

It's also a bit annoying because I gave Neal a micro-techno-super-pump and a bicycle bell for his birthday. Perhaps I'll attach the bell to his shoes.

Still - tonight I shall be attending the Star Trek movie. On my own, like a proper Trek fan.

Competitive bird-seeing

My chums are getting competitive about their birdwatching - degenerating into spotting really. Cynical Ben is especially pleased that he's seen fringilla montifringilla (depicted above courtesy of the RSPB who love birds except for pheasants). Seen one finch, seen them all, I say. He's overjoyed that Dan didn't because he got the wrong bus in Wigan. If you have to go to Wigan to see a bird, it's not worth it. Orwell didn't give up his wanderings there for no reason, you know. Even Stoke didn't make him turn round. 

Dan's response is, of course, masterly. He quietly pointed out that Ben hasn't yet seen 'the rather more common pied wagtail'. Stick that in your binoculars!