Ralph the Wonder Llama

Just a quick hello. We had a nice big thunderstorm last night and another one this afternoon. It’s just stopped raining after several hours, and it’s nice and cool and damp. Lovely.

Last night at about 4 am there was an earthquake, the second time in two months that I’ve been flat on my back in bed and felt the earth move, so things are clearly looking up. This was a proper good one too, with general shakiness and stuff clattering about on the fireplace.

I finished my malaria tablets this morning, so just have a few of the antibiotics and painkillers left to go, and hopefully I should be cured. I’ve had three decent nights in a row now and am feeling much improved, if still a bit whacked generally. Distinctly healthier though, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear. The thought that’s stayed with me over the past few days is that, while this is a disease that affects and indeed still kills so many people worldwide every year, I’ve been treated with six tablets in three days at a cost of something like £2.50. I know that’s a lot more money to some than it is to me, but it puts into perspective what the governments of the world spend their money on. There are some strange priorities out there.

Later I shall exchange one form of pain for another by watching (satellite reception permitting) Liverpool play Chelski, in the company of a long-serving Chavs fan who’s staying here just now. Tara has threatened to call the police. I suspect, given the importance of a win to both sides, that we’ll end up with a tedious 0-0 draw.

Hopefully back to work tomorrow. I’ve lost a fair bit of time to illness, but hey, what can one do? I have a sick note, after all.

Well, that was a bit bonkers, no?

I’d rather we’d won, of course, and maybe this sort of thing isn’t the best way for a sensitive soul to spend 90 minutes, but blinkey blimey, what a game. It may not be good for the ticker, but surely if it didn’t exist already, someone would have to invent football. It’s games like this, even when on the losing side, that makes one feel like, well, who cares about work tomorrow anyway?

Great stuff. Good effort. Cheers lads.

Oh, and remember what day it is tomorrow.

It’s fair to say I’m not the cook I once was. Some would say I wasn’t then, either, but then they never got invited round for dinner. So there. Anyway, this morning I was seized by the urge to cook myself a roast beef sunday lunch. This is something I used to do regularly when I was a kid, but like so many things over the years, the habit died away. My yorkshire puddings were once the stuff of legend, and my roast potatoes were ever things of beauty, even if I say so myself. Now, I’ve still got the roast potato knack, as evinced by christmas dinner, but I haven’t made yorkshire pudding in decades. Time to bite the bullet, then. As it were.

I think I’ve been encouraged by the venison experience. Beef is a little more fatty than venison but is somewhat less, erm, deer. Ahem. It is, of course, pretty simple to cook, and now I wonder what I was worried about. A lack of confidence more than anything I think. My gravy still isn’t the best, it never was, but one can always improve, n’est pas? The yorkies came out well enough, though, especially for a first effort in so long. Behold, today’s lunch:

washed down with a very nice bottle of Languedoc from my ever-lovely local vintner, Mr Cornelius, who now opens on sundays, which is very civilised of him.

“But Ralph”, I hear you cry, “have you no qualms about the cooking of your beefy brethren?” Not so, dear reader, not so. For you see we llamas are Camelidae, rather than Bovine. So we can munch beefs quite happily, thank you. Your concern is appreciated, however – we are well known for our delicate temperament.

A quick mention is due to the England women’s cricket team, who last night won the ICC women’s one-day world cup. Well played, indeed, even if I was too tired to stay awake for the batting.

Another quick mention for the rather spectacular week enjoyed by the capricious liverpool fc, beating Real 4-0 in the home leg of the CL, then coming from one down to beat Man U 1-4 away, and today beating Villa 5-0 at home. Nice, especially after Fulham’s performance yesterday. The PL title is still out of our hands, but this sort of thing is most enjoyable

On Sunday Donald, Bruce and I went off to Perth to see Ross County play Airdrie Utd in the Challenge Cup Final, a hat-trick of finals in recent years. We got to Perth, where the final is played at St Johnstone’s ground, just after opening time and headed to the Foundry to play pool and prepare ourselves for the cold by drinking beer. Mmm, beer. At least, I was playing pool – I’m not really sure what the other two were doing. Ahem. Anyway, without giving too much away, here is the scene of the first defeat of the day:

So after that we jumped in a cab and headed for the ground. It was a pretty action-packed game, and I would say that County probably had the better of it without really having the final cutting edge to make the most of it, partly due to the absence of their first-choice striker. Half time saw the welcome respite of steak pie and Bovril all round. Mmm, pie.

An own goal each and a spirited comeback by RC in extra time from 1-2 down saw us back at penalties, just as in 2006. This time however, despite taking a lead at 2-1, a crossbar-striking fourth swung the balance and after a penalty shootout that England would have been proud of, Airdrie edged it 3-2:

A shame, but such are the fine margins that these things descend to. We returned to the pub for consolatory pints before getting the train back to Edinburgh and another couple of Dark Island-y consolations. The boys were sad but not broken. Donald even managed an impression of the fluorescent bloke out of Tron:

Still a good day out – next time we shall wreak our rewenge!

I speak, of course, not of myself, though I am both – although confirmation today of my impending unemployment could make me poorer unless I find something sharpish – no. I speak of my other footballing allegiance, to the Mighty Seagulls. Last night they humbled the club 5Live described as “the newest members of the Billionaires’ Club”, Man Citeh, in the League Cup after extra time and penalties. Although it went the distance, it sounds as though we very much earned our victory, and had the character to keep going forward when 2-1 up in extra time. Victory on penalties certainly didn’t represent a streaky win. Well played lads. Especially since we lost (again) at the weekend at home (again) to a team (Walsall) who were down to nine men by 33 minutes. Ahem.

In other news, this is my last chance to tell you that communications may be even more scanty than of late for a short while, as I’m off on holiday tomorrow for a couple of weeks. I’m headed to India with my good friend Claire (provided someone reboots the air traffic control PC that is…), and we’re off to the Golden Triangle for a week, then up to the mountains to visit Ims and Narendra for a few days, then back to Delhi for a couple of days’ sightseeing before coming home, with several train journeys in between. Marvellous. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back

No, I’m not even going to be overbearingly smug about it. It’s enough to relish the moment, for the first time in too many years. And maybe do a little happy dance. Just a little one.

We earned it, we deserved it, we could have scored more (I’m looking at you, mr kuyt), we rode our luck, we managed not to arse it up in the last ten minutes, for once.

w00t!

So after two (more) agonisingly fraught evenings in front of the telly, we’re out. As predicted it was extremely tight and there was no more in it than a series of mistakes, individual acts of brilliance, bad decisions and lucky breaks. Except this time we came out on the wrong end of things. You can’t win them all (I seem to recall saying something similar last May as well…) I guess. One has to feel sorry for Riise, although in the end who’s to say how much difference it really made? I thought we were on the up towards the end of 90 minutes, but we didn’t make the most of the initiative. Going two behind in extra time was always going to be fatal.

Oh well. No trip to Copenhagen for the final this year, then. Chelski v Manure final – I find it hard to think of anything I could possibly care less about. Here’s hoping for a draw

Cards.

After the dreadful display served up by my beloved liverpool today, capped by the wantonly naive behaviour of one javier mascherano who talked his way into a yellow card after a fowl of his own, and a red after one of someone else’s. For a decision that went our way. Thanks for that masch. Not like we have any important games coming up or anything.

Anyway, here’s a funny little moment that lightened the day a little. I’ve just finished William Dalrymple’s City of Djinns and was casting about for something to read next on the bus to work. I’ve got a couple spare but don’t immediately fancy either of them, so I went to the shelves to see if I’d stuck anything there I hadn’t yet read. I noticed Himalaya by Michael Palin which I couldn’t remember whether or not I’d read. So I picked it off the shelf and as I opened it, a small sheaf of cards – feint ruled white – fell out. They were my notes from my best man’s speech at Mr and Mrs B’s wedding in July 2006 – I’d always assumed I’d binned them that weekend since I never could find them again. So I’ve stuck them in the photo album with the invitation and order of service now, for safer keeping. A timely coincidence since I’m off to his mum’s wedding next weekend, to which I’m looking forward immensely.

All of which means I must have read the book after all (I recall now I read it that week between my dad’s 70th birthday and the wedding), so back on the shelf it went

Inflicting the first defeat in ages and ages upon Inter at the San Siro in Milan, the Mighty Reds marched into the Champions League quarter-finals tonight. Yet another fantastic goal from the proto-legend that is Fernando Torres, and another vaguely dodgy sending-off for poor old Inter. I thought the first leg sending off was sort of alright, although slightly unlucky. This one was plain silly. Yes the first one was a cynical foul and deserved a card, but the second one was an indication of how far the ref had lost it in the second half.

Still, never mind, eh?

On balance we deserved the win. What odds on Chelski next? Short, I reckon. UEFA will be in a panic. English balls will be warm in the draw on Friday, have no doubt about that. Ahem.

Worth a mention today. Barnsley redeem themselves in the eyes of liverpool fans everywhere by beating chelski as well. Avram Grant, the man hilariously described in the grauniad as looking so frightening that he must have been ferried from the underworld on a gondola made of skulls, looked appropriately unhappy at full time, and was condemned by lee dixon on MoTD as being out of a job by next season even if they win the champions league (which, of course, they won’t).

Previously, portsmouth marvellously beat manure in the theatre of drones for the first time in 50 years, raising clouds of buffoon-like nonsense from mssrs. ferguson and quieroz. You lost. Take it like men ffs.

One can only hope, then, that cardiff do boro tomorrow so as not to allow them to ruin the whole thing. God forbid that boro get to the final, let alone win it, or they will in one fell swoop dispel the aura of magic that has been restored to the competition this year, sweeping it aside in a limp flurry of banal mediocrity. Worse, it will make gareth southgate the next england manager. Remember it well – those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it.