CALL OF DUTY: MODERN WARFARE 3

Call of Duty is the big one; the hot ticket. Everyone plays this game. It’s the stuff of life (except for those who claim it encapsulates everything that stinks about late capitalism and the post-Big-Brother-on-Channel-Four era in general).

Fans of the ‘shooting at people’ aspect introduced in the last Call of Duty game will be excited to hear that ‘shooting at people’ has been scaled up for the new release. Players will now able to pick up a gun, swap it for a louder gun, and then jog around for a bit (with gun in their mitts). Advanced players may also wish to ‘fire’ their gun in order to hospitalise another player. This will generally be frowned by other gamers, however, since it tends to spawn a wave of copycat violence that stretches the underfunded medical staff to breaking point – ruining it for others.

At its best, however, this game will be exhilarating and true – an accurate rendition of modern warfare, particularly World War I or the Crimean.

A gamer’s verdict:
Buy this game! It will make you a better person, especially in battle conditions.

Modern Warfare 3 - Shooting - at a building!

FIFA 12

The FIFA series has become so realistic that no one minded when Scottish football in its entirety was computerised last year and the league played out on FIFA instead. The plan was to save money, but most fans prefer it. Gone are the days of screaming abuse from the stands at crap, overrated strikers – now you can control all the players yourself (apart from Rangers captain David Weir, of course, who refused to appear on the grounds that he prefers the Pro Evolution Soccer series – he is ‘unlockable’ if you qualify for the Champions League, however).

Every FIFA game has been an improvement on the last, and you can bet your boots that FIFA 12 will be exactly the same (by that I mean different). Early reports suggest improved graphics, better ball physics, and an increased RRP of £42.99.

A gamer’s verdict:
I’ve played every FIFA since 1994, and I can honestly say that I’ve lost my way in life.

FIFA 12 - a sporting chance?

MASS EFFECT 3

Mass Effect has fallen foul of the law of unintended consequences. Because the first game was quite successful, the developers had to make another one (Mass Effect 2). This brought more work upon themselves and a lot of self-recrimination at the staff Christmas party that year.

Details on the new Mass Effect game are very sketchy. I’m not really sure what it’s about. Aliens? It does look good though, if you like video games (aliens?).

A gamer’s verdict:
This is set to be one sick game alright, but do NOT pay market value. Head to Amazon.co.uk for a 2-3% discount. See you online suckers!

Mass Effect 3: An artist's impression

I wish to lodge a complaint about the weather. Oxfordshire, where I reside, has been ‘bathed’ in sunshine and temperatures have cleared 22 degrees in the shade. Am I to presume that the dire warnings contained in my earlier letters have fallen on deaf ears? I refuse to sport a baseball cap. The bare idea is repugnant to me.

This heatwave has been profoundly unwelcome, and has already brought about a most regrettable decline in standards within the local area. My fellow residents have plainly taken leave of their senses (by that I euphemistically mean their clothing). Just this noontime I spied a young, slim blonde woman promenading in town dressed as though for the beach. Need I remind you that there are no beaches in Oxfordshire whatsoever, and we have the fewest paddling pools, per capita, in her Majesty’s Commonwealth. To say my eyes bugged out when I saw this nubile, near-nude lady emerging from John Lewis would be understating it. As a higher-rate taxpayer, I expect more.

Has this great nation succumbed to the lowly creed ‘sun’s out, get your guns out’? To clarify, I overheard this curious phrase fall from the lips of a frightful young man, proudly holding forth to his (presumably) disgusted lady-friend earlier today. I won’t pretend to know what this expression denotes exactly, but as soon as I heard it I knew which way the wind was blowing. I buttoned my felt blazer plumb up to the neck and marched towards the nearest railway station. I made my point, and I made it with dignity – notwithstanding the sweat running heavily down the wrinkles on my contorted face. I was in vile humour when I arrived home and nearly didn’t feed my cat. This weather is nothing less than a public menace!

I do not ask for the abolition of summer. I simply request that this ‘scorchin’ weather’ – and the decadence it brings with it – is hived off and perhaps outsourced to Scotland, where less damage can be done. I am hardly asking for the moon (although that would be undoubtedly preferable to the sun!). I enclose a petition, signed, admittedly, by a small number of people, but it is quality, not quantity that you should look for. All of us have paid off our mortgages, and Mrs Wythshaw has been on Gardener’s Question Time. Crème de le crème.

We can only hope that a new, milder weather front will show its hand. Do not doubt that I will watch the forecast with an iron concentration tonight. If I hear young Laura Tobin (my personal favourite weather presenter – quite, quite alluring) declare ‘we are in for sunny intervals and a light breeze,’ then you will hear from me again.

Warmest (or should I say ‘coldest’) regards,

Andy Parsons

'I also want all sand castles flattened' - Parsons

His stepfather, John Keith Rowling, had warned the young Harry that wizardry was a sunset industry, in which career prospects were disastrous at best. Dumbledore, the trade body for wizards, had folded in 1985 amid much infighting and subsequently the entire industry had been mired in a rearguard battle against the effects of Thatcherism, Majorism, Blairism, and Brownism. It was certainly against his stepfather’s wishes – and those of most industry insiders – that, at age eleven, he proudly enrolled at Hogwart’s Institute, Bolton. A disappointed Rowling was to later tell anyone listening that the boy would never amount to a tin of beans – unless he turned himself into one, using his wand and a cod-Latin incantation. Not a very supportive thing to say!

Most of his fellow graduates were likewise unemployed – or underemployed. His girlfriend Emma Watson was stacking shelves in the UK’s ‘big four’ supermarkets (Tesco, Sainsbury’s, Morrison, Asda). It was tiring work, although there was at least the dangling organic carrot of career progression in some management scheme or other. His best friend Ronald Weasley (nickname ‘Weaselchops’) was also on the dole, although he was doing some volunteering shit to improve his CV – pro bono catering work for homeless tramps in north London. Some graduates had better luck, however. His hated rival Ian Voldemort had been recruited by a hedge fund in the City, where the arsehole was gleefully trousering £110k pa with an uncapped bonus scheme, company car fully expensed, a pension scheme, family healthcare, 30 days annual holiday and share options. Ian had always had a ‘golden touch’ and his success was no great surprise, even though he was without a nose on his face.

Harry had a strong CV that had been feverishly honed over many days while playing Farmville. It described him as a ‘shameless teamster’ who is ‘equally comfortable plugging away solo’. The document bandied about some powerful attributes – ‘self-starter’, ‘results-oriented’, and ‘customer-facing’. Impressive! He also enjoyed most racquet sports and yogilates. He kept a blog and had 9,413,983 followers on Twitter (Harry Potters fans to a man).

Unsurprisingly, the document had earned him some interviews (on average, between two and nine a month). However, all the interviews had gone quite badly for Harry. He had prepared for each of them feverishly, while playing Farmville, had hit them with his best lines (e.g. ‘’For all-round office admin, I’m the leader of the pack’) but to no avail. He asked for feedback after one interview and received the following: ‘You’re certainly a strong candidate. You’re smart as a whip and fizzing with ideas and optimism. However, with the best will in the world I cannot employ you at his juncture. I ask you once again, please leave my office.’

Harry could not be disappointed for long. He still received some royalties for those films he had been in and was a millionaire several times over.

THE END

Harry Potter, his girlfriend, and a friend (Ronald) in happier times

Murdoch's official spokesman (since sacked)

Rebekah Brooks:
“This is just another one of those bastard media feeding frenzies that get blown out of all proportion – I should know, because I’ve started most of them. Look, they’ve always been out to get me – the leftie-weftie bleeding-heart-liberal establishment. You know who I mean. I’m taking about the BBC, the Guardian, Billy Bragg, and my former husband Ross Kemp. Always the same four. I think they’re threatened by the presence of an upwardly-mobile, ambitious and successful career woman like me. Either that or it’s because I do the bidding of a ruthless, expansionist media tycoon who’s been terrifying prime ministers into eating out of his wrinkly hand for decades. Or maybe it was the news about us hacking into mobile phones of the murdered and the grieving, but I think that’s a side-issue.

“If they think my head’s gonna roll, they’ve got another fucking thing coming. I’ll sack every last one of those beneath me before I resign – wait, I’ve already done that. OK, I’ll sack everyone above me who isn’t called Mr. Murdoch. You’re all fired! This is turning into The Apprentice. I would be bloody good on that show. Rupert watches it actually. He wanted to have the ‘Alan Sugar’ role but declined owing to a scheduling conflict. Also, the BBC didn’t ask him. That’s among the reasons why he wants to completely terminate their broadcasting existence and crush Hugh Edwards underfoot. He doesn’t like Cash in the Attic, either. Or the fact they dropped Neighbours.”

Andy Coulson:
“I can officially confirm I’ve been arrested and am feeling a bit hacked off! Excuse the pun – once a tabloid hack, always a tabloid hack. Whoops, there’s another pun for you there! Who said we didn’t have a sense of fun at the News of the World? We were always laughing at people, then hacking their phones and exposing the most intimate details of their lives. If that’s not comedy, I don’t know what is. For the record, I’ve always found Michael McIntyre really funny. His voicemail messages are a laugh, too.

“You see, I’m laughing now – I’m usually laughing, actually – but Holy Mother of God am I depressed right now. No joke. I’m used to feeling pretty happy all the time, or if not happy then at least continually smug. I’m starting to fear I’ll never feel continually smug again. I’m not looking for sympathy, but I’d happily take it without authorisation.

“I’m also getting weary of working for sinister, nasty organisations like News Corp, the Tories, or Enron (I did two weeks’ instructive work experience there). It’s brought me nothing but trouble and six-figure salaries, structured bonus plans, sleek company cars and my own personal bladed-up henchman.

“I’m actually one of the good guys! When I’m released from prison, I want to work with the disadvantaged. I’ve already sent my CV to Lib Dem head office.”

James Murdoch:
“I know how to deal with this crisis. I’m on top of everything. I wear a suit. There’s no need for my bloody father to be here. I learned everything I know at his knee – so I’m basically the same as him, only younger and better at most sports except golf and Aussie rules football. I wear strange glasses, have a sort of mid-Atlantic accent that’s hard to place, and went to Harvard where I aced every semester and got an upper second. I am also socially popular to boot, unlike Bill Zuckerburg. I’m here on my own merit and the fact I’m Rupert Murdoch’s son is basically neither here nor there, but all the same I’m not 100% sure what to do right now and Dad’s coming over to sort of help out a bit. Again.”

David Cameron:
“Look, we’re all in this together. Let’s be clear – I wanted to start an enquiry ages ago, but then a couple of men in fawn raincoats appeared at my door. It was Murdoch trying to intimidate me. It worked – I didn’t bring in the milk that day, and had to order in from Waitrose. See what I’m up against?”

No one else was available for comment

Except:
Paul McMullan:
“Can’t they find anyone else to wheel out? I’ve been wearing the same beige suit for a week and I need some sleep, not to mention a fucking shave. Last time I appeared on TV, Steve Coogan called me morally bankrupt, Will Self said I was ‘rat-like’ and even Emily Maitlis thought I was a ‘tortured soul.’ I’m giving the showbiz life a break for a while.

So, you’ve started writing a blog. Anyone read it yet, my friend? From the look on your face, I didn’t think so. (For the record, anything between 1-15 views per day is not statistically significant, so if you fall into this particular bracket, don’t be too smug).

Want to know how to get more people to visit your blog? Maybe they might even read it? Of course you do! Like any newly-minted blogger, you’d like to make easy money from your scribblings, or at least use your nascent blogosphere celebrity as a launchpad for a gilded career at Channel 4. Here’s how to do this (below):

1. Write GOOD blog posts
Is your blog playing to empty halls night after night? There might be a reason. The blog posts you’re submitting every day are garbage, or at best very unsatisfactory. In fairness, this can be a very difficult issue to fix. If you ain’t got it, you ain’t got it. Next!

2. Blog often
Blogging is a full-time job, like being a parent, or working as a regional sales manager for a large soulless grocery company (Somerfield). It calls for drudgery, duty, and hard work. Blogging is not, and never can be, fun – whichever way you slice it.

However, don’t despair – you’ve started the ruddy blog now, and needs must. Remember, in order to succeed, it’s vital to blog frequently. In the time you’ve spent reading this sentence, 651 people have submitted a new blog post. See what you’re up against? You need to eat, sleep, and drink your blog (don’t necessarily take this literally – your laptop is plugged into the mains).

What’s in the news right now? What’s trending on Twitter? Been on any good holidays recently with the girls? Blog all about it! (Keep in mind that holidaying, or similar social outings are not advised since they shrink the amount of raw blogging time you have. If you must go out, make sure you have good, reliable wi-fi. Coffee shops, airports, prisons etc. are usually fine but always ring ahead.)

3. Social media is your friend
Woe betide the simpleton blogger who does not rely on Facebook, Twitter etc. as a shameless vehicle of self-promotion. Fire up the social networks and spread the word! Written a great blog post? You should be bloody proud of what you’ve achieved. Tweet it. Plaster it on your Facebook wall. Ping it to all your friends on MSN Messenger (remembering to add ‘with my compliments’).

Of course, there is a fine line between ‘letting people know,’ and spamming them without mercy. Remember this.

I mean, otherwise people might write bad-mannered comments on your blog, which can make your head go down a little bit.

So, just saying.

4. Comment on other people’s blogs, as well as your own one
The blogosphere is an exhilarating hothouse of political and economic argument. Of course, I concede there’s some frivolous content out there as well (cats, sex), but on balance it’s a very intellectual milieu. If you don’t believe me, check the comments left after any YouTube video. Witty, classy, insightful. A breath of fresh air.

So, leave comments! Start by leaving comments on other people’s blogs, to warm up. When you feel ready, start commenting on your own blog posts – even if you disagree with what has been said. Some of the greatest arguments take place with oneself.

If you leave a comment on someone else’s blog, they have to leave a comment on yours. This is the blogger’s warrior code. And if it’s a complimentary comment you leave, they owe you $5.50 – which must be paid into your PayPal account by COB the next day. This is probably the quickest way to make money from blogging.

That is, unless people leave complimentary comments on your blog. In which case, it is best to delete them promptly.

5. Add tags
You may have blogged something more pregnant with grace and meaning than anything written by Shakespeare. But if you haven’t tagged it accordingly, no one will read it.

Actually, Shakespeare tagged every play he wrote – this was the secret of his success. For instance, he tagged Romeo and Juliet as follows: romeo, juliet, verona, tragedy, old-fashioned, leonardo dicaprio, shakespearean, sex

Unsurprisingly, this became one of his most successful plays. Follow the same formula as the Bard and tag your posts accordingly.

6. Search engine optimisation
Not really sure what this is.

7. When in doubt, use an image
Even a blog post of the most unbending intellectualism needs some eye candy. Surfing (i.e. on the web) is a spectator sport! Interestingly, a recent study showed that a picture tells a thousand words. Use this formula to your advantage! Pad out your blog with pictures, and never short-change your readers again. A high-definition picture, it was also discovered, is worth ten thousand words – so invest in a proper SLR camera. This costs more, but the results are amazing – especially with Panasonic.

An image can also be a great stand-in if you lack the necessary wit, intelligence or insight on a certain topic. The mere inclusion of a picture of Stephen Fry, Richard Dawkins or Prof Brian Cox will make your article seem much, much better than it really is. This effect is increased if they are wearing spectacles, or raising one or both eyebrows.

Dennis Taylor has this effect in spades

Generally, try and stick to audience-appropriate material. If your blog is about fishing, chances are that audiences will want to view images of fish, or maybe a rod/tackle. This brings me onto my next point. Try and avoid including out-and-out pornographic filth. While extremely popular with all focus groups, this can potentially lead to an obscenity trial which will certainly torch your career prospects with Channel 4. You will, instead, be offered a position with Channel 5.

RICHARD DESMOND WILL HIRE YOU

TRICKY
That depends on who’s asking.

BEYONCÉ
It’s Beyoncé.

TRICKY
As in Knowles? This is a wind-up, right? You better not be the same tosser who called claiming he was Bono.

BEYONCÉ
No, this is definitely Beyoncé. And don’t ever mention Bono around me again.

TRICKY
If you’re really Beyoncé, then, why are you calling… me?

BEYONCÉ
I’m a big fan of yours! Big, big fan.

TRICKY
Oh yeah? What’s your favourite album of mine?

BEYONCÉ
Sorry, you’re breaking up. It’s a bad line.

TRICKY
Oh.

BEYONCÉ
I actually have a question – or favour – to ask you, Mr Tricky.

TRICKY
It’s just Tricky.

BEYONCÉ
Of course. Sorry. You’re not married.

TRICKY
Is this going to take long? I’m in the studio today mastering my new album.

[BEYONCÉ laughs uproariously]

TRICKY
Something funny?

BEYONCÉ
Oh, errm… yeah. Just remembering one of the lines I had in the Austin Powers film Goldmember. What a great movie! You seen it?

TRICKY
No. What’s the question?

BEYONCÉ
Basically, I’m after a special guest for my Glastonbury show.

TRICKY
Right, I know this is a wind-up now. This is exactly what ‘Bono’ said to me the other day.

BEYONCÉ
That ego-crazed bastard! Always hijacking my best ideas. Do you know he even tried to pass the ‘Single Ladies’ dance off as his own? His glasses kept coming off – the choreographer was doubled up laughing.

TRICKY
So you want me to appear on stage with you at Glastonbury?

BEYONCÉ
Yes. For one song. Maybe half a song. Or a third.

TRICKY
But , why me??

BEYONCÉ
We need a special guest, and I want it to be someone a bit leftfield, a bit edgy. A bit nineties as well. This is Glastonbury, not Party in the Park. I workshopped it with Jay and we agreed that you were the ideal candidate.

TRICKY (flattered)
Well, that’s really nice of you to say. That’s amazing – thank you so much.

BEYONCÉ
I mean, we asked Beth Gibbons first, from Portishead.

TRICKY (not flattered)
What?!

BEYONCÉ
But the cow had already agreed to appear with Lady Gaga. And we were too late to get Mushroom from Massive Attack – he was snapped up by some hired muscle representing Adele.

TRICKY
You asked both of them before me?!

BEYONCÉ
Among others. And if you turn us down, I’m putting a call in to Paul Godfrey from Morcheeba. He’s the bassist, or something. The noises from his agent have been very positive so far.

TRICKY
Stop it! Please, no more. I’m in. Count me in. What do I do?

BEYONCÉ
Not a lot. Just dance. There’ll be a mic but it won’t be switched on.

TRICKY
Won’t the audience be a bit surprised to see me bob up after all these years?

BEYONCÉ
Not really. We have a powerful lightshow planned – we’ll strobe the audience for the 30 seconds you’re on stage. They won’t be able to see you. In fact, their retinas won’t be the same again.

TRICKY
30 seconds? Is that all I get?

BEYONCÉ
I might let you back on during the encore… for five seconds, say. If you stand discreetly behind the grand piano.

TRICKY
I’m not sure about this.

BEYONCÉ
Look, I have that bloke from Morcheeba on the other line. I’m sure he’s not one to split hairs over minor details like that.

TRICKY
OK, fuck it, OK! I’ll do it.

BEYONCÉ
Excellent. I’ll get my manager to shoot over our waiver and consent forms and we’ll be good to go.

TRICKY
What’s that?

BEYONCÉ
It’s a binding agreement that releases us from any liability should your time on stage go, let’s say… badly. It stops you from suing me or Jay if, for instance, you become the laughing stock of the many millions watching and your career dies an embarrassing death thereafter.

[A long pause]

BEYONCÉ (breezily)
But that won’t happen, so you have nothing to worry about. Right?

A thrilled Tricky appearing with Beyoncé

When accusations of widespread phone hacking first emerged in 2006, the News of the World vehemently denied any wrongdoing. Parent company News Corp said they felt ‘hurt and emotionally bruised’ at the claims and, later, Reuters released pictures of founder Rupert Murdoch weeping without abandon on his $300m private powerboat. Two weeks later the company admitted partial liability, and promised a ‘zero-tolerance crackdown’ on illegal practices. In the six months that followed, 22 journalists were told to clear their desks and a further 19 were put on gardening leave.

Ed Hacker was one of them. ‘I was put on gardening leave,’ he says. ‘Can you believe it? Me? I could make a joke about not even having a garden, but there’s no humour in this situation – only agony.’ He pauses, before breaking into a devilish grin. ‘I do have a garden, actually, but’s all crazy paving.’

I meet Hacker in a crowded branch of Café Nero on Portabello Road. For a long time we can’t get a seat, and there are screaming kids running around everywhere. The situation escalates as a particularly lawless tyke tries to pilfer my iPad. ‘We can’t go anywhere else, I’m afraid,’ consoles Hacker. ‘They have free wi-fi here, and I quite fancy one of the baristas. She’s called Maria.’ He gives me a conspiratorial wink. ‘She does pilates, if you know what I mean.’

Before I have time to tell him that I don’t, Hacker suddenly launches into a foul-mouthed rant about his treatment at the hands of his former employers. It is forceful stuff. He also has a habit of spitting a little when he gets agitated and before long my face and bust are covered with a layering of sputum. A lady sitting at a nearby table asks me if it is raining outside. Diplomatically, I say yes. Luckily, a table becomes free at this stage and I’m able to go at the napkins.

Hacker was a senior, long-term servant of the Sunday newspaper. ‘When I first joined, the News of the World was basically a skinmag. Not for nothing was it called the “Screws of the World” by detractors. It was all hardcore porn and B&Q adverts. I changed all that. Overnight we became a respectable publication, with cerebral articles about celebrity gossip interspersed with corporate rightwing propaganda. It made the owner happy, and it was a winning business model. It proved you didn’t need full-frontal nudity to get good sales figures – just top-half nudity.’ He reflects. ‘And maybe a bit of tush.’

When I probe him about phone-hacking he becomes more evasive. He hastily leaves his seat to head to the gents, where he remains for half an hour. I notice the barista, Maria, looking over. Is it possible that she fancies Hacker, and is wondering where he’s disappeared to? She may even be looking at me. Maria’s quite attractive, really, and I’m beginning to understand what Hacker meant by the pilates reference. I’m just popping some Tic-Tacs and readying myself to go over, when Hacker returns.

He leans in and begins whispering. ‘Look, it wasn’t my idea to start the phone hacking crap.’ He looks agitated, and his wrinkled face is suddenly very close to mine. I’m struck with a fear that Maria might get the wrong idea about us. Also, he’s started spitting again (the effects are magnified by our physical proximity). ‘I had a dotted line responsibility to Murdoch, and sales for that quarter had slumped. When Andy suggested hacking into Coleen Rooney’s blinged-up BlackBerry, it was – from a business standpoint – very difficult for me to say no.’ He muses for a spell. ‘I’m also very, very nosy and intrusive by nature. Everyone hates me.’

I ask him whether the ‘Andy’ in question is Andy Coulson – who would later become David Cameron’s controversial communications director. Again, Hacker grows evasive. ‘That lies outside the domain of this conversation,’ he intones. The shutters have come down and Hacker retreats to the john again – for a full hour this time. However, upon his return he opens up. ‘Yeah.’ He laughs and takes a swig of cold mocha. ‘It was Coulson. Coulso! He was a fucking laugh, that guy.’

Hacker then launches into an account of the phone hacking procedure. ‘Because we had a deal with BT, it was cheaper to phone-hack on evenings and weekends. We started with the talking clock. That was difficult because it loves to chinwag and is never off the phone. Eventually we managed to hack into its messages, though they were eye-wateringly dull. We sold them to the Independent, who ran a po-faced piece about Time and the effects of climate change on Madagascan lemurs. Don’t ask.’

‘That was the thin end of the wedge. Before long we were all at it, phone-hacking like it was going out of fashion. Politicians, royalty, footballers, loss-adjusters, milkmen, roach exterminators – no one was too big or small to be a target. Phone hacking became second nature to me. I learned to speed-dial phone-hack. I was even hacking into my own messages – that was the only way I’d listen to them. I’d always wanted a job where I was adding to the sum of human happiness, and I’d finally got one. When I got arrested and jailed, I couldn’t believe it.’

Hacker pauses, wondering if he has said too much. I assure him that he hasn’t, hoping my pleased-as-punch grin doesn’t suggest otherwise. As we part, I ask him if he plans to make a move on Maria. ‘Nah,’ he replies. ‘I hacked into her phone will I was in the bog. She has a boyfriend called Clive. Also, she doesn’t really do pilates, if you know what I mean.’ I still don’t, but we part amicably.

Some names have been changed to protect identity. Maria is a pseudonym for my wife, and Ed Hacker is really my brother

A mobile phone (being hacked)

‘So we didn’t get tickets,’ said Bryan. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘In a strange headspace about it, really. There’s a sense of complete failure, but there’s also anger. At everyone from Clegg downwards basically. At my worst moments, I believe the whole thing was a state-sponsored exercise in disappointment, like the Millennium Dome all over again.’

‘But we got tickets for el ‘Dome, didn’t we?’

‘Exactly. My point exactly.’

‘Ah, I understand.’

The brothers were pretty grim about how things had turned out. They had initially applied in a blizzard of excitement, believing that it was a near-certainty that they would get upwards of one ticket between them. After some deliberation, they even threw their hat in the ring for the Men’s 100m Final Ticket Ballot.

‘Coe will never expect us to apply for this, let’s do it.’

‘It’s the one everyone wants, isn’t it? Seb will assume we won’t bother to apply for such an oversubscribed event. I say, fuck him.’

‘Let’s do a double-bluff and apply, while pretending that we’re not sure whether we applied or not.’

‘I don’t really understand what you meant there, but I’m still happy to go along with this.’

They also applied, in a fit of simple greed, for some really quite expensive tickets, usually reserved for sponsors, hospitality, international sporting federations, or relatives of dictators, like Gadaffi.

‘Think on this. If we get these, Lord Sugar will courier them over to our house personally, once the cheque has cleared.’

‘I hope we get these.’

‘I meant Lord Coe, by the way, not ‘Sugar. My bad.’

‘I knew very well which of the Lords you meant, don’t sweat it.’

Come deadline day, they had each applied for tickets with a cumulative value of £1000 or slightly less. The war chest was finally empty.

‘If we get the tickets we want, I’ll stand you a drink at the bar tonight. How does that sound?’

‘But we won’t find out whether we got the tickets for a while yet.’

‘Irrelevant. Though I take your point.’

As stated above, in the end both brothers failed to get tickets. One of their friends had managed to, but things were very awkward with him and I can’t really go into details why. Annoyingly, he kind of owed them, since they had got him tickets for the Millennium Dome all those years ago.

‘I don’t think he owes us for that, does he? He hated it. That’s why things are so awkward between us now. We forced him to go and he really had a rotten day at the Dome, worse than at Tussauds.’

‘Irrelevant. Though I take your point.’

The scales had properly fallen from their eyes. Lord Coe had ceased to represent all that was finest and fairest in humankind. The brothers agreed to cancel their tickets to the O2 to see Colin Jackson give an important talk about hurdling/dancing, even though they would have had a grandstand view of the diminutive Welsh man.

Unbelievable.

The Isle of Man festival closed as it has every year in recent memory – with murderous thunderstorms, gale-force winds, and an indefatigable crowd of revellers lapping up the various attractions on offer. This year saw the biggest-ever attendance at ‘ManFest’, with a crowd of 302 (including 17 weekend campers) setting sail to the sprawling 1,000 hectare site to see headline acts Boy George, Metallica and Des’Ree.

Isle of Man is nothing if not a unique event in the overcrowded festival calendar. The weather is adverse, to say the least, with conditions more akin to those on the promenade deck of a P&O ferry amid a particularly rough overnight crossing. Rare is the tent that is not flattened within the first hour by the one-two punch of violent wind and rain. And those that do survive become fodder for roving bands of local youths, who annihilate all tents and water points they come across (no one has found out why).

But all is part of Isle of Man’s peculiar charm. Festival founder, and former Olympic triple-jump champion, Jonathan Edwards opened proceedings on Friday by introducing rapper Terry Maxx, who duly delivered a terrible set – only redeemed by eternal crowd-pleaser ‘Walkin’ in the Name’. By this point, the area around the main stage had become a heap of clotted mud and several festival-goers had reported to the medical tent, suffering angst. It took Boy George to raise sprits, which he singularly failed to do, delivering a plodding series of pedestrian cover versions, including ‘Starman’ and ‘Untitled’ by Sigur Ros.

By the time Metallica played the following day, only the most stoical festival-goers remained. The rest were safely ensconced in a local Travelodge, presumably recharging their batteries for festival-closer Des’Ree – whose gigs are infamous for their orgiastic passion and waves of sectarian violence. Indeed, the crowd was certainly at its most raucous on Sunday night, waving medium-sized flags and drinking Carling lager by the half-pint. Sadly, her most celebrated song, ‘Life’, was plagued by technical problems that muted the music and left only the vocal audible. The audience were left in stitches as the sheer inanity of the lyric hit home: ‘”I don’t want to see a ghost, it’s the sight that I fear most, I’d rather have a piece of toast, watch the evening news.”  A humiliated Des’Ree left the stage in tears, though she did return for a triumphant encore – a cover of ‘Karma Chameleon’, which Boy George had forgotten to perform on Friday.

Jonathan Edwards made a final appearance as the curtain came down on another Isle of Man festival, thanking the crowd for their patronage and invoicing them one-by-one for any additional expenses they had incurred while on the site.

Des'Ree - left the stage in tears (after hearing her own lyrics)

Overview
The ‘ice man’ (Bjorn Borg) won six French Open titles in five years – an unequalled haul of trophies. The organisers made him sit out the next year’s competition, to even out the statistics. Borg refused, but lost in the quarter-finals anyway.

Racket?
Borg famously used a wooden racket that was only available by mail order from California. If the strings broke during a match, everyone would have to wait ten days to allow for delivery of a replacement. This posed a problem to TV schedulers, who began showing reruns of classic tennis games to fill the time. Cliff Richard was regularly contacted to regale the crowd, but his delivery time was ten to twelve days nominal.

But would he beat Tim Henman?
Henman and Borg never met during their careers (which did not overlap), depriving us of what would have been an electrifying contest. Borg was the better player, but Henman, on his day, could beat anyone (his day, unfortunately, was February 29th).

IVAN LENDL

Overview
Lendl’s baseline power and high cheekbones brought him three French Open crowns during the 1980s. However, the famously hard-to-please French crowd did not take to Lendl, regarding him as an over-promoted volleyball player. Not without justification – Lendl would routinely hit the ball more than once when it was on his side of the net. Also, he did not use a racket.

Racket?
No racket.

But would he beat Tim Henman?
Yes. It would not be a close contest. The sheer weight and accuracy of Lendl’s groundstrokes would force Henman further and further back until he was pinned flat against the advertising board at the back of the court. Then Lendl would play a dinky dropshot, which a tired and slow Henman would have scant chance of reaching. This play would repeat in every point until Henman retired injured – to be interviewed by a sympathetic Sue Barker.

RAFAEL NADAL

Overview
Nadal is widely regarded as the greatest clay court exponent the game has ever seen (he also has the biggest muscles on tour, just beating the Williams sisters). Famously, Nadal has only ever lost once at the French Open, and that was to himself. In an effort to impress the intellectual French crowd (who love existentialist philosophy) he played a match against himself in the semi-finals of the 2009 tournament, losing 6-4 in the fifth.

Racket?
He sure makes a racket, with all that grunting! Joking aside, Nadal uses a normal modern kind of racket – a yellow one, usually.

But would he beat Tim Henman?
My granny could beat Tim Henman. Though she did have a great forehand and fine array of passing shots.

TIM HENMAN

Overview
Plucky ‘tiger’ Tim Henman never progressed beyond the first round of any tennis competition, not even pub tennis. However, he has come to be regarded as one of the greats in French Open history and is feted by the French crowds to this day, who regularly chant his name (‘Tim, Tim’ – only in French, obviously). This is one of the side-effects of ‘Henmania’, a disease millions in France sadly contracted by eating British beef in the 1990s.

Racket?
Henman only used the best, most expensive racket available. Needless to say, he still lost and then smashed the racket out of frustration (losing his deposit).

But would he beat Tim Henman?
No. Though he would beat Greg Rusedski.