Episode 155

Once upon a time, in the not-so-distant past of 2020, a quaint little Facebook group dedicated to cycling enthusiasts was enjoying its glory days. It was a haven for discussions about the best bike trails, gear reviews, and sharing the sheer joy of cycling. But then, like a derailleur going haywire, things took an unexpected turn.

It all started innocuously enough with a post about bike lane safety. But before anyone could say "Schwinn," the comments section exploded into a battleground of pronouns. Suddenly, the group wasn't just about cycling anymore; it had become a crucible for debates about gender identity, preferred pronouns, and the perceived sins of cis-normativity. The once harmonious cycling group had morphed into what could only be described as a Pronoun Dystopia.

Cyclists who just wanted to discuss the merits of carbon vs. aluminum frames found themselves navigating a labyrinth of linguistic landmines. Every post required a preface: "Before I share my thoughts on the best pedals for mountain biking, let me first state my pronouns are they/them." Even the bots that moderated the group seemed confused, occasionally chiming in with their own preferred pronouns.

The tipping point came when someone innocently posted a picture of their new bike. What should have been a simple "Nice ride!" thread turned into an 800-comment debate on the ethics of gendering inanimate objects. "Is your bike a 'he' or a 'she'?" one member inquired. "Why does it matter?" another retorted. "Bikes have no gender!" proclaimed a third. Meanwhile, the poor bike owner just wanted to know if anyone had tips for adjusting the seat height.

By 2022, many of the original members had fled to quieter pastures, creating offshoot groups where the focus remained squarely on cycling. But like all trends, the Pronoun Dystopia began to wane. People started to realize that while pronouns are important, perhaps a Facebook group about cycling wasn't the best place for these debates.

Fast forward to 2024, and there's a palpable sense of normality creeping back in. The great pronoun debates have largely subsided, replaced once more with discussions about the best biking routes, upcoming cycling events, and the eternal debate of road bikes vs. mountain bikes. It’s as if the group collectively exhaled and decided that maybe, just maybe, they could focus on their shared love of cycling without getting bogged down in identity politics.

There’s a newfound balance in the group now. Discussions are respectful, and while pronouns are still respected and acknowledged, they’re not the central topic of every conversation. It's a refreshing change, like the wind in your hair as you coast down a hill on a sunny day.

In the end, the cycling Facebook group weathered the storm of the Pronoun Dystopia and emerged stronger. Members learned a lot about each other, about respect, and about the importance of focusing on common interests. So here’s to 2024, a year where we can finally get back to what really matters: the joy of cycling, the thrill of the open road, and the never-ending quest for the perfect bike seat.

Music:

Buffalo Springfield - For What it's Worth
The Drifters - Up on the Roof

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Episode 154

England. The country that gave the world the beautiful game, only to continually break our hearts with it. Supporting the England football team is like riding an emotional rollercoaster that’s perpetually stuck in a loop of thrilling climbs and devastating drops. It's an exercise in both loyalty and masochism, and the recent Euro final against Spain was no exception.

There we were, once again, donning our Three Lions jerseys, our faces painted with the St. George's cross, and our hearts full of hope. The anticipation was palpable. Could this be the year? Could we finally bring football home? Spoiler alert: No. Football has its bags permanently packed for Spain, it seems.

As the game kicked off, there was a collective roar from living rooms and pubs across the nation. We were ready, our spirits high and our faith unshakable. Fast forward to the second half, and there we were, watching Cole Palmer equalize. "Here we go again," we thought, "this is it, the comeback kings are back." But then, in typical England fashion, we conceded late, and our dreams were dashed once more.

The post-match scenes were as predictable as the plot of a soap opera. Grown men in Gareth Southgate waistcoats crying into their pints, kids asking their parents why football hates England, and everyone else wondering why we put ourselves through this emotional wringer every couple of years. Being an England supporter is energy-sapping work, akin to running a marathon with lead boots on.

We invented this game, for crying out loud! The irony is rich. It’s like we’re the chefs who created a Michelin-starred dish but keep burning it in our own kitchen. Other nations must look at us with a mix of sympathy and amusement, much like you’d watch someone who insists on assembling IKEA furniture without the instructions.

Every tournament, we dust off our flags, dig out our vintage '66 World Cup jerseys, and declare that this is our year. We put our hopes and dreams into players who promise much but deliver heartbreak. Harry Kane, our noble captain, might as well be called the Duke of Disappointment at this point. It’s not his fault, of course. The lad does his best, but it's hard to lead a charge when the universe seems to have a vendetta against your team.

And then there’s Gareth Southgate, the man with the plan, the waistcoat-wearing wonder who has restored our faith and then shattered it with the same devastating efficiency. He’s the dad who promises a trip to Disneyland but takes you to the local funfair instead. We love him, we hate him, we want him to stay, and we want him to go. It’s complicated, like any long-term relationship.

So why do we keep coming back for more? Why do we subject ourselves to this endless cycle of hope and despair? Because we’re England fans, that’s why. It’s in our DNA to believe that one day, somehow, we’ll get it right. That the stars will align, the gods of football will smile upon us, and we’ll finally win that elusive trophy.

Until then, we’ll keep cheering, keep believing, and keep getting our hearts broken. We’ll toast to the highs, cry through the lows, and come back for more. Because that’s what it means to be an England supporter. And who knows? Maybe next time, football really will come home. Or maybe not. Either way, we’ll be there, waving our flags and daring to dream.

Music:

Shirley Bassey - History Repeating
The Jam - A Town Called Malice

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Episode 153

Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed listeners of our humble podcast, it’s time for me to eat a slice of humble pie. Or, in this case, a whole bakery's worth. I've been banging on for weeks about how England didn’t stand a chance in the Euros. I mean, I’ve been more negative than a grumpy cat in a rainstorm. And now, here I am, being made to eat my words by none other than Ollie Watkins, who's just fired England into the final.

Ollie, mate, I owe you a pint, a pizza, and possibly my firstborn. Seriously, folks, I was convinced England’s chances were as dead as my nan’s social life. But, Ollie Watkins decided to take my skepticism, wrap it in a nice package, and kick it straight into the back of the net.

Let’s get real for a second. I was more certain of England losing than I am about gravity keeping my beer on the ground. I was out here saying things like “England? Win? Yeah, and pigs might fly.” Turns out, the only thing flying was Watkins’ shot into the goal. I’ve been more wrong than a man showing up to a nudist beach in a three-piece suit.

So, here I am, hat in hand, eating crow, and any other idioms that describe the glorious sensation of being utterly and completely wrong. Ollie Watkins, if you’re listening, I hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am. Actually, probably more because I’m not enjoying this at all. I’m a comedian, not a bloody psychic.

To my loyal listeners, I apologize for my negativity. Clearly, my crystal ball was cracked, and my tarot cards were drunk. I’ll try to be more optimistic moving forward, but no promises. I’ve still got trust issues from all those missed penalties in the past. But hey, if England brings it home, I’ll happily eat my words again. And this time, I’ll wash them down with a pint of victory ale.

Here's to hoping the final is as fantastic as Ollie Watkins making me look like a complete idiot. Cheers, folks!


Music:

Primal Scream - Moving on Up
Pulp - Do you Remember the First Time

4o

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Episode 152

Why, oh why, do I do this to myself? Here I am, a 53-year-old man, dragging myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 4 AM in Japan, all to watch England play football. Yes, England. The team that insists on playing with my heartstrings like a cat with a ball of yarn.

So there I am, half-asleep, barely conscious, clutching my mug of coffee like it's a lifeline. The Euros are on, and it's England versus Switzerland in Germany. Penalties. Again. My nerves are shot. We win, but it's like watching a drunk tightrope walker: thrilling, terrifying, and you’re just glad they didn’t fall.

Next up, Holland. Great. More anxiety. I swear, watching England play is like having a second job that pays in heart palpitations and grey hairs. But then there's Saka. That lad. He steps up and scores his penalty, shoving it right up the arses of those racist idiots who abused him online three years ago. Talk about sweet revenge! If I wasn't so tired, I'd have danced around my living room.

But seriously, why do I put myself through this? The time difference is killing me. My internal clock is so messed up I wouldn't be surprised if I started sleepwalking. And the games! England are winning, but badly. It's like they’re playing a game of "How can we make this look as difficult as possible?"

I know, I know. I could just record the games and watch them at a reasonable hour. But where’s the fun in that? Live football is like a live horror movie: you can't look away, even though you kind of want to.

So here I am, anxiously waiting for the game against Holland. My brain’s yelling, "Why are you doing this? Get some sleep!" But my heart's whispering, "Come on, you know you love it." And it's right. For all the stress and early mornings, there's nothing like the thrill of the game, even when it feels like it might just kill me.

Besides, if Saka can face down his demons and shut up the racists, I can face a few early mornings and a bit of anxiety. Bring it on, Holland. Bring. It. On.

Music:

Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
Feel It Still - Portugal.The Man

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Episode 151
Watching Joe Biden in the presidential debate was like watching your grandad try to operate an iPad for the first time—painful, confusing, and slightly concerning. There he was, the most powerful man in the world, fumbling around with his words like they were a set of keys he’d lost down the back of the sofa. You could almost hear the collective groan of a nation thinking, "This is the guy with the nuclear codes?"

Biden's performance was a bit like that one uncle at Christmas dinner who insists on telling a story but keeps forgetting the punchline, so he starts over five times and somehow ends up talking about a completely different subject. At one point, he was so lost in his own sentence I half expected him to pull out a map and compass.

There was that moment when he seemed to zone out completely, staring blankly into the camera like a deer caught in the headlights—or perhaps more accurately, like someone who just realized they left the oven on at home. It's one thing to forget where you left your car keys, but when you start losing track of basic points in a high-stakes debate, you can’t help but wonder if he’s also forgotten what day it is and who’s meant to be picking him up after the debate.

In the end, watching Biden debate is like watching someone juggle knives while riding a unicycle—you’re not sure if you should be impressed or call for medical assistance. Either way, you can’t look away, partly out of morbid curiosity and partly because you’re desperately hoping he doesn’t fall off and take us all down with him.

England squeaking past Slovakia in the Euros was a spectacle that had all the suspense and drama of a toddler trying to navigate a stairway. It was one of those games where you could almost hear the collective sound of English fans' teeth grinding from across the channel.

Jude Bellingham’s wonder goal was an overhead kick that could only be described as pure football poetry. Imagine the grace of a ballerina combined with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, all while defying the laws of physics. As he launched himself into the air, you’d think he was auditioning for a role in "The Matrix," dodging bullets and defenders alike. When the ball hit the back of the net, it was like watching a magic trick unfold—spectacular, unbelievable, and leaving you questioning reality.

Then there was Harry Kane, England’s knight in shining armor, coming through in extra time to seal the deal. Kane’s goal was like that last-minute save you see in a disaster movie—just when you think all hope is lost, in comes our hero to save the day. You could almost see the relief on his face, a mix of "Thank God" and "Did I really just do that?" As he celebrated, you half expected him to pull out a cape and start flying around the pitch.

But let's not kid ourselves; England didn’t exactly waltz to victory. It was more like they stumbled and tripped their way there, with Slovakia putting up a fight that was more stubborn than a two-year-old refusing to eat vegetables. The whole match felt like a never-ending tug-of-war, with both teams refusing to let go of the rope.In the end, England’s narrow escape was akin to watching a cat narrowly avoid disaster by landing on its feet—ungraceful but effective. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. And as the final whistle blew, fans were left to breathe a collective sigh of relief, already dreading the next match where, no doubt, their nerves would be tested once again.

Music:
Hey,Joe - Jimi Hendrix
Alive - Pearl Jam

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Episode 150

I rip open the festering wound that is England's footballing history. If you're an England fan, you're well-acquainted with the gut-wrenching cycle of hope, hype, and inevitable heartbreak. This show is for you, the masochists who get up at 4 AM to watch yet another uninspiring performance, only to ask yourself, "Why do I do this to myself?"

The Nightmare Begins: Mexico '86

Let's start with Mexico '86. Diego Maradona and his "Hand of God." Are you kidding me? That wasn't just a handball; it was a slap in the face to every England fan who dared to dream. We had Lineker, we had hopes, and then we had a middle finger from the football gods. It's like being promised a brand-new Ferrari and getting a rusted-out Fiat instead. And we took it. We took it like chumps, crying into our pints, and still saying, "Next time, we'll get them."

Italia '90: Gazza's Tears and Our Collective Breakdown

Fast forward to Italia '90. We thought we had it. Gazza was on fire, and the nation was united in its optimism. Cue the waterworks. Gazza's tears became our tears. Penalties against Germany? Why not just march us to the guillotine and be done with it? Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle's misses are seared into our brains like traumatic childhood memories. Yet, we wore those scars with pride, saying, "It's coming home," even though deep down, we knew it probably wasn't.

Euro '96: Football's Coming Home... to Disappointment

Euro '96. Ah, the home soil advantage. The sweet promise of redemption. "Football's coming home," we sang. And for a moment, it felt like it might. Until it didn't. Gareth Southgate—now our managerial savior—missed that crucial penalty. The air was sucked out of Wembley, and with it, our dreams. We had been the life of the party, only to be shown the door at the stroke of midnight.

The 21st Century: A New Millennium, Same Old Disappointment

The 2000s brought no respite. World Cup 2002 saw us dumped out by a Ronaldinho lob that seemed more like a cosmic joke than a legitimate goal. Euro 2004? Rooney's metatarsal shattered our hopes. World Cup 2006? Portugal again, and this time, Rooney's red card added insult to injury. It's as if the football gods delight in our suffering, throwing obstacles our way just to watch us squirm.

Recent Years: Rinse and Repeat

And now, we arrive at the latest chapter in our saga of sorrow: Denmark, 2024. We started strong, but like clockwork, the wheels fell off. Another tournament, another unfulfilled promise. It's like Groundhog Day, but with more swearing and fewer laughs. The hope that kills you has become our unofficial motto. We've mastered the art of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

Why We Keep Coming Back

So why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves through this relentless cycle of pain? Because we're England fans. We're addicted to the agony, the fleeting moments of joy, and the eternal hope that one day, just maybe, it'll be our turn. We're the Charlie Browns of the football world, always believing Lucy won't pull the football away this time.

So, grab your beverage of choice—tea, beer, or something stronger—and join me as we navigate the rollercoaster of emotions that is being an England fan. Because if there's one thing we know how to do well, it's to keep believing, no matter how many times we get kicked in the teeth.

Music:
Kasabian : Underdog
Black Pumas : Old Man

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Episode 149

It was 2006, a year filled with dubious fashion choices, bad pop music, and me, at the ripe old age of 35, freshly single and drowning in self-pity at a bar that could only be described as a dive for people too drunk to notice. Picture it: the kind of establishment where the air is thicker than a Glaswegian accent and the floor sticks to your shoes with a mystery substance that likely has its own ecosystem. I was nursing a whiskey, contemplating the futility of existence and the cost of alimony, when she walked in—Helen. Think Lady Macbeth with a credit card and a desperate need for distraction.

Helen was rich, successful, and so bored with her marriage that even a bloke like me, who looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward, seemed like an upgrade. She sauntered over, oozing money and Chanel No. 5, and parked herself next to me. "You look like you could use some company," she purred. In any other setting, this might've been the start of a crime drama, but here, it was just the universe laughing at me.

Fast forward through a couple of overpriced cocktails, and Helen had decided that what she needed wasn’t a divorce but a hobby. And that hobby, astonishingly, was me. Now, I wasn’t raised to be a gigolo. My mother had dreams of me becoming something respectable, like a taxidermist or a career criminal. But there I was, signing up to be Helen’s personal boy toy. And no, it wasn’t about the money, I told myself. It was about the adventure. Alright, it was mostly about the money.

For a few months, my life was something out of a bad rom-com. I was dragged to high-end restaurants where the food was as pretentious as the clientele, luxury shopping sprees where I learned that socks could cost more than my rent, and weekends at her beach house, which was basically a mansion that screamed “compensating for something.” My mates were half-convinced I’d sold my soul, and they weren’t far off.

But like all good things, it was bound to go tits up. Enter Lydia, the wife of an arms dealer to the Asia-Pacific. Lydia was the kind of woman who made Helen look like Mother Teresa. She had the air of someone who could order a hit with the same casual ease as ordering a latte. We met at one of Helen's ludicrously expensive parties, and despite my brain screaming, “RUN, YOU IDIOT,” I was drawn to her like a moth to a particularly well-dressed flame.

Our affair was brief, torrid, and about as smart as juggling chainsaws. When Helen found out, she went ballistic. But Lydia’s husband? He made Helen look like a teething puppy. Messing with the wife of an arms dealer is like playing Russian roulette with a semi-automatic—it’s not going to end well. Suddenly, my life was less "Pretty Woman" and more "No Country for Old Men." I spent a few weeks dodging shadows and contemplating witness protection.

In the end, it was Helen who saved me. She used her ridiculous wealth and connections to call off Lydia’s husband, possibly by promising to buy him a small country or a football team. I didn’t ask for details. The whole escapade ended with me back in the bar, broke and single, but now with a story so absurd that even my friends started buying me drinks just to hear it again.

So there it is. The tale of how I became an accidental gigolo, got entangled with an arms dealer’s wife, and lived to tell the tale. And if there's a moral to this story, it’s probably something about not mixing whiskey with desperation. But who am I kidding? I'll probably be back at that bar next week. Cheers.

Music:

Elbow - Grounds for Divorce

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Episode 148

100-year-old World War II veteran, Harold Terens, and his sprightly 96-year-old bride, Jeanne, tying the knot in Normandy. Yes, you read that correctly. With a combined age of 196, these two lovebirds have decided to spend their twilight years not in a serene retirement home, but in the throes of wedded bliss. Harold, who once stormed the beaches of Normandy and witnessed horrors beyond imagination, is now facing a new kind of challenge: revisiting hell on his wedding night.

The setting is the Élysée Palace in Paris, where Harold and Jeanne have somehow stumbled into a state banquet honoring President Joe Biden. While most of us would be thrilled to avoid family dinners with our in-laws, these two have managed to crash a party with the leader of the free world. Imagine the scene: Biden, who’s barely younger than Harold, is making small talk with the newlyweds while trying to remember what year it is.

"Love isn't just for young people," Harold croaks, his dentures almost making a bid for freedom. Jeanne, beaming beside him, squeezes his hand with surprising strength for someone who probably remembers the invention of the telephone.

As the evening progresses, the happy couple steals the spotlight. Forget the lavish banquet or the presidential presence – everyone’s eyes are on Harold and Jeanne, who are undoubtedly the oldest newlyweds in the room, if not the world. There’s something beautifully grotesque about seeing these centenarians bask in the glow of their new love, like watching a zombie apocalypse with a happy ending.

You have to wonder what brought Harold and Jeanne together. Maybe it was the shared understanding that life is fleeting, or perhaps they just couldn't find anyone else who remembered the Great Depression. Either way, their courtship must have been a whirlwind. Harold, likely forgetting where he put his glasses every other hour, somehow remembered to propose. Jeanne, whose hearing might be more selective than actually impaired, probably said yes to shut him up.

The real kicker, though, is imagining their wedding night. Harold, a man who once faced the Nazi war machine, now faces the daunting prospect of getting it up for the first time in decades. With a cocktail of prescription drugs strong enough to tranquilize a horse, Harold’s bedroom performance is as unpredictable as a Russian roulette game. Jeanne, equally ancient, has her own set of challenges, but let’s not get too graphic here – suffice to say, it’s a match made in a geriatric ward.

As they fumble through the wedding night, it’s hard not to draw parallels to Harold’s war days. The confusion, the fear, the sheer terror of it all – only this time, there’s no enemy to shoot at, just a Viagra pill to find. It’s like reliving the D-Day landings but in slow motion and with a lot more nudity.

In the morning, as the sun rises over the beautiful Normandy landscape, Harold and Jeanne emerge, victorious. They’ve survived another night, proving that love, much like war, is not for the faint-hearted. And so, as they hobble down to breakfast, hand in liver-spotted hand, we salute them – not just for their incredible longevity, but for their unwavering determination to prove that you’re never too old to start a new chapter. Even if that chapter involves more creaking joints and bathroom breaks than romance.

Harold and Jeanne, here’s to you: may your days be filled with love, laughter, and an endless supply of whatever the hell keeps you two going. Because if this isn't a testament to the power of love (and modern medicine), I don't know what is.

Music:

Charles Bradley - No Time for Dreaming
Niel Young - Old Man.

Kee

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