Another own goal, Mr Ashley?

The more I read about the manner in which billionaire Mike Ashley runs Newcastle United Football Club, the more I wonder how he ever became so rich, or having done so, managed to hold on to a significant chunk of his money.

My reasons for making that assertion are many, but are neatly encapsulated by the recent dismissal of Chris Hughton and his replacement as manager by Alan Pardew.

Hughton, the football aficionados amongst you will recall, was the man who took hold of the poisoned chalice which has long been the manager's position at St James' Park, after Newcastle were relegated from the Premier League at the end of the season before last, when no-one else would have touched what was a club in chaos, with a bargepole.

He proceeded, in less than twelve months, in transforming a team with a losing mentality into one which swept all before them in securing immediate promotion back to the financial promised land of the English Premier League; and he achieved it by spending about fifty quid.

Once back in the 'big time', Hughton steered his team to mid-table respectability, whist securing an away win at the Emirates over Arsenal and slaughtering their main rivals Sunderland 5 - 1 in their first encounter of the season. What's more, in doing so, he secured the support of the vast majority of Newcastle supporters; but sadly not that of the one who really matters: Chairman Mike.

Not content with the quietly efficient Hughton's work - and therein might lie his problem - Ashley peremptorily sacked him last week for no real reason other than, as the owner of the club, he simply could.

People saw Martin Jol, the former manager of Spurs, resigning from his position at Ajax and immediately thought he would have been heading for Tyneside to replace the unfortunate Hughton, but no.

Instead, Ashley appointed Alan Pardew, a man of scarcely higher profile than his predecessor, whose claims to fame as a manager include losing the FA Cup Final with West Ham, being relegated with Charlton Athletic and most recently, being dismissed from his role with Southampton, a club which now plies its trade in League One; fully two divisions and a literal world away from the Premier League.

Not only that, but in sacking the hugely popular Hughton, Ashley has also managed to alienate both the dressing room - you know, the room that contains the men who actually go out and play the games - and all but 1.5% of Newcastle fans as well.

I wish Pardew, a decent enough man, as far as I can see, a fair wind and as much good luck as he can get; because despite the five and a half year contact he has secured from the, shall we say Mercurial, Ashley, I think he's going to need it.

Episcopal hypocrisy and the bankruptcy of republicanism

What is it about republicans which forces them to support their position by levelling puerile personal insults at members of the Royal Family?

My own answer to that that question is that their arguments are so bankrupt and devoid of logic that childish personal abuse is all they have to support their infinitesimally small minority view.

Take for example, the drivel written about the recent Royal engagement by the Bishop of Willesden, the Rt Rev ‘Pete’ Broadbent, on his Facebook and Twitter pages, in which he likens Prince William and Kate Middleton to “shallow celebrities”, adding that the Royal Family was full of “broken marriages and philanderers”. That may or may not be true, but philanderers or not, those in glass houses should beware of throwing stones, because I cannot remember any Royal sex abuse scandals, whereas the Church of England positively bristles with them such as here, here, here and here, to name but four.

Not content with blackguarding the happy couple personally, he goes on to suggest – and remember, this is a Bishop of the Church of England making these remarks - that their marriage will not last above seven years; hardly the position one would expect from a senior member of the church in which William and Kate will marry, is it?

I wonder how many other ‘ordinary’ couples’ relationships he has openly suggested will not last more than seven years, even if he may well have thought it?

But he reserves his true bile for William’s parents, observing that, “I managed to avoid the last disaster in slow motion between Big Ears and the Porcelain Doll, and hope to avoid this one too.”
Let me remind you again that the author of these remarks is a Bishop in the Church of England; the church of which the Queen is the Supreme Governor, as all her predecessors have been since Henry VIII’s split with Rome in the early Sixteenth Century. So isn’t ‘Pete’ Broadbent – who was appointed to his bishopric by the very Queen he effects to despise – nothing more than a hypocrite?

Because, if he feels so strongly about his republicanism, I’m sure he could easily resign his episcopacy, go back to calling himself ‘Pete’ without it being a glaring and grating affectation and find himself a more egalitarian church in which to worship.

Or could it be that he enjoys the ‘fawning deferential nonsense’ shown to him as a bishop of the established church and so clings on to his position for personal aggrandisement?

I don’t pretend to know the answer, but I do know that peevish personal attacks such as Broadbent’s recent splenetic nonsense, serves only to display the bankruptcy of the republican argument, so I suppose as an ardent monarchist, I should thank him for his contribution to the royal cause.

Open aspects to front and rear...

When I read in today's Daily Telegraph that Indian billionaire Mukesh Ambani had built the world' first $1 billion house, I expected it to look like a cross between the Taj Mahal and Chatsworth House.

Unfortunately, however luxurious it might be inside, it looks to me like a lop-sided tree-house, thrown together from discarded pallets...

Eat, drink and be merry?

As those of you who have been visiting the Throne for some time may recall, I exercise regularly, watch what I eat (though not slavishly) and drink in what I would describe as moderate (whilst others would not) quantities. As a result, twenty-seven years on, I weigh the same amount as I did as a twenty-one year old, with a waistline to match.

So, you may imagine that I would heartily welcome this story in today's Telegraph, warning us all in near-apocalyptic terms, that deaths from obesity have doubled in a decade.

Actually, I don't; quite the reverse.

Ignore for a moment the claim (correct or otherwise) that the number of deaths has doubled and instead concentrate on the total number of deaths involved. Let me quote directly from the article:

"The official figures disclose that in 2000, just 25 people aged between 46 and 55 died “where obesity was the underlying cause of death”. By 2005, the number has increased to 51 and last year it was 70.

The “number of deaths where obesity was mentioned anywhere on the death certificate” rose from 121 in 2000 to 257 last year for the same age group. Similar increases were also recorded for those aged between 34 and 45 and 56-65."

A little research shows that in the thirteen years from 1993 and 2005, between 513,000 and 580,000 died in England and Wales each year. Having no reason to suppose that the figures vary greatly from the end of that period to the present day, let's agree (rather unscientifically, I concede) that the average number of deaths every year in England and Wales averages out at 550,000.

Call me old-fashioned, but a blind man on a galloping horse could plainly see that deaths numbered in the hundreds from that one cause pale into statistical insignificance when compared with a total well over half a million a year.

I do not, of course, for a minute suggest that allowing yourself to become obese is a sensible thing to do; far from it as my first paragraph hopefully reinforces.

But I do wonder what a serious newspaper like the Telegraph is doing printing unsupportable rubbish such as this and if anything even more so at the involvement of Conservative politicians, such as Andrew Lansley, parroting the nannyish, infantilising NuLabour line in suggesting the imposition of warning labels on 'bad' or 'fatty' foods.

Step away from the cream cakes, Mr Lansley and put the marker pen down...

How are the (self-supposed) mighty fallen...

How indeed.

Just fifteen short months ago, footballer David Bentley, then of Blackburn Rovers, had the world at his undoubtedly talented feet. He had just finished a successful season with his club and, having broken into the England team, was being spoken of as the 'new David Beckham'.

Those of us as interested in the back pages of the newspapers as we are in the front ones could not avoid acres of coverage, in which he explained, amongst other things, his love of DIY and how he overcame a gambling problem.

At the same time, those same articles began to mention that Bentley saw his footballing future away from Lancashire, at one of the four clubs then (and now) capable of launching a challenge for a Champions' League place, where he could also improve his international chances.

He and his agent began to openly court such a move, against the undoubtedly wiser (and possibly hypocrtical) counsel of his then manager, Mark Hughes, who, having advised him to stay at Ewood Park for at least another year, himself left the club for Manchester City and Thaksin Shinawatra's allegedly bloodstained Baht. Irrespective of that advice from a man who's pedigree was there to be respected, Bentley and his advisors believed their own publicity and the agitation for a move gathered pace.

Unfortunately for Bentley, none of the top four clubs were interested in acquiring his services, but then up popped Juande Ramos' Tottenham - the club Bentley supposedly supported as a boy - with a bid of fifteen million pounds, and the deal was swiftly done.

Indeed, by the time the transfer went through, I know a good many Blackburn fans who would have willingly taken the day off work, filled their car with petrol and driven him to London themselves, simply to rid their club of his disruptive presence.

Bentley described the transfer as his 'dream' move, but all too quickly from his perspective, the dream began to sour. For whatever reason - it is alleged that juvenile stupidity during an England get-together may have played a part - the famously professional Fabio Cappello jettisoned him from the national squad, never to return.

So far, so bad, but worse was to come. Ramos went the way of all flesh after a disastrous start to the season which saw Tottenham bottom of the league, to be replaced by everybody's favourite Cockney geezer, 'appy 'arry Redknapp, who quickly decided that Bentley had no place in his best (or indeed any) Spurs eleven and promptly dropped him.

Further humiliation was heaped on Bentley when, selected to play in the Carling Cup tie at Burnley - Blackburn Rovers nearest neighbours and fiercest rivals - he was withdrawn at half time, following a performance of quite unique incompetence.

To compound matters, from Easter onwards, Redknapp made it clear that Bentley had no future at Spurs, and was actively advising him to seek employment at another club, in order to 'rebuild' his career; the footballing equivalent of a failed X Factor audition.

So, twelve months after ignoring the advice of a man who had managed him into the England side, Bentley had lost his England place, lost his place in the Spurs team and had been told in no uncertain terms that he was surplus to requirements at White Hart Lane.

Then this happened.

Well at least he'll be able to afford a driver to take him to training whilst he serves his latest disqualification, but as I have titled this post 'how are the mighty fallen'.

I wonder if he wishes now that he'd followed Mark Hughes' advice and stayed at Blackburn for another year...