An injured player is booed by opposition fans for nearly having his leg broken by their lunatic number six, managers commit multiple malapropisms in post-match interviews and a director of QPR is forced at gunpoint to resign from the club. Yes, the football season is here again.

American money-man Malcolm Glazer takes over at Manchester United PLC

The worst thing about football is the way it turns otherwise sensible men into raving idiots. This isn’t always the case of course, many of them are raving idiots without needing football to spur them in to action. And to what end? A football season has always meant success for a very small minority and despair for the rest, but nowadays it’s always the same minority. A perusal of the bank balance would be sufficient, why bother with the games causing all that expense in police numbers? Especially in these days of suicide bombers. They have enough to do without chaperoning opposing Neanderthals through city centres.

And what about those poor Manchester United fans? They’re peeved because a rich American businessman with no knowledge of football has taken over the club. The only shame is that it isn’t Walt Disney taking over the reigns. Manchester United and Disney shops could merge, selling Mickey Mouse merchandise next to Wayne Rooney dolls in Asia. Man U are a product and were so long before Malcolm Glazer took over.

Then there are the players. Put on a pedestal, paid ridiculous money, think they can get away with murder, and often do. Well, GBH anyway. Both on and off the field. But the fans would support their darling number nine even if he was a proven serial killer, as long as he kissed the badge after scoring and gave the required ‘110 percent’ (sic). In fact, if the victims supported the opposition the killer would be celebrated as a hero!

Apparently the attendances in the Premiership look set to be down this season. The first signs that football’s over-inflated bubble is about to burst? Pop!

Another day another bizarre World Championship in something silly enough to make the BBC website. And we’re not talking about the athletics, although the British jokers in Finland are ridiculous enough. No, we’re talking about the World Memory Championships taking place at Oxford University this weekend. Fifty competitors from around the world are taking part, if they all remember to turn up.

Apparently the Germans are strong this year. They’ve been practising by memorising the positions of differently coloured deck chairs around a pool in Côte d’Azur. That’s when they’re not rearranging the furniture in the restaurants in an effort to get fit. As every Memory Man knows, the fitter you are the more oxygen can reach the old noggin, which is good for remembering stuff, especially where the gym is.

British hopes hinge on 78 year old Malcolm the Memory Man, aka Whodyamacallit the ThingumyBob, improving on his previous performance when he couldn’t remember his name and was thus disqualified. He says that he’s been in training ever since and thinks his wotsit has improved. ‘I’ve spent time in the..thingy with weights and stuff. And I’ve been out doing that moving legs fast thing, so should be much… you know. And that will help me… doing whatever it is I have to do. Sorry, what were you saying?’

The winner will be crowned the Grand Master on Monday Evening, assuming they don’t lose track of time as was the case on the last occasion.

With the World Athletics Championships taking place in Finland, the Ashes poised at 1-1 and the English football season underway, Blighty thought it would be a good idea to help demystify some of that jargon spoken by sports commentators.

Commentatorspeak: British athletics is currently going through a transitional period
Translation: British athletics is currently rubbish, let’s have that lottery money back.

Commentatorspeak: Paula Radcliffe is the best distance runner in the world.
Translation: Paula Radcliffe is the wealthiest distance runner in the world, not bad for someone who has never won a medal.

Commentatorspeak: He is our best chance of a medal.
Translation: He probably won’t qualify for the final, waste of airfare!

Commentatorspeak: This is the blue riband event
Translation: This is the event Britain has the best chance of winning a medal in (doesn’t apply this year as we don’t have a chance in any event)

Commentatorspeak: So Michael Johnson, double world record holder, five time Olympic gold medalist, three time World Champion, what do you think of our plucky Brit finishing next to last there?
Translation: God, this is humiliating.

Commentatorspeak: It’s good to see English cricketers being aggressive for a change
Translation: Kill the Aussie bastards!!

Commentatorspeak: It’s good to see the Poms giving us a game at last.
Translation: Struth, bring back Andrew Caddick.

Commentatorspeak: Flintoff is really roughing up the Aussie batsmen.
Translation: That’s another broken bone, stop pretending it doesn’t hurt you antipodean poser!

Commentatorspeak: The football season is back at last.
Translation: I’d rather be watching the ashes, it’s only just started!

Commentatorspeak: What a game, the English Premiership is the best league in the world.
Translation: Hoof it up to the big man, I don’t care if you’re Portuguese!

Commentatorspeak: The flamboyant and outspoken Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho.
Translation: The egocentric, mouthy pratt Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho.

Commentatorspeak: He’s one of the best managers in the business.
Translation: His boss is one of the wealthiest owners in the business.

Commentatorspeak: Champions elect Chelsea.
Translation: Championship bought by Chelsea.

Blighty returns from London sad to report that the terrorists have made a victory of sorts. The tourist industry has been so badly hit that you can even get close enough to the Rosetta Stone to see part of it. Albeit through a forest of American and Japanese cameras. Trying to walk through Leicester Square is as frustrating as ever though, resulting in bruised heels and shins.

Another visitor comes a cropper at the British Museum

The Blighties visited the capital at the same time last year, although there were only two of us then, and can make a direct comparison, especially as we revisited some of the same places this time around. Besides the drop off in tourists the other noticeable changes were the bag checks that seem to have become standard. At the British Museum any bombs are confiscated at the narrow entry gate and returned at the exit on the other side. Although the officials wisely left Blighty Jnr alone as she hadn’t been changed since before breakfast. Blighty top tip for religious lunatics - hide your bomb in a nappy.

There is a different policy in action at the National Gallery, however. There you are allowed to blow up the queues of people waiting to have their bags checked in the foyer. Perhaps they’re not bothered as long as the Van Eyck doesn’t get it. Blighty hopes that they look after Cezanne’s Bathers and Seurat’s Bathers at Asnieres. And there should definitely be armed guards stationed around Rothko’s room in Tate Modern at all times. Blighty is strictly a Modernist.

As for the nostalgic stuff the quaint photos of the changing of the guard will never be the same again as coppers now hover in the background carrying submachine guns. Should they really be worn hanging from the wrists like truncheons though?

Anyone who has stayed away, and there evidently are many, should be very careful in bed tonight. As Blighty reported a while ago here and here, there are more dangers in the home than on London’s streets. Just where will you hide?

The Blighty family are off to London for a long weekend. We booked the break weeks before the bombing but a few religious lunatics won’t alter our lives. Anyway, if you don’t hear anything by early next week inform the authorities. For identification purposes, below is a pic of the Blighty family taken just before leaving for the capital.

The BBC are reporting on a new phenomenon gripping the nation, and it must be if they’ve heard about it. It is known as blogging and results in bizarre websites called blogs. Apparently they are popular with people who want to share their thoughts online, whether anyone is interested in reading them or not.

Of course, there are less people who want to read people’s thoughts than want to express their own. According to Technorati a new blog is created every second… there’s another bipolar sufferer sharing his ups and downs, mainly downs… there’s another nutter ‘expressing his opinion’ to keep him from shooting somethingone… here comes another anthology of gibberish with accompanying idiotic images compiled by some clown who thinks he’s funny. Hm…

Of course, once the rush of excitement has dissipated and the blogger (the technical term for someone who blogs apparently) finds himself checking his stats more often than a visitor adds to them, the site is left neglected. Rather like a dog bought as a present, but without the mess on the carpet. 87 percent of blogs are therefore updated less than once a week. Although, they still pop up in Blogexplosion every few minutes.

Sometimes you have to sympathise with the locals in Cornwall’s picturesque seaside towns. Living in one of the most attractive places in Britain comes at a cost. During the summer, if they’re not being kept awake by late night revellers they’re stumbling across injured bodies on the rocks belonging to Australians who think that a surface covering of water cushions your fall.

The following diagram illustrates their mistake.

The latter pastime, of jumping into the sea from cliff edges, is called tombstoning by the people who do it, but ‘bloody stupid’ by onlookers. People have even died as a result, which means one less annoyance for the locals, but a mess on the rocks sure to put you off your cream tea until a couple of tides have cleaned it up. Falmouth Coastguard Watch Manager James Instance says that it is ‘not a safe activity at all’. He proceeded to point out that the tide comes in and out and that it’s dark at night. Anyone wanting to contact Mr Instance for more illuminating and philosophical gems should do so through Falmouth Council.

Another day, another top ten list of something probably already covered elsewhere but we’re compiling it anyway because we’re bored. This time it is the top ten most useful cookbooks ever written, compiled by Waitrose Food Illustrated. Roast Chicken and Other Stories, unknown in the Blighty household as we don’t eat meat, came in first. Just nipping Delia Smith’s Cookery Course, which is installed on Blighty’s shelves for when one of us forgets how to boil water or something.

Blighty is also the proud owner of number eight in the list - Rick Stein’s Seafood Cookery, although we have to admit to having only cooked the Gremolata Prawns as yet. When Ms Blighty bought it as a Christmas present we were supposed to be moving to Whitby, and as Rick Stein insists that you catch the fish yourself, with your bare teeth, at around four in the morning, cod in butter sauce from Morrisons just won’t do. That’s always the problem with cookbooks though, you speed read the ingredients, the excitement building, medium onion, check; clove of garlic, check; teaspoon of cumin, check; Jerusalem artichokes, ah, check, thought you had me there!… then you get to the last ingredient and it’s bloody truffles from a specific village in southern Italy. Sod it, Fish Fingers and Chips again.

Leith’s Techniques Bible came in 6th. Blighty can recommend Leith’s Vegetarian Bible if you want to cook meat-free. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s The River Cottage Meat Book is not recommended in that regard however. Hugh breeds and kills his own animals, although we think his cats are only slaughtered on special occasions. When they’re burning an effigy in the local village for instance. Perhaps it’s a good guide for what you chuck down your throat, though. What you would be willing to kill. The Blightys could bring themselves to kill a prawn, but a Sussex cow is out of the question. We all draw the line somewhere, would you eat Tiddles, Rover or the winner of the 3.15 at Ascot?

In Hitchcock’s Birds it was poor Tippie Hedren who got pecked sore to the delight of the sadistic director. But in a quiet Somerset village the local seagulls are targeting the men. More specifically, postmen. These birds are obviously very discerning and a credit to the country.

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As British seagulls exist mainly on a diet of food plucked from the overweight hands of the nations gluttons it is unsurprising that they’re getting a tad overweight themselves. If fast food outlets sold tuna salads and sticks of celery there wouldn’t be half the problem. But as it is our seagulls are now big enough to knock a postman off his bicycle from a hundred yards. And they do, quite often, it seems. And when Blighty says postmen the emphasis is on the men . Postwomen are quite safe, even the butch ones.

A Royal Mail spokesman insists that this is a serious problem and not funny at all. However, a Royal Mail spokeswoman said it was hilarious and regretted the fact no one had caught one of the dive-bombers on film yet. It is said to have had an impact on the morale of postmen in the area but locals say it’s difficult to tell as they’re a picture of misery at the best of times.

Meanwhile locals are hoping that the seagulls next turn their attention to salesmen and Jehovah’s witnesses.

After ten years of listening to your neighbour strumming tunelessly on the Spanish guitar he bought while on holiday in Benidorm, you’re ready for a move. The first job is to drive down to B&Q to buy all the white paint you can fit in your car boot. This should then be plastered over your entire house, although painting your pets is optional. There should be no colour remaining, as that could offend any potential buyers. For instance, if you have a red switch above your oven and a buyer calls round who prefers mauve, the deal could be sunk immediately. If all of this sounds a bit daunting you could appear on Channel Four and get them to do all the decorating for you, although, in return you will be subjected to insults by a fop wearing a purple shirt.

Once your house has been sufficiently neutralised it’s time to find an estate agent. Energy expended making this decision is a waste as they don’t actually do anything except answer the phone. Try to find one whose employees are familiar with the English language, however, as this can be useful.

A fifteen year old boy wearing a suit will then call around and tell you that your house is worth twice as much as you had thought and that it should sell within a week or two. It will then go on the market. Now it’s time to get the vacuum cleaner out just in case some nosey-parker calls round to see what colour your loo is. Eventually, after you have reduced the asking price enough times, you might get an offer. Don’t accept this! Hold out for at least another fifty quid. Blighty top tip - drive a hard bargain.

Now it’s time to choose a solicitor. This is akin to the Grim Reaper popping up and offering you your favoured choice of slow death. Try to find one whose office has been decorated since World War II and isn’t still using Amstrad PCWs. Once you have employed a solicitor don’t expect them to do any work until the day of the move. Until that point their time will be spent squabbling with other solicitors in the chain, if your file is opened at all. You could try ringing them for an update but the person responsible for your move will be away in Tenerife and won’t be back until early next year.

After months of torture, when every ring of the phone causes palpitations and a headache, the day of your move arrives. It is advisable that you buy some of that valium people are always offering you by email for this day. As we are in England your buyers could still pull out, and probably will, so try to suppress your excitement until you actually get the key. Once you have the key you can get inside your new home to see if that cheapo report missed anything obvious like a hole in the roof. Then you can relax for a bit… until the girl next door starts violin practise.