Park'd

I learnt about supply and demand by playing Roller Coaster Tycoon. When the rain started and pixelated precipitation set about turning Dan's Fun Land into a rainforest, I would strike. 

One umbrella, was $2, now $20.

The queues would grow at various stalls and I watch my cash piles grow and grow. And who can blame me? How else was I going to finance a Wild West-themed log flume?

I was reminded of that Martin Shkreli-meets-Walt Disney mindset today when I read a garage in Chelsea had sold for £360,000, which given the size of just 146 sq ft makes it a far costlier investment than the current record holder which stands at £550,000 for a 569 sq ft plot when purchased back in 2014. 

Let's get the basis arguments out of the way. An average property goes for about £2.4m in the leafy district of West London so the mindset of 'well, it's small change in the grand scheme of things!' is perfectly valid. And yes, a place to park is, literally speaking, at a premium, so the opportunity to snap up an in-demand amenity is likely to spark multiple bidders. 

Now to the fun part. 

THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GRAND FOR A FUCKING GARAGE?!

It's quite difficult as well to describe it as a garage. It's more of an accidental smattering of bricks with a giant black door bolted to the front. Down an alley so narrow, you'd have a a reasonably tricky time navigating your own face down it. 

A Place in the Sun or The Wire?

Then there's actually getting to it. Unfortunately access via large vehicle is not one of the garage's main traits. It's not even a trait at all. I mean you might get a remote control Lightning McQueen toy slotted in, and then maybe at a push, a Smart Two Convertible. But neither of these cars scream 'look at me with my new garage which cost the same as paying Wayne Rooney for 10 days so you could demand he throw himself off the nearest steep edge'. 

Your average Russian oligarch, Middle Eastern Sheikh or extra on Made in Chelsea is going to be piloting a small amphibious warship with the turning circle of the moon. The likelihood of squeezing it into a space that is proportionally the size of a badger's arsehole is fairly unlikely. 

"It's the chauffeur's job!" I hear you scream in unison. I mean, the poor soul tasked with that on day one of the job. What other hellish demands would this tyrannical garage-owner set out? 'Park the car, sweep the entrance hall, then go and flog this Iberian ham in the streets of Islamabad at a 2.5x markup.'

Those tasked with selling the garage had expected it to fetch somewhere around £180,000. Without knowing someone was going to stump up double that, you'd have called the estate agents names a lot worse than you'd usually do. You'd have sat there thinking, the cheek of these upstart yuppies who fund an evening of cocktails and cocaine at Boujis by flogging a studio flat vaguely near the DLR to some Ukrainian investor, to then demand more than the fourth-best prize on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire for a fucking undercover car parking space?

Then a couple of bidders went mad and here we are, in a society where we're accepting £360,000 for a space most homeowners would use to dispose of old gym equipment, store Christmas decorations or plot to dispatch their mother-in-law in. 

There will be Buzzfeed articles in the next few days lamenting how you can buy a five-bedroom palace with tennis courts on the outskirts of Blackburn for the same money. But we're missing the point. We shouldn't be comparing this frivolous exercise of dick-measuring through lavish expenditure to other property. We should be comparing this to other things we can buy which add similar value to our lives. 

Like shelving. What other shelving solution can we buy for £360,000? None. Make a list out of that, Buzzfeed. 

But such is the mad world of London property, it serves no purpose trying to come to terms with outlandish stories like this. Just bury yourself in a video game and ruin the poor people's lives on there instead. 

Jumpin' Jack Crash

I guess there's a reason why humans evolved the way they did from dynasty to dynasty. Every point in the history of the Homosapien has been coloured with public violence. Crowds sat with peers, baying for blood as casually as my nan sits down to watch Emmerdale. 

Amphitheatres, colosseums, the patch of grass outside Casino Rooms nightclub in Gillingham, Kent; the thrill of watching another human in distress and pain is engrained in the human race. Also explains why the Mail Online is the most popular 'news' website on the planet. 

It's something that has become all too sanitised in the direct descendants of the gladiator battles we used to lap up with glee; reality TV. The sword has been replaced by parents evening-levels of criticism from Rita Ora; a public execution has become a farewell slow dance like we're all attendees at Mexico's soppiest quinceañera; and instead of locking thieves in stocks and pelting them with seeded fruit, those who incur the wrath of the vocal minority tend to receive illiterate death threats from the kind of individual who can be mentally swayed by a light breeze. 

Then one Sunday, Davina McCall reappeared on my telly. Dressed like an over stuffed bean bag and seemingly powered by a portable nuclear reactor, she stood in the only chalet bar on the planet seemingly run by O'Neills and introduced series 2 of The Jump. 

Or as it shall now be known,The Hunger Games: Catching Flying Celebrity Corpses. 

Davina just informing Arg the next round involves fighting a snow leopard 

You see, there is simply no other programme where a group of celebrities seem closer to the a Grim Reaper. We've nearly killed Olympic Sprinters, Olympic Swimmers, Olympic Gymnasts. I'm still not sure how James Argent has remained unscathed; a man who has the aerodynamic properties of a balloon filled with bricks. 

The basic premise is each week, the celebrities compete against each other in a different winter sport, taking inspiration from actual Winter Olympic events but seemingly also taking inspiration from some of the more difficult levels in Crash Bandicoot 3. Those who are slowest/last/worst then have to take on a variety of ski jumps in order to remain in the competition.

This is where it starts getting a little morbid. The individuals who have demonstrated they cannot do 'sport' or 'activities' as well as some of the other contestants say, are the ones Channel 4 producers strap to a set of skis and ask to go defy gravity without dying. The worst contestants. 

It's the equivalent of the worst two singers on the X Factor travelling to Damascus in order to instigate a ceasefire by singing a note-perfect and heart-wrenching rendition of the Syrian national anthem.  

Well maybe not, I've no idea what features have been added in the international exports of these shows. 

Winter sports are dangerous. Asking Brian McFadden, the Keith Moon of Christian vocal group Westlife to lay flat on a try and travel 95kmh down an Olympic skeleton track before he's even grasped all 26 letters of the alphabet is just a bit mean. 

Or is it? Is this actually, the kind of blood sport Sunday evening teatime telly has been crying out for?

Viewers have been calling in their droves to complain someone who once had a top 40 hit before a drug-fuelled meltdown in Ayia Napa is going to end up impaled on something. It seems a fitting end to careers largely without a point.  

I for one am delighted. For too long those who's previous star turn was on page 16 of the Daily Star have been cashing in on reality TV, making an obscene amount of money to be a little bit more bubbly and relatable than normal. Too long have social gargoyles like Jemma Collins been able to swan onto the television, play the fat card and a spunky Essex accent and waltz off into the distance unscathed and thousands of pounds richer. 

Shows like The Jump, and previously Splash, are adding an element of risk to proceedings. Now those who's careers need a kickstart or ailing individuals once in the private eye but now needing to finance a new conservatory have something to write in the 'cons' section when weighing up whether to appear on anything sponsored by tampon brands or washing powder. 

Channel 4 are said to be reviewing their safety procedures after the near culling of Britain's Z-List. The moment they start putting safety nets onto the slopes is the moment I turn off. If I'm going to devote an hour of my time watching Sarah Harding confuse snow with her usual white powder of choice, there better damn well be something in it for me. 

Because back in times of old before televisions, ski slopes and the discovery of the Davina McCall species, they wouldn't have stood for anything less than participants risking life and limb for a pay check. And these guys were well-respected warriors, not someone who's spent so much time in Eastenders they can't grasp why Ian Beale isn't at the top of the Sunday Times Rich List every year. 

So there we have it. The Jump. A modern day colosseum for the modern day fame hunter. Full circle. 

Retail Therapy

As someone who works up in the tourist-y bit of London (or as my Mum callously labels it, 'The West End'), I'm used to dodging those who haven't conformed to the usual rules of our nation's capital. Come half-term, these pavement-obstacles, Sky-gazers and 'don't stand there for fuck sake' are multiplied beyond comprehension.

Some are there to experience the buzz and vibe, some decide to go for a bit of shopping, while others come up to London just to spite commuters. A fair few however, head to the museums.

Museums are great. Especially London's. They're often some of the best days out you can have in this grotesque assortment of urban glitz. And best of all, they're free. Which explains why everything else in London is so damn expensive - there's a surcharge on my morning coffee which goes towards keeping the Elgin Marbles nice and...Elgin-y.

Museums are important in today's media-riddled culture. They're important for teaching kids not all man-made structures can be bought down by catapulting multicoloured winged-creatures at the foundations; important for showing sexually-oppressed mothers that not all those who were once in chains were part of an EL James novel; important for ultimately showing where we came from, how we improved on it and where we are now.

Which leads me onto my own experience of a museum. I went into a travel agent the other day. 

This experience falls quite decisively in the 'where we came from' camp.

"What I really want is an upgrade to Windows XP"

A collection of old fossils greeted me as I entered. "We'll be with you soon," one of them immediately warned. 25 minutes later I was still sat wondering how this concept ever worked.

I felt like a cybernetic organism in a world of pocket watches. An old couple had spent 15 minutes trying to understand how restricted a 'restricted view' would be from the balcony of their cruise ship cabin. Another marital mess were weighing up whether to book a hotel in the hope it'd be finished by the time they went in June. Small wonder the holiday segment of Watchdog was such a bulging collection of horror stories when the first chapters were being completed before they'd even booked the things.

Another lady in front of me in the queue wanted to 'get some ballpark pricing' for a trip. In the 21st Century, that means going onto the Internet, sticking your ideal holiday into some boxes and seeing what package and at what cost comes out the other side.

People in travel agents are not from the 21st Century.

The process of this in store involves the customer telling the travel agent, who makes notes at such speed it looks as if she's taking down a witness statement at a car accident. The agent proceeds to get on the phone to some mythical pricing guru, read out the notes, wait for the price guru to conjure up some numbers and then relay this information back to the customer. Trouble arises when the agent's poor handwriting results in a quote for an ISIS Training Camp Experience in Syria rather than the requested two night bed and breakfast in Scarborough.

A lot of these steps could've been rendered pointless by the customer merely sending out a Morse Code to their ultimate destination and pre-warning them of their impending arrival.

So there I am, just wanting to pay the balance of my holiday, a task that takes roughly four seconds, but instead held up a group of recently bronzed artefacts who insist on slowing the world down to a crawl.

It was at this point I realised I am not very patient.

A similar thing happened just hours before at the Apple Store. This particular retail establishment would sit quite comfortably in the Tomorrowland of Disneyland classification of stores; a cocktail of chrome, glass and gadgets. I think I had a wet dream about all three once.

If your product dies, you can take it to the Master Race of Apple Employees, the Geniuses, who will fix it merely by gently caressing whatever iThing has slipped into the tech afterlife. 

Unfortunately, miracles have to be booked up in advance, a problem when their calendars are littered by imbeciles who have misplaced the 'on button' on their gadgets and need help relocating it.

So, after finding a spare five minutes for the Genius to diagnose my horribly crippled laptop (I must add, I'd spent a good couple of evenings trawling various blogs for answers, before I am labelled a hypocrite *shudders*) I was sent on my way with a list of instructions as he'd used up all his magic powers on slightly more trivial requests.

I overheard some of these request while at the shop. They included a man trying to stick the wrong lead into his iPod and wondering why the computer wouldn't recognise it. Also forcing me to give up my early Saturday mornings to get the least popular time slot were a group of ladies excited to find out how to use their new iPads to send an email, and if they had time, a bit of entry-level web surfing.

These are fully grown adults who have been peer-pressured into buying something they have absolutely no idea how to operate. The human race has been made to look a fool just so they can carry around a brick with a glossy fruit logo emblazoned on it, because 'Joan down the road has one and she met her current husband, adopted three Cambodian children and ordered a new conservatory on it'.

In the same way we stick our noses against the glass of prehistoric relics and ancient artefacts, I wonder will our future generations stumble across a desolate high street, peer into a travel agent and wonder what the fuck we were all doing? "So you mean there was this incompetent middle-man who was like a less well-informed version of the internet was trusted with sorting out your big holiday?" "Yes son, and you ask why daddy went bald at 26".

Some will lament how traditional retailing establishments die out like an unfortunate breed of animal. The travel agent is one of them. As they saunter across the high street landscape, hunted by a digital predator, you wonder really what is the point. Other than a place to drop off a bunch of cash to pay off a balance you don't quite trust to be absorbed online. You know, like a drug deal.

So as I expertly point this assortment of letters back in the direction of my introduction; the travel agent and those that use them. A species that should be consigned to a perspex box to be stored in a fancy historic building for families on half term trips to gawk at. They've served a purpose, now to the museum of retail with you.

Of course, if these people just learned how to use their iPads maybe I would't have to queue at the bloody travel agents and this post would never exist. Ahh irony.

Defying Gravity

It's not often a Hollywood blockbuster can make it through its running time without a hero or group of heroes coming back from almost certain defeat to triumph in the most majestic way as possible.

The irony is the format that many of these blockbusters were supposed to be presented in (according to the accountants of Hollywood's six major studios) has been dying a slow death, but now, thanks to one film, might just have saved itself from extinction.

I have been watching the future of 3D for a while now. Having sought insight from industry professionals whilst putting together a documentary all about the subject (you can see here), I concluded there was no consensus about the direction that this medium, once the reserve of ludicrous theme park attractions and even more ludicrous sequels (Jaws 3-D), was heading. 

The term 'gimmick' came up just as much as 'filmmaking tool', so for the time being, 3D divided opinion enough for it to ensure a (short) future on the silver screen.

Yet while we marvelled at Avatar and Hugo, the uptake on the format through other devices has been less enthusiastic. In fact you could argue that everywhere outside of the multiplexes, 3D has been cast to a very real and touchable grave.

Take TV for instance. A year ago, you couldn't walk into Currys or John Lewis without having 3D TVs thrust in your face (sorry). Dawdling non-believers would be ushered into a mock lounge, sat onto a sofa, handed a pair of plastic glasses and told to suspend belief while a Demo clip was beamed onto the biggest and brightest set the salesperson could find.

Said non-believer would be immediately converted, having winced everytime the camera zoomed through a cityscape or provided a close up of a hummingbird hovering in slo-mo. Telly bought, plonked into lounge and every neighbour within a 4-mile radius contacted in order to show off the latest innovation.

Dips and nibbles would've been purchased and the whole event would have been hilariously over the top. But then, said bumbling, non-researching converted individual would soon discover there was nothing in 3D to watch. Unless he was shelling out £60 a month on Sky's ultimate package or had a £150 3D BluRay player, he was squnting at the Queen Vic, wondering if the 2D to 3D converter feature was making EastEnders anymore watchable.

The truth is for telly there is unlikely to be anymore content. Sports was where 3D home entertainment was meant to thrive. Yet at the end of last month, ESPN in the States shut down their 3D channel, citing a 'limited viewer adoption of 3D services'. In the Summer this year, the BBC suspended plans to launch 3D programming, again due to a 'lack of public appetite'. You get the feeling that by not launching a 3D channel, even at the height of 3D's popularity, it is unlikely we'll be seeing Bruce Forsyth stumbling his way through Strictly Come Dancing in the third dimension.

Gaming is another format where 3D was meant to thrive. The Nintendo 3DS is a good indicator of the format's popularity, yet after health concerns plagued the console's launch in February 2011, the console has posted solid sales results. It hasn't fared as well as its predecessor, the Nintendo DS , but it's excellent range of games have ensured continued popularity. 

Is this because of the 3D element? Well, despite the heavy reductions in price (you can pick up the console for £130), Nintendo has been heavily promoting it's budget younger brother, the 2DS. We've essentially gone back to the original DS model, a console which is nearly 10 years old, and added better graphics and chopped £30 off the price. And yes, this ugly, two dimensional producing handheld is set to be one of Christmas' bestsellers.

So for all intents and purposes, its time to bin those plastic monstrosities you only ever wear to a 3D movie or a Harry Potter-themed party and go back to watching TV normally, without worrying which headache tablet you'll require three hours later.

But not so fast, George Clooney and Sandra Bullock have something to say about that!

"Together, we can make people enjoy wearing ridiculous plastic glasses"

Alfonso Cuaron's Gravity has caught the imagination of critics and audiences alike in the States. It's good to see a film generate success without needing the Marvel banner draped across it or the cast of Made in Chelsea to rock up at the premiere and generate unintentional publicity on the Daily Mail sidebar.

The numbers for its 3D showings have been astounding. There have been films before where you 'needed to see it in 3D to truly appreciate it' but it appears audiences have really cottoned onto that tag this time. Of the film's weekend opening gross, 80% ($44 million) was from the 3D showings. A staggering figure, which includes $11million just from IMAX 3D, the higest figure from this format for a film grossing over $50million.

Gravity opens in the UK next week and it will be interesting to see if it can emulate the success of the States.

So where does this leave 3D? A false dawn? 

The number of 3D films released in 2014 is down compared to 2013, which is down again on 2012. Next year sees many of the usual suspects go 3D, including Marvel superheroes, Hobbits, computer-animated birds and Justin Bieber.

It is likely then that 3D becomes just another tool in a filmmakers' arsenal. Gravity has triumphed because it is different, it is a two character piece set against the silent backdrop of space. Even without the 3D it would have been talked about, yet the 3D adds that element of spectacle that gets your everyday cinema-goer excited.

Some choose black and white, some choose to ramp up the contrast, and in the future, others will use 3D. It is a dying format yes, but an artistic one nonetheless, and one that as it becomes less pressurised by studios to tack on at the last minute, will be applied more artistically by filmmakers.

Hear Me Roar

Essex has long been associated with a number of things. White stilettos, fake tan and an average IQ across the population of about -12. But thanks to this Bank Holiday Weekend's premier news event, the good folk of this fine county have dispelled one stereotype and reinforced another.

Not everything has to be 'leopard-print' and we have a cracking sense of humour.

I am of course talking about the Essex Lion, who is now a close third in the list of 'World Famous Lions', behind only Mufasa and The Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz in the rankings.

From the tone that many newsreaders were taking when reporting the story, you'd have thought they were simply not aware a man-eating creature was loose. Many were talking about the story as though a light gust-of-wind was nonchalantly blowing its way around Essex, such were the smiles etched across several news anchor's face.

Or like everyone else bar Essex Police, they knew this was the most preposterous thing to come out of the county since Jodie Marsh's six-pack.

Lions are not particularly common in this part of the world. It is unlikely I'll be stopping the car driving along Southend seafront anytime soon so I can take a picture of a lioness wandering around the arcades. There's probably about four in the whole county and they're all behind a cage or busy napping on a rock in view of many trained animal holders. Therefore I'd like to think someone would know if one of the beasts was missing before a dog-walker or holiday-maker had the misfortune of running into one.

Incase, like half the population of Essex, you were unsure of what a lion looks like, I have provided a handy image.

Yet this weekend, a police operation consisting of 25 police officers and two helicopters, one fitted with thermal cameras began in the hope of hunting down the rogue cat that was spotted by residents from a nearby caravan park.

I couldn't start a police hunt with 25 officers and two helicopters if I hijacked a tank, screamed 'Death to the West' and blew up Basildon.

Yet it turned out half of Essex's police were merely looking for a 'large house cat'. I'll remember that next time I go and put up 'Missing' posters for next door's runaway moggy.

I'm not sure that such a fuss should be made over one man's claims that he saw a lion, especially one from a caravan park. Have you experienced the fumes when visiting the tank containing all of the park's urine and turds? They're so hallucinogenic I'm surprised the man didn't see Jimi Hendrix riding a polar bear made of daffodils while reading 50 Shades of Grey. I would've sent all the police out then.

The next step the authorities should've taken is to phone a nearby zoo (say, Colchester Zoo, which is a few minutes down the road) and request they check all of their lions are accounted for. You don't have to have watched every episode of the Really Wild Show to know that a lion's natural habitat is not Clacton-on-Sea. A simple check of owners of exotic pets in the local area would identify a) if anyone owned a lion and b) if any of them were mental enough to take them out for a walk without a leash. If both of these admittedly quick investigations failed to back up caravan man's claims he had a staring contest with Simba the Apparently Stationary Lion, I would've filed the whole thing in the drawer marked 'Funny Bank Holiday Hoaxes'.

But no. Everyone in a 40 mile radius suddenly feared for their lives, people were told to stay indoors as though the 10 Plagues of Egypt were making an ill-timed comeback and everyone outside Essex sniggered, placing bets on which TOWIE cast member would find themselves mauled by the big cat first.

Of course now, the idea that it was a lion is absolutely ridiculous and the people of Essex appear just that little bit more stupid. Some are even claiming that the sighted creature was named 'Tom', a clear indication how wrong we were to hunt down something that sounds so pathetic.

What can we learn from this highly entertaining episode? Many of us need to learn that lions and domestic house cats are related. It is pointless starting a massive police investigation because someone says Mary-Kate is robbing a jewellery store when it could very easily be Ashley. Even if they produce a grainy photo which instills so much doubt that even Elizabeth could become part of the equation.

(For future reference, this is the last time I'll use the Olsen siblings as an extended metaphor)

I thought over-zealous policing was an American exclusive. While you can imagine the law enforcements of New York hunting down a 'lion' with a SWAT team, helicopter gunships, tanks and a camera crew to put together fly-on-the-wall documentary 'On The Hunt for a Maneater', I thought the British police were a bit more reserved about such things. Apparently not.

Maybe they were all a bit bored after a relatively quiet Olympics. The first sniff of a case where they could save the lives of thousands of innocent Brits obviously triggered the part of the brain where policing suddenly becomes a Hollywood blockbuster. How long will it be before such a saga is translated to screen with poetic license and Jason Statham as the leader of the investigation?

Not long I imagine.

Commu(ting)nism

Many of my parents' weekends off would be spent wondering how to entertain their eldest son. I didn't do much as a child, which would probably explain why, at the age of 3, I had a face like a Fatbooth photo. Had I been born a decade later, my face would've been slapped across the front of the Daily Mail with headlines screaming for me to be taken into care with a campaign calling for me to be put on some sort of crash diet.

One thing I did enjoy was trains. So, my parents often had to find the nearest attraction that was based on such transport. National Railway Museum, ride-along Thomas the Tank Engine, classic train collections; chances are if it travelled on rails, I'd visited it before the age of 5. Fuck knows why, maybe it was the sense of security that travelling by rails provided. Or maybe it was the fact my childhood hero was a bright blue train with a massive face. Although looking back, Thomas' face is absolutely terrifying.

So I've always had some sort of strange love affair with trains. I took a weird interest in the London Underground, concluding that trains travelling underground was either sorcery of the highest level or some sort of transport nirvana.

But just like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes' marriage, all good love affairs have to come to an end. Whether the trains have been practising an offbeat 'religion' that centres around stories made up by a man with Aspergers syndrome is another matter. Naturally my divorce lawyers will be looking into it.

For the past two weeks I've started 'proper' commuting. This is where one rises out of bed at a time that in many cultures is considered illegal, gets onto a train packed tight with fat bankers and attempts to smile as your spleen is crushed as more and more desperate souls throw themselves onto the tight cylindrical radiator.

Many have tried commuting, only to come to the realisation that beating yourself round the face with a spiked club is infinitely more preferable than having to sit next to a man who smells like a vomit-covered ball of faeces. On many of the less-well maintained train carriages, these vomit-covered shit balls can be found dotted about on the floor, leading many commuters to wonder a) why has no one cleared them up and b) where on earth did this writer come up with the idea for such a dastardly concoction?

Alas, having spent what feels like half a millennia riding on these steel dragons, I've observed the British male and female transform into their neanderthal counterparts in front of my eyes. The life of a commuter is far more primitive than any Amazonian tribe, and were there not so many security cameras, I strongly believe commuters would descend into cannibalism so as to survive the two minute wait for the next tube.

So when they're not throwing spears and humming a series of intimidating chants, the commuter is staring at the regular human being with a look of complete abandonment. I'll admit, I've developed such a hatred of those not sprinting around the station that some of the thoughts running through my head is quite frankly, worrying. I fear that next time a person's Oyster Card is rejected at a ticket barrier, I'm going to spiral into such a fit of rage I might roundhouse kick them in the ear. A small punishment for delaying a busy human by seven seconds.

It's a wonder anyone gets any work done. I seem to spend my whole day thinking about trains and their prospective timetables. "If I leave now I can get this train," I might conclude at a totally unacceptable hour to leave work. "If the Central Line is delayed, how will I get home? Will other lines be busy, or will I need to ride on one those awful rickshaw things?" Travel-related stress is a killer, the BBC needs to consider creating a Sport Relief-style fundraising event to combat it.

In many ways, like the poorly constructed title of this post suggests, everyone is equal when it comes to trains and commuting. Normal social barriers are deconstructed as barrister and bricklayer combine to wedge themselves into any last remaining orifice of the train.

And that ladies and gentlemen, is where Britain's next social revolution is going to come from. At some point, people will stop tutting and start throwing bricks. Then we'll be able to say, it all started with a bright blue train with a creepy face.

#bullshit

Row Z - A Left-Field Look at Euro 2012

Most of this is just nonsensical guff, but there is some logic in my predictions.

It seems an admission of homosexuality to possess a penis and a grasp of the English language, and yet refuse to put some words to page about this year's European Championships. So to prevent any misconceptions about my sexuality (although sometimes they are fully justified), here is my slightly different take on the summer's premium football tournament.

We find our attention drawn to Poland and Ukraine, something that hasn't happened since 1939, although a better and more friendly outcome is wanted by all. Once again the Germans appear to be the favourites, despite half of the squad coming from Bayern Munich who managed to lose the Bundesliga, the DFB Pokal Cup and the Champions League Final all within the space of 20 minutes. They even got lost on the way to Poland after joining up with the national squad a week later, forcing coach Joachin Löw to concede the Bayern players were having a very 'un-German few days'.

What this completely irreverent blog post is designed to do is predict some things that pundits and bookmakers have overlooked. Nobody took much notice when in 2006 I saw a vision of Zinedine Zidane head butting the Berlin Wall. While he missed the wall by a few miles, he did indeed plant a smacker right  in the chest of Marco Materazzi, although my claims that it is very easy to confuse an oafish Italian centre-half with an oppressive and historically-significant piece of architecture have been shot down.

POTENTIAL WINNERS

Croatia

Euro 2012 looks set to be swashbuckling coach Slaven Bilić's final tournament before he and his four-piece experimental rock band set off on a 30 day tour of Split and Zagreb. It is unlikely therefore that he and his team will be looking to go out with a whimper. It is quite possible if Croatia underachieve the majority of the squad will be used as pyrotechnics for opening night of Bilić's Croatian tour.

They possess a wealth of attacking options including Everton talisman Nikica Jelavić, who's apparent knack of scoring goals despite playing football in Scotland for two years has put defences across Europe on high alert. Croatia also have one of the best midfielders outside of Spain and Germany in Luka Modrić, who's startling resemblance to Master Splinter from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles has not hindered his ability to link up play from back to front.

Croatia are in the easier side of the draw and can only play Spain (outside of the group) and Germany in the latter stages of the competition. Of course they play Italy and could potentially draw France, but both teams have the capability of imploding in on themselves, a trait that is only seen in the training camps of Italy, France and the labs at CERN.

Bilić's band are said to play the hits of Daphne and Celeste with a thrash metal twist.

They're very good at tournament football and are at decent odds to go all the way. Back them, or Slaven Bilić might bring his travelling band to your front door.

POTENTIAL PLAYER OF THE TOURNAMENT

Tomáš Rosicky

Despite having more accents in his name than the Vietnamese city of Dien Bien Phu (see here for full punctuation), the Czech Republic star has had a startling renaissance in form of late, with some questioning whether Arsène Wenger replaced him with an android version of the Czech playmaker. Many have attributed his resurgence to fellow compatriot Petr Cech's magical healing hat, with the Czechoslovakian press claiming the cap was used to bring Rosicky's beloved cat Rufus back from the underworld. With his newly resurrected cat travelling to games with Rosicky, he has found the form of his Borussia Dortmund days.

In an underwhelming squad and a group so easy that many were surprised to learn that Hackney and East London Girl Guides U14 Team were not included, the little playmaker has a chance to shine.

OR

Aiden McGeady

Seemingly determined to spend his days playing in the world's most sparse footballing wildernesses, the Irish winger has something to prove when Euro 2012 will give him the chance to play in front of more the nine people. Traded from Celtic to Spartak Moscow for 12 tonnes of Chechnyan Rebel corpses, McGeady has hardly lit the world alight, instead leaving that to the Oligarchs on the Caucasus Oil Fields. Yet his talent suggests at some point the boy should come good. With the Irish lining up in the Tony Pulis variation on the 4-4-2 formation, with quick wingers deployed either side of two hatchet men in the middle four, the Irish could indeed provide a few surprises. Here's hoping the man with a name that sounds as if it was made for Scottish commentators provides the biggest one of them all.

This looks more like a candidate photo from the Apprentice

POTENTIAL GOLDEN BOOT WINNER

Aleksandr Kerzhakov

I'm hoping this is the last of the players I have to look up how to spell because this is getting silly now. But many are tipping Russia to do well in the competition, and I'd even go as far to say they're dark horses to win the thing (still unlikely to topple the mighty Croatia mind you). Kerzhakov has scored 23 goals in 32 games for Zenit this year, a ratio that puts makes him one of the most deadly finishers on the continent. Kerzhakov will be the focal point of the Russians attack in Poland (I realised it as soon as I typed it) after fellow countrymen Andrei Arshavin and Roman Pavlyuchenko suffered such alarming dips in form, the medical staff in Russia are asking the directors of sports movie Space Jam how they rediscovered the powers of the basketball stars in the film. Coupled with the fact you could finish top scorer in group A without the owning a pair of legs and I think Mr. Kerzhakov should be well on his way to a boot made of gold.

POTENTIAL DUD OF THE TOURNAMENT

Portugal

While some have a sneaking suspicion that the greasy Iberians might emerge from the Group of Death unscathed, I and my infinite footballing wisdom have other ideas, placing them firmly at the bottom of the group B. Below Denmark. Their focus on the enigmatic Cristiano Ronaldo is no different to the days of Portugal letting Luis Figo turn up for many of the games on his own. Indeed for many international managers, lining up against just Luis Figo was the cause of many tactical headaches, with opposition left backs questioning whether they should press or back off when Figo drifted into the goalkeeper's position.

'Chase me chase me, kiss me kiss me!'

The problem with Portugal is they don't really have a proper striker. Sure Ronaldo finds the net more times than a fish with learning difficulties (different net, same image, LAUGH) but when he's rolling on the floor, screaming at the Portuguese physio team to apply more hair gel, there's no one else who is physically capable of scoring goals. Even the Danes have Nicklas Bendtner, who might be the most deluded man in world football, but he has a face to head the ball and a two feet to kick the ball, thus rendering him a more clinical finisher than the entire Portuguese frontline.

I wouldn't really put any money on these predictions. Although if you look deep down, you might see some logic. Or not.