Today, at the Riverside, Middlesbrough hosted non-league Hastings United in the third round of the FA Cup.
Ian Dennis, the Senior Football Reporter for BBC Radio 5 Live tweeted...
Hastings away support is 1068. If only 2 had not made it!!@Iandennisbbc 52 minutes ago
Classic!
Oh, and we won 4-1, which makes a nice change, eh?
Showing posts with label Boro. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Boro. Show all posts
Saturday, 5 January 2013
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Nutmegged by a Lady
Another warm Saturday, another fruitless search for Odonata.
However, the day was cheered up immeasurably by several sweet natural history moments.
Starting off in the garden with a visit from a Speckled Wood...
Then on to Walton Lake and several brushes with a Brimstone...
And finally to Linford Lakes, where we were entertained by Grasshopper Warbler, Cuckoo, Hobby and our first Common Terns of the year. Then, whilst attempting to cosy up to a Comma, I noticed a ladybird scurrying towards it, pass directly underneath the butterfly without breaking stride, and carry on without either insect becoming in the slightest perturbed. I, on the other hand, couldn't decide which one to photograph, so you'll have to make do with this panicky snap.
It would appear to be a 24-spot Ladybird and Boro should definitely sign it up to strengthen our forward line for next season.
However, the day was cheered up immeasurably by several sweet natural history moments.
Starting off in the garden with a visit from a Speckled Wood...
Then on to Walton Lake and several brushes with a Brimstone...
And finally to Linford Lakes, where we were entertained by Grasshopper Warbler, Cuckoo, Hobby and our first Common Terns of the year. Then, whilst attempting to cosy up to a Comma, I noticed a ladybird scurrying towards it, pass directly underneath the butterfly without breaking stride, and carry on without either insect becoming in the slightest perturbed. I, on the other hand, couldn't decide which one to photograph, so you'll have to make do with this panicky snap.
It would appear to be a 24-spot Ladybird and Boro should definitely sign it up to strengthen our forward line for next season.
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Hawthorn haircut
It's been a bit of a celeb-fest at Tense Towers this weekend. We've had a visitation from the RSPB and also Big Brother. Now, I know what you're thinking. He's a bit soft in the head whenever that Kate Humble's on the telly, but surely even in his quirkiest moments, he wouldn't have signed up to Channel 4's flagship toxic bucket programme? Ah, not that Big Brother... my big brother, the one from the green, verdant pastures of industrial Teeside. So it's a fair bet that it's not grass giving it the colour.
But let's start at the very beginning, as Julie Andrews said, clothing the children in curtains and telling them to pull themselves together.
Friday night saw us entertaining the RSPB's premier guitar playing, blues loving, invertebrate respecting, habitat management advisor, JD. Now, the great British geneticist and evolutionary biologist, J B S Haldane, is reputed to have remarked that God has "an inordinate fondness for beetles". Well that goes for JD too, AND he can trump the Creator with an acoustic set from the Fab Four. Mind you, the only wildlife we saw during the evening was the Admiral and his waitressing stalker, the glamorous Kaz.
Let it be.
Come Saturday morning, a pair of Reed Buntings focused attention on the back garden, so when our lass popped out to the shops, JD and I decided to turn our skills (ok, JD's skills) to pruning the Hawthorn tree that all the birds seem to use on the way to the feeder. Situated a scant wingflap from the big Willow tree in the corner of our neighbour's garden, the Hawthorn is a handy, if unruly, conglomeration of twigs for the finches and tits en route to the sunflower seed. It stands about 4 metres high and is beginning to dominate the north side of the lawn. JD's wildlife-friendly eyes could see potential in reducing the branches by approximately 25% and encouraging the tree to produce more dense growth in the centre. A very un-horticultural thing to do, but here the watchwords are "habitat" and "creation". I'm sure JD thinks "Titchmarsh" is an expletive.
My brother and his wife arrived shortly before we completed the task, so we hurriedly stacked the loppings at the back of one of the borders, to provide further deadwood habitat for all those tiny invertebrates that support the food chain.
After a bracing, breezy walk around Tongwell Lake, we paused at the Nag's Head in Great Linford to sample a more restorative draught, then toddled back to Tense Towers to the news that Boro had won 5-1 away from home. Shurely shome mishtake?
A generation gap opened in the evening, the young 'uns (Ruth and JD) going off to Oxford to see The Answer, whilst those of us who don't even understand the question went to the pub for tea. And, yes, it's definitely called "tea" when there's four Northerners together.
Many thanks for the good times this weekend, guys. Sorry I couldn't stay awake!
But let's start at the very beginning, as Julie Andrews said, clothing the children in curtains and telling them to pull themselves together.
Friday night saw us entertaining the RSPB's premier guitar playing, blues loving, invertebrate respecting, habitat management advisor, JD. Now, the great British geneticist and evolutionary biologist, J B S Haldane, is reputed to have remarked that God has "an inordinate fondness for beetles". Well that goes for JD too, AND he can trump the Creator with an acoustic set from the Fab Four. Mind you, the only wildlife we saw during the evening was the Admiral and his waitressing stalker, the glamorous Kaz.
Let it be.
Come Saturday morning, a pair of Reed Buntings focused attention on the back garden, so when our lass popped out to the shops, JD and I decided to turn our skills (ok, JD's skills) to pruning the Hawthorn tree that all the birds seem to use on the way to the feeder. Situated a scant wingflap from the big Willow tree in the corner of our neighbour's garden, the Hawthorn is a handy, if unruly, conglomeration of twigs for the finches and tits en route to the sunflower seed. It stands about 4 metres high and is beginning to dominate the north side of the lawn. JD's wildlife-friendly eyes could see potential in reducing the branches by approximately 25% and encouraging the tree to produce more dense growth in the centre. A very un-horticultural thing to do, but here the watchwords are "habitat" and "creation". I'm sure JD thinks "Titchmarsh" is an expletive.
My brother and his wife arrived shortly before we completed the task, so we hurriedly stacked the loppings at the back of one of the borders, to provide further deadwood habitat for all those tiny invertebrates that support the food chain.
After a bracing, breezy walk around Tongwell Lake, we paused at the Nag's Head in Great Linford to sample a more restorative draught, then toddled back to Tense Towers to the news that Boro had won 5-1 away from home. Shurely shome mishtake?
A generation gap opened in the evening, the young 'uns (Ruth and JD) going off to Oxford to see The Answer, whilst those of us who don't even understand the question went to the pub for tea. And, yes, it's definitely called "tea" when there's four Northerners together.
Many thanks for the good times this weekend, guys. Sorry I couldn't stay awake!
Sunday, 4 October 2009
The Time Machine
My wife wandered into the lounge, calendar in hand.
“It says here you’re meeting Isaac Newton at 7.30!” she exclaimed.
I tried to remember if I’d invented a time machine recently and decided that, on available evidence, probably not. Though had I done so, the word “recently” would’ve ceased to have any real meaning. This left a combination of my handwriting and someone not wearing her specs as the main reasons for the imaginative interpretation of “ISIHAC, N’ton 7.30”.
That thought started me wondering, if we had the facility to travel in time, when and where would we go? I appreciate that we ARE travelling in time, but it’s a bit of a one way street with No Stopping and Stay In Lane signs. So what if the Temporal Highway Code was ripped up and thrown in the Celestial Bin?
By all accounts, Newton could be a crusty old git and had his fair share of fruit loop ideas. So, a man after my own heart, then, but perhaps not him.
Somewhat predictably, and if the oxygen didn’t get me first, I’d rather like to visit the Carboniferous period of 350 million years ago to see the early dragonflies with their 70cm wingspans. However, a modern human footprint in the fossil record would probably throw current scientific thinking into utter confusion. That and the neat row of rocks I’d arrange to spell the word “D-A-W-K-I-N-S”.
For a more subtle way of changing historic events, I would nip back to 1066 and impress upon Harold Godwinson the importance of maintaining a shield wall at all costs, despite evidence to the contrary. Who could resist the chance to be immortalised in the no-longer-called-Bayeux Tapestry wearing a red shirt with an iconic white chest band?
No, perhaps it would be a bad idea to sit me, or anyone, at the controls of a time machine. As a species we’re pretty good at messing up the now, so let’s try to limit the damage to our own life span and in that way inform the future.
Actually, whilst it didn’t affect the fabric of Space/Time in any meaningful way, the event in Northampton at 7.30 was a Best of… show with the I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue cast. The audience were certainly transported to another dimension for two hours and the world definitely seemed a jollier place come the final curtain. My sincere thanks go to Captain Sundial for a wonderful evening.
“It says here you’re meeting Isaac Newton at 7.30!” she exclaimed.
I tried to remember if I’d invented a time machine recently and decided that, on available evidence, probably not. Though had I done so, the word “recently” would’ve ceased to have any real meaning. This left a combination of my handwriting and someone not wearing her specs as the main reasons for the imaginative interpretation of “ISIHAC, N’ton 7.30”.
That thought started me wondering, if we had the facility to travel in time, when and where would we go? I appreciate that we ARE travelling in time, but it’s a bit of a one way street with No Stopping and Stay In Lane signs. So what if the Temporal Highway Code was ripped up and thrown in the Celestial Bin?
By all accounts, Newton could be a crusty old git and had his fair share of fruit loop ideas. So, a man after my own heart, then, but perhaps not him.
Somewhat predictably, and if the oxygen didn’t get me first, I’d rather like to visit the Carboniferous period of 350 million years ago to see the early dragonflies with their 70cm wingspans. However, a modern human footprint in the fossil record would probably throw current scientific thinking into utter confusion. That and the neat row of rocks I’d arrange to spell the word “D-A-W-K-I-N-S”.
For a more subtle way of changing historic events, I would nip back to 1066 and impress upon Harold Godwinson the importance of maintaining a shield wall at all costs, despite evidence to the contrary. Who could resist the chance to be immortalised in the no-longer-called-Bayeux Tapestry wearing a red shirt with an iconic white chest band?
No, perhaps it would be a bad idea to sit me, or anyone, at the controls of a time machine. As a species we’re pretty good at messing up the now, so let’s try to limit the damage to our own life span and in that way inform the future.
Actually, whilst it didn’t affect the fabric of Space/Time in any meaningful way, the event in Northampton at 7.30 was a Best of… show with the I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue cast. The audience were certainly transported to another dimension for two hours and the world definitely seemed a jollier place come the final curtain. My sincere thanks go to Captain Sundial for a wonderful evening.
Friday, 15 May 2009
Carpet fitting
There's a new stair carpet going in at Tense Towers today as part of the ongoing restoration programme. I've never heard such a hammering since... er... Middlesbrough's last game. OK, many of Middlesbrough's games this season.
On a similar tack, one of the fitters is off to see MK Dons v Scunthorpe tonight and he asked me if I watched the Leeds v Millwall game last night. I had to explain that I know nothing about football, hence the reason I was drinking cold, unsweetened tea from a Middlesbrough FC mug.
Will the Dons get through to the League One play-off final and stand a chance of meeting the mighty, but fallen, Boro in the Championship next season? Or even wave in passing as they continue their meteoric rise up through the Divisions? The Scunthorpe game will certainly be a gripper.
It's a funny old game, they say. Well, "they" didn't support the Boys from the Smog. It's never really been fun, but I suspect that's not the point. I have to tread carefully here, as my support isn't the traditional "go to every home game and never miss Match of the Day" sort. For instance, I don't even know where that Geordie bloke has gone that used to sit alongside Alan Hansen. The last time I went to see Boro would've been in the 70s, the decade that taste forgot. This might explain my choice of team, when all around were supporting Newcastle, Sunderland and Leeds.
But times move on. Now, it's all about the thickness of your pile. Unless you've got the odd oligarch, with an attention deficit disorder, bankrolling your team, fun or more likely success, is going to be in very short supply. Nope, support is more about loyalty, that roller coaster ride of an unexpected away win against a top club and an abject home defeat in the Cup to some minnow from a lower league. It's about popping in and out of the room whilst listening to a football commentary on Radio 5. And every time you leave the room, your team goes a goal down. It was my fault the Boro were thumped 0-5 by Chelsea. Sorry lads, I was taking up the old stair carpet.
MGLW doesn't see the point of football. In fact, she struggles with the whole concept of sport. Cricket is mildly entertaining to her, at least, that bit between the overs when everyone mills around. Rugby's ok, for some strange reason, as she's been heard to shout "Pick the beggar up!" at critical moments. But football, no. Too many braying fans, too much foul language and not nearly enough entertainment to justify the bother and expense. If asked who she supported, she'd probably say Fat Face. Against that logic, what chance for the third best team in the North East?
Yep, form, like stairs, can go up as well as down. At least I hope so.
On a similar tack, one of the fitters is off to see MK Dons v Scunthorpe tonight and he asked me if I watched the Leeds v Millwall game last night. I had to explain that I know nothing about football, hence the reason I was drinking cold, unsweetened tea from a Middlesbrough FC mug.
Will the Dons get through to the League One play-off final and stand a chance of meeting the mighty, but fallen, Boro in the Championship next season? Or even wave in passing as they continue their meteoric rise up through the Divisions? The Scunthorpe game will certainly be a gripper.
It's a funny old game, they say. Well, "they" didn't support the Boys from the Smog. It's never really been fun, but I suspect that's not the point. I have to tread carefully here, as my support isn't the traditional "go to every home game and never miss Match of the Day" sort. For instance, I don't even know where that Geordie bloke has gone that used to sit alongside Alan Hansen. The last time I went to see Boro would've been in the 70s, the decade that taste forgot. This might explain my choice of team, when all around were supporting Newcastle, Sunderland and Leeds.
But times move on. Now, it's all about the thickness of your pile. Unless you've got the odd oligarch, with an attention deficit disorder, bankrolling your team, fun or more likely success, is going to be in very short supply. Nope, support is more about loyalty, that roller coaster ride of an unexpected away win against a top club and an abject home defeat in the Cup to some minnow from a lower league. It's about popping in and out of the room whilst listening to a football commentary on Radio 5. And every time you leave the room, your team goes a goal down. It was my fault the Boro were thumped 0-5 by Chelsea. Sorry lads, I was taking up the old stair carpet.
MGLW doesn't see the point of football. In fact, she struggles with the whole concept of sport. Cricket is mildly entertaining to her, at least, that bit between the overs when everyone mills around. Rugby's ok, for some strange reason, as she's been heard to shout "Pick the beggar up!" at critical moments. But football, no. Too many braying fans, too much foul language and not nearly enough entertainment to justify the bother and expense. If asked who she supported, she'd probably say Fat Face. Against that logic, what chance for the third best team in the North East?
Yep, form, like stairs, can go up as well as down. At least I hope so.
Monday, 11 May 2009
The mathematics of smog
Mathematics, the bedrock of the universe. An infinite number of infinite numbers. As the old saying goes, "All biology is chemistry, all chemistry is physics and all physics is mathematics."
It's a subject and science that sits, almost unseen, behind everything. On a human level, our everyday experiences of it are superficial, yet without it, the world we have built for ourselves would not function. Trigonometry, calculus, a whole string of theories, culminating in... er... string theory. Under our fingertips, binary digits flow from our keyboards to move us around a virtual environment. In our engines, electron shells fracture and reform to transport us across the planet. Politicians and lobbyists compete to twist the last grains of untruth from every statistic.
Numbers, just numbers. Pathetically, we try to tame them with a variety of units, for example, a fee of £10 000 000, or a goal difference of -28 perhaps, or even the bleak nothingness of zero (often applied to chances). But mathematics would exist even if we did not, we are not its masters, which frees us from the great weight of responsibility that numbers hold.
This morning, that is of no great comfort to dejected Boro fans, the most optimistic of whom must now surely realise that the phrase "mathematically possible" has a very hollow, hopeless ring to it.
It's a subject and science that sits, almost unseen, behind everything. On a human level, our everyday experiences of it are superficial, yet without it, the world we have built for ourselves would not function. Trigonometry, calculus, a whole string of theories, culminating in... er... string theory. Under our fingertips, binary digits flow from our keyboards to move us around a virtual environment. In our engines, electron shells fracture and reform to transport us across the planet. Politicians and lobbyists compete to twist the last grains of untruth from every statistic.
Numbers, just numbers. Pathetically, we try to tame them with a variety of units, for example, a fee of £10 000 000, or a goal difference of -28 perhaps, or even the bleak nothingness of zero (often applied to chances). But mathematics would exist even if we did not, we are not its masters, which frees us from the great weight of responsibility that numbers hold.
This morning, that is of no great comfort to dejected Boro fans, the most optimistic of whom must now surely realise that the phrase "mathematically possible" has a very hollow, hopeless ring to it.
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