Ball, Ball, Ball. Footy, Footy, Footy.

I played football on Tuesday night, as is my custom.

Usually our 5-a-side team uses 6 players, rotating subs as and when this is deemed necessary. Last night we played with 5, and were shown why having 6 players is the best option.

For some weeks now, it has been apparent to myself that I have been something of a passenger in a successful team, 'there for the ride', as it were. I first began to notice this when my turn to leave the field for a replacement player coincided (that's what I called it anyway) with an upturn in performance on the pitch.

Initially oblivious to the negative effect I was having on the team, I attempted to convince myself that the fact my teammates scored when I was off the pitch, and did not when I was on the pitch was not my fault. My reasoning became increasingly delusional, from the relatively realistic ("The rest of my team are tired") to the downright foolish ("The other team recognise the threat I pose, and double their defensive efforts accordingly").

Last night I realised none of my arguments were true. The simple fact of the case was (is) that I am lacking in both fitness - proven by my gasping for air, 30 seconds into the game, and skill - proven by my curiously accurate own goal, which nestled into the corner of my goalkeeper's net, 45 seconds into the game.

At the start of the season, I wisely agreed to manage all the team's affairs, ensuring I cannot be dropped, however to try and regain face, I shall strive to improve my fitness, in the hope I do not forsake my teammates in such fashion again.

Ich bin ein Berliner

I'm going to Berlin in November, which I am eagerly anticipating. I've been once before, when travelling across Eastern Europe in 2005, and thoroughly enjoyed it; clearly enough to return.

In the short, wet summer of 2005, we spent 5 days in the German capital at the offset of a 5 week jaunt across several countries. Although thoroughly enjoying our time there, we never really discovered the night life, which was something of a disappointment to a group of 20 year old males. Having unwittingly fitted the 'Brit abroad' stereotype in our previous city (Paris), mainly through an ill-advised visit to an Australian-themed bar, followed by being hoodwinked out of 20 euros by a French reprobate, we were keen to make amends, and threw ourselves into the historic elements of Berlin.

Whilst this policy ensured we can now talk about Berlin with some authority - as I am attempting to do now - it also meant our journey of discovery through its nightlife never really got going. Although we did have a couple of lairyish nights, these came solely in our hostel bar and in a suburban, gothic (in clientele, not architecture) lesbian bar, which as its USP had a ping pong table on the dance floor.

So second time lucky! In our November foray, we are determined that, whilst we may not entirely 'paint the town red', we will at least find the town.

(P.S. Apologies for cheesy final sentence. Forgive me.)

Chuckle, Chuckle Vision. Chuckle Vision.

According to the BBC website, it is 20 years to the day since Chuckle Vision first aired on our screens. Strange, seeing as the Chuckle Brothers were my intended blog subject this week anyway; memories of their antics had been jogged earlier in the week, when I went to the Charter Theatre. Not because of any comical mishaps, misdemeanours, slips or falls in the show ('Half a Sixpence', don't you know), but because my previous visit to the Charter (you can drop the theatre if you've been more than once) was to see those chucklesome brothers.

Whether deliberately or not, I had completely forgotten about the experience, but now the memories came flooding back. Paul, moustache glistening in the spotlight, climbing up a precarious looking ladder with a tin of paint, Barry apparently unaware of an imminent dousing, crawling around on hands and knees beneath him. Needless to say, shrieks of laughter ensued. The Brothers Chuckle also threw in a bit of comedy gold for the elders in the audience; prodding a cucumber back and forth through a hole in a piece of wood (this seemed to amuse them no end, although Grandmother wasn't best pleased).

It was pleasant to be reminded of the Chuckle Brothers; they had, after all, been a favourite of my youth; up there alongside Sooty & Co (later Sooty & Friends) and Thomas the Tank Engine. Tempting here to put an unnecessarily emotional sentence ("Twenty years on, here's to..." and "Who would have thought, thirteen years later..." spring to mind) but that's unneccessary; they're still going strong, and besides, any claim to ownership I may have had over them has drifted to the next generation now. So I shall simply keep my personal memories of Barry and Paul, and look forward to seeing them in action in Aladdin, this Christmas. My money is on Barry for the monkey.

Owd Nells Tavern - Oyster Festival

We ventured out to the first night of the ever-popular oyster festival, held at Owd Nells in Bilsborrow. I had never consumed oysters before, but my father had visited for an all day 'oyster banquet' (read: 'knees up') in 2004 and his hazy recollections seemed promising.Despite my reservations over the faux authentic name and decor of Owd Nells Tavern, it is actually a very pleasant place to enjoy a few drinks.

Grandmother came along to accompany me and my ladyfriend, and we were soon tucking into pints of Stout, wondering where the oysters were. Several pints later, and still with no sign of any seafood sustenance, the mood dampened, when suddenly a swarthy looking waiter appeared, smugly holding an ostentatious silver platter of oysters.

Once I had made certain the oysters were free (which I did several times, eyes narrowed disbelievingly), I took a deep breath and emptied the slimy contents of the surprisingly robust shell down my throat. I had been told this was the way to do it by Gordon Ramsay (not personally; it was inbetween expletives on one of his televisual programmes), whereas to my surprise and amusement, ladyfriend was unaware of protocol, and had chewed the fish/seafood/crustation (what are they anyway? there's only so many times I can use the word oyster in this blog), leaving her unimpressed.

Despite the waiter's apparent efforts to hide behind a pillar, I managed to snatch more oysters, including one for Grandmother, who at the age of 78 tried her first oyster (she had to check her teeth were fixed down properly first) and declared it a roaring success. Ladyfriend learnt from her earlier mistake, and duly quaffed the oyster-blob down, whilst I, unaware of its toxicity, applied a liberal dosage of tabasco sauce. I necked the concoction, and immediately had to fight an impulsion to retch - upon further examination the oyster was still intact, attached to the shell.

I had merely drunk the equivalent of a shot-glass of tabasco.

A warm welcome.

A warm welcome

Hello, and welcome to my blog. This (as may be apparent) is my first foray into the world of bloggery, so I beg patience as you read. For my first posting I thought I would divulge some information on myself, and shall venture to make future blogs more topic specific.

So then, 'interests'. I have a fervent interest in Sherlock Holmes (see blog name), the Lord of the Rings, and Blackadder. Not particularly original interests, perhaps not even interesting interests, but never mind. Got bogged down with the word interest and its derivatives there, won't happen again.

Anyway, onwards. I also play football. I'm not a particularly skilled practitioner of the beautiful game, being somewhat gangly, however I'm nothing if not a game participant, guaranteed to leave the pitch red-faced, short of breath and (usually) on the losing side.

That's all the waffle I can manage for now, collecting garden furniture calls. Please feel free to leave comments, although if leaving criticisms I would prefer constructive ones; my fragile ego can only bear so much. Prost!