….there was suddenly something more.

Sad day yet again today when the news broke that John Peel had passed on. John was 65 and left us after suffering a heart attack while on a working holiday in Peru with his wife Sheila.

Born in Liverpool in 1939, Peel moved to America in 1962 and got his first break in radio at Dallas's WWR. Peel moved to Radio 1 in the late Sixties, and remained with the station from its inception until his death.

"John Peel was a unique broadcaster whose influence on Radio 1 could be felt from its very first days," said BBC Director of Radio and Music Jenny Abramsky. "He nurtured musicians and listeners alike introducing them to new sounds."

In breaking the news of his death, BBC 1 interrupted programming to play Peel's favourite song, the Undertones' "Teenage Kicks."

I’ll always remember John in my earlier years, his shows were a good place to hear decent rock music and I spent many hours listening to his show on Radio 1 at ten o’clock at night. He had a passion for the offbeat, the eclectic and the obscure.

There was always a good chance that if a band was destined to make it to bigger things then you might have heard them first on a John Peel show. I never realised until today just what a lot of bands John gave the first step up the ladder to. I knew there was a lot, but I was surprised at just how many.

A great man and a fine servant to his chosen profession...Rest In Peace John.

The tribute below is from Pop Matters:

WHERE THERE HAD BEEN SOMETHING, THERE WAS SUDDENLY SOMETHING MORE:
John Peel 1939-2004

John Peel was the man. For the past 40 years he made sure that Britain didn't just listen to over-produced throwaway one-hit-wonders. He made sure we sat down and listened to the likes of David Bowie, Marc Bolan, The Sex Pistols, Jimi Hendrix, Captain Beefheart, Joy Division, the Undertones, The Fall, The Smiths.... Need I really go on? And I haven't even touched upon the sessions bands came to record for him.

John Ravenscroft was born near Liverpool in 1939 and thanks to Beatlemania and his Liverpudlian connections he managed to find work on WRR radio in Dallas after moving to the US in 1962. He returned to the UK in 1967 and joined the pirate radio station Radio London -- basically a studio in a boat built in 1944 and anchored just outside the Thames Estuary. That same year pirate-Peel joined the staff of the new BBC national pop music station Radio 1. He was the last surviving member of the original line-up before his untimely death at 65 today at 4am on holiday in Peru.

This is going to sound like a cliché, but I do remember the first time I listened to John Peel on BBC Radio 1. I was 15 and he was playing "My Biggest Thrill" by The Mighty Lemon Drops. Okay, so the Wolverhampton lads weren't the definitive band of a groundbreaking genre, but that night I decided to buy the album and indeed buy the all the records of all the artists he ever played. Needless to say I didn't manage to stick to this task, but more than any band and indeed any other music journalist, he formed my musical taste through his wit-driven critiques and complete disregard of commercial trends and the Establishment, believing as he did musical experimentation is always good regardless of the occasional mistake. We could legitimately question whether punk, reggae or hip-hop would have crossed over into the UK mainstream if it weren't for him.

John Peel said that everything changed for him when he first heard Elvis Presley's "Heartbreak Hotel", adding "where there had been nothing there was suddenly something". Well, for anyone seriously interested in popular music either side of the Atlantic, thanks to John Peel kicking open doors where there had been something, there was suddenly something more.

The man represented inclusion -- as a fledgling band you knew that in John Peel you would always get a serious audience for your demo (even if it didn't guarantee airplay), but as he demonstrated more recently with his BBC Radio 4 programme "Home Truths" (which proved that the mundane is never bland or boring by dealing with the very personal trials and tribulations of people's every day lives simply through listening), he was also deeply humanely inclusive.

So, give thanks to this man and take five minutes out to listen to his favourite song, "Teenage Kicks" by The Undertones. You may or may not have heard of him, but one thing is for sure your record collection has.

You would have thought it would have been between ‘Towel’ and ‘Lounger’ wouldn’t you? But it’s not, the two favourite words in Germany are Habseligkeiten and Rhabarbermarmelade.

Habseligkeiten - which means 'property' - has been voted the most beautiful word in the German language.

And rhabarbermarmelade - 'rhubarb jam' - has been singled out as Germany's coolest word.

Germany's Goethe Institute and the German Language Council, which are the guardians of the language, organised the contest to highlight beautiful German words.

They wanted to show that the German language could be every bit as romantic and glamorous as Italian or French.

(What? “Do you want a Gondola ride in this dirty, smelly canal” or “Here, have a bite of my frog’s legs and a swig of this wine my mother has had her feet in” is not exactly what I’d call romantic or glamorous.)

Anyway, thousands of German speakers from all over the world took part and the winner was chosen after 22,000 entries from 111 countries were considered by a panel of experts.

"We wanted to reignite the joy of discovering the German language," said Limbach.

The winning word was sent by Doris Kalka, a secretary at the University of Tuebingen. The runner-up was geborgenheit - 'security' - while lieben - 'love' was third.

Rhabarbermarmelade was submitted by Frank Niedermeyer who said:

"What a wonderful feeling overtakes me when on Sunday morning I can say to my sweetie: "Barbara, could you please pass me the Rhabarbermarmelade?"

That just makes my day!"

What a twat!

I was thinking about things the other day and my mind went back to when I used to be a part time gravedigger to supplement the lousy wage I used to get as an apprentice stonemason.

I wasn’t that old when I started doing it, my Grandad used to dig graves and he taught my Dad and of course, the pair of them taught me. Before I left school, I could dig a grave to any size you wanted and often did them on my own.

My Grandad used to only dig in the Churchyard of the village that we lived in, I and my Dad would travel further a field and dig them anywhere they needed digging, if you wanted to earn any decent money at it you had to. The village we came from was only small and waiting for somebody to pop off so we could earn a few bob was just silly and going around knocking people off left, right and centre would have no doubt ended in us getting caught before long.

I remember one time in Tean Churchyard, around 1979, grave needed digging and I was unable to start it straight away because of work commitments, so I decided to dig it the night before and fill it in after the funeral on my way home from work.

It was a re-opening, (that means there was already somebody buried there and the spouse had then passed on so they were to be buried on top) so the ground was always easier to dig out than a fresh grave so it wouldn’t take long.  So there was I, seven o’clock at night, in winter, digging a grave in a churchyard with no lighting except for an extension lead which we ran from the Church to the grave. That was nothing more than a mile of cable with a plug on one end and a 100 watt light bulb on the other, nothing fancy.

Anyway, it took a little longer than I thought it would because as I reached the old coffin already in there, part of the sides of the grave fell in. BOLLOCKS! That was going to stop me getting a pint at last orders (10:30pm closing in those days), but I soldiered on.

I finished around 11, got everything nice and tidy, the sides shored up with planks and that imitation grass crap hanging down the sides, then started to pack up before chancing my arm round the back door of the boozer for an after hours pint.

Now earlier that night I thought I had heard somebody walking down the gravel path of the churchyard, but by the time I had climbed out of the grave, there was nobody in sight. Spooky! And you don’t need that in a dark churchyard.

So, work next day, clocked off and headed for the churchyard to fill in. No problems had been had, when I moved back the covers, the coffin was there and it was a good fit, so I set about filling it in, tidied up and went home for tea.

Friday night came and I was out in the local boozer when I was asked how my mate (we’ll call him Kevin to save embarrassment) was. I told them alright as far as I knew, I was waiting to meet him.

Then they told me how he had been in there earlier in the week going on about a ghost in the churchyard digging its way out of the grave. He had to pass the churchyard on his way out and he had caught sight of a light so he decided to investigate. He old me about it later that night and how he had shit himself when he saw a light over the top of a hole (he wouldn’t have been able to make out the bulb) and the soil was flying out. Of course he had added bits on saying there was eerie sounds and at another grave the same thing was going on. (bullshit) Then he arsed it as fast as he could.

He was really worried about it and it didn’t help when we would him up all night for weeks to come about ghosts and grave robbers. I even told him that I had seen things down there when digging graves and there was no way on this earth I would ever enter that churchyard at night.

Tell you what; he never used to piss about getting passed the place after that. Not sure if anyone ever told him the truth of what went on that night, I never did and its been many, many years since I last saw him. Is it time to look him up and come clean?

Strange as it seems, I used to enjoy doing that job and if it wasn’t for being disabled now, I’d have loved to have just one more go. I dug my Grandad’s grave; maybe I could have done my own and left it on stand by?

Now this had me pissing myself earlier......

Whilst most supporters know about the hooligan violence that blighted football in the 70's and 80's, few people will be aware of the clashes that took place between rival children's TV gangs.

This week sees the publication of Congratulations…you've just met the RJF, the long awaited biography from children's TV favourites, Rod, Jane and Freddy.

This explosive book brings readers face to face with the relentless violence of 80's kiddies TV.

Sports Offensive reprints these exclusive extracts.

Beginnings

Rod: In 1979 there were a lot of really useful firms operating out of ITV and "The Rainbow Boys" were one of the best in the business. The problem was, because we were new, we were always on the outside looking in. It was time to make a bit of a noise and show them we could handle ourselves.

Freddy: We decided we were going to take Play School in their home pub, Chatters wine bar in Hampstead. On the face of it, it was a fucking ridiculous thing to do. They were pretty handy and had a big reputation, but that didn't mean nothing to us. We were ready to make our mark and didn't care how we did it.

Jane: We got there early and just kept a low profile. Pretty soon the whole place was filling up. There were quite a few faces in there: Fred Harris, Derek Griffiths, Big Ted. I can't say it bothered me. All I was thinking was, "You're going to get it, you numpties!"

Rod: I think it was Johnny Ball who clocked us. I can remember him saying something like "I can think of a number: the three wankers stood over there" and it all kicked off. Even though they hit us with everything they had, we took it. All I can remember is Freddy screaming, "Hold the line, just hold the fucking line" and we did.

Jane: I didn't think they could believe that three of us had taken about forty of them at their place. They just melted away, flicking the V's at us and looking like a total set of pussies. I saw Hamble with blood pissing from an open head wound. To be honest I was too wound up to care.

Rod: We walked away from there with our heads held high. The Rainbow Boys would have to take notice now. Rod, Jane and Freddy had well and truly arrived.

The Battle of Blue Peter

Rod: There's been a whole heap of bullshit spoken about who vandalised the Blue Peter Garden. The truth is that place got torn up in one of the maddest, bloodiest children's television rucks I can ever remember.

Jane: Blue Peter were always giving it some about how they were the best in the business. We were happy to let them think that. Our feeling was they'd got sloppy and hadn't fought anyone decent for about five years. Their shows always went out live, so the plan was to wait until the end of the live broadcast and pile in. The trouble was it didn't work out like that.

Freddy: We'd gone over the wall and started heading towards them. It was Simon Groom and Janet Ellis and we could tell we'd taken them by surprise. Rod wades in and bang, bang, bang they both go down like a sack of shit. It was all a bit too easy and we couldn't work out why the camera crew were holding back. Then we realised, they'd been having some sort of past presenter's reunion. They all came pouring out of the studios: Noakes, Purves, Singleton; all ready to kick seven shades of shit out of us.

Jane: As far as we were concerned there was only one thing to do. Stand our ground. Other firms would have run but we just thought, feck it, this far and no further. It wasn't easy mind. They were tooled up with bottle tops from a bring and buy sale. Peter Duncan was just wading into us with a bicycle chain shouting, "Take that you twats!" I honestly didn't think we'd last much longer.

Rod: Then we heard it. The best sound in the world; "Up above the streets and houses, Rainbow climbing high!" It was The Rainbow Boys battle cry…the cavalry was coming. Zippy dropped the nut on Biddy Baxter and suddenly things were a bit more even. I swear on my mothers grave if security hadn't stepped in we'd have murdered the bastards.

Freddy: The garden was totally fecked. They covered it up and said it was the work of vandals. No it wasn't, it was the scene of our finest hour.

Congratulations…You've Just Met The RJF is published by Hodder and Staunton and retails at £7.99

sportsoffensive.com

I read in the local news that Wetley Rocks, next village to ours, has had a crime wave.

No less than two garden sheds have been broken into and a strimmer plus a lawnmower have been taken. Damage to one shed came to £18, while the taken strimmer was valued at around £30. The other shed owner had no damage done to his shed, but the mower was valued at £45.

What is the world coming to when you can’t leave your shed alone through fear of crime on this scale? I’m taking no chances; I’m toying with the idea of having a state of the art alarm fitted to my shed at a cost of £750. That should make sure that my leaf blower is safe.

I also might start a vigilante group just in case these desperados strike in our village next. All we want is to be able to sleep in our beds safe at night without fear of who is rummaging through our sheds.

I wonder if they have trouble like this in places like London and Birmingham.

Put Sky Sports on today at 4:30 for Aerobics Oz Style, well you know how I like to look after myself. But Shock Horror! There was tennis on instead.

Now tennis is okayish if women are playing, that’s just about watchable, but male tennis is gay.

So that ruined what could have been a good chicken choking session.

Talking about sport, there is a rounders team who wear red socks who have just won quite an important game across the water.

Now it’s hard enough trying to understand why blokes would want to play a girls game, but it baffles the feck out of me why they have to wear red socks to so it.

Wonder if they like tennis?

Guess what?

*Come a bit closer*

*bit more, I want to whisper*

That’s better, listen; there is somebody else out there on this interweb thingy with one of these blogs!

It’s true, I’m not lying I’ve seen it.

It’s been put together by a rather nice lady called Sandy in Germany and she has even linked to this site and thinks it’s pretty funny so at least  when they come and put me in a straight jacket and cart me off to the padded cell I’ll have a bit of company.

Sandy comes from America. I looked that up today and its friggin miles away, I reckon you’d have to pack sandwiches and a flask of tea for the journey if you was ever to go there.

Sandy was in the US Air Force so she can probably drive a plane or one of those Jet things like they used in the film Top Gun, so I’ve been told. I’ve never seen the film myself as I don’t like heights. You can see Sandy climbing into a plane HERE

What else is there to tell you? Ah yes, she likes the film Fight Club so that can’t be bad and she writes things entitled “Soap me up baby.”

You can find all this and more on The Dirty Ashtray, it’s well worth a read.

Money grabbing twat Bernie Ecclestone has admitted that it now look as though the British Grand Prix will not happen in 2005, following the break down of communications between the relevant parties.

“We have to admit defeat and end the discussions. We have been unable to reach agreement on the length of the commitment or the financial terms. It looks certain there will not be a British GP in 2005”.

In a nutshell, Ecclestone wanted the British Racing Drivers' club (BRDC), owner of Silverstone, to accept a one-year deal with an option on a further six years, while the BRDC wanted a two-year deal with five-year extension.

“What more can anyone do”? he said. “The BRDC want everything their way. Business life is not like that”.

If this is the end of the British Grand Prix, it brings to an end a war of words that has raged for many years, most of the verbal abuse coming from the F1 supremo who has continually lambasted the Northamptonshire circuit and its owners of being stuck in a 'time warp'.

Now while the occupants of Northampton are usually web-toed and look like they live in the seventies, there is fuck all wrong with Silverstone, except for where it is located of course.

At the end of the day it boils down to him lining his fucking pockets