'BECKS HELPS WROSSY PULL DOWN CURTAIN IN STYLE' by chris mills

David Beckham made his long awaited couch debut on the last ever 'Friday Night with Jonathan Ross' and who better to conclude one of Britain's most loved chat shows that has spanned more than a decade.

I think at some stage or another we have all grown up, mug of tea or glass of wine in hand, watching the irrepressible and enigmatic host interview some of the most popular 21st century names in all forms of entertainment, most notably film, television and sport. The show, traditionally aired at 10.30pm on BBC1, has also seen the emergence of some of the world's biggest and coolest bands.

The first show was aired on November 2nd 2001 (guests being John Lydon, Neil Hannon and Tamzin Outhwaite) and since then a further eighteen series consisting of 273 episodes have been recorded. Ross, backed by his house band 'four poofs and a piano', has picked up many deserved awards for the programme over the years including three BAFTA's.

In October 2008 the show was temporarily postponed and the host handed a twelve week suspension for his part in the Ross / Brand radio 'scandal'. The decision was met with great distain by viewers and none more so by the record companies / agents who relied on the show for their bands and clients TV exposure. However, this year Ross returned with a mega twenty-five show series culminating into tonight's finale, the other guests being Jackie Chan, Mickey Rourke and Roxy Music.

Back in 2001 when Ross began the show Beckham was a mere twenty-four year old and yet to peak as both a footballer and international celebrity. However, tonight he shone as bright as the host handling himself and the questions with the upmost class and dignity you'd expect from a much older and wiser, father of three. The interview touched on many aspects of Beckham's extraordinary day to day life, including a lego building confession and his recent trip to Afghanistan to visit British troops. A subject he spoke about with a surprising amount of passion.

After the band, chosen especially by Ross, instead of the credits the host himself said a short speech and noticeably moved by the events he thanked all involved with the show and the British public for their support throughout. Watching on it genuinely felt as if an era was coming to an end, an era we have all enjoyed perhaps more than we realised or dared to admit until tonight. How the BBC replace Ross remains to be seen but perhaps it would be futile replacing him at all.

'STUDENT DIARY: DAY 405' by jack johnson

The B Slane

Typical Sunday really – boring. I tried to pass the time by giving my hair a trim. Yeah okay, it’s not the coolest thing to admit to but there you go. University can’t be a jamboree of unadulterated sex and lavish drug sniffing everyday. Not Sunday’s anyway.

I haven’t been downstairs yet, but that’s because I don’t want to be sniggered at by half-baked, half-dressed scensters. I don’t need to do my washing that badly, I’m sure I’ve got some emergency socks somewhere.

About an hour ago Ben popped up and asked if I had any ‘spare’ tinfoil. A bit worrying, given his track record. I suppose if he is planning a smack party tonight, I’ll finally get to see the ‘B-Slane’ first hand. That’ll definitely be an experience. I’ll hide my valuables just in case.

Coronation Street wasn’t on tonight. What the piss is going on?


Firstly, I think it’s important to explain who or even what ‘The B-Slane’ is. On first reading you’d be forgiven for thinking that it sounds a bit like an American space shuttle, because, in a weird sort of way, it does. The reality though is far less glamorous. The ‘B-Slane’ is the nickname of my former university housemates, Ben Slaney. I told you it wasn’t particularly exciting.

If you asked him where he’s from, he’d say Northallerton. But he’s not. Well, not really anyway. He hasn’t got a Yorkshire accent. Ben – the only man in the world who’d make Jarvis Cocker look ‘a bit podgy’ – see’s himself as a bit of a ladies man; but that’s only because he’s Serge Pizzorno's cousin (the lanky one from Kasabian) . You’d be amazed how much confidence that gave him when it came to women. The amount of freshers that threw themselves at him because of his celebrity collection, it was as if he was Brad Pitt’s cousins instead. Inspired by Ben, I tried to convince a girl that I used to deliver papers to Ricky Wilson from the Kaiser Chiefs. It didn’t work, though. She told me to fuck off.

During the day he spent his time in uni, usually catching up on the work he’d neglected the previous evening, or at his part-time job in a shoe shop. He was a softly spoken man that had enough self-doubt to make him instantly likeable. But that was just during the day. That was Ben’s down-time, the calm before the storm. In the evenings, after taking copious amounts of drugs or drinking supermarket cider, namely Frosty Jacks, Ben became ‘The B Slane’ - A misogynistic, drug-fueled, party animal with hair that would make Russell Brand feel a little bit self-conscious.

What a shock it must have been for anyone who’d only seen Slaney during the day.

'WHY MOURINHO WILL BE REAL'S BIGGEST SIGNING FOR A DECADE' by chris mills

The term ‘big club’ is often over used in football these days. If you believed supporters and the media alone you’d be right in thinking that Grimsby Town were still a big club despite being relegated form the football league last season and that Sheffield Wednesday are once again gods of League One. However, both these underachieving ‘sleeping giants’ pale insignificant when compared to Real Madrid. In fact such a term was probably invented to describe the Spanish club.

However, despite their prestigious legacy in world football and near dominance in Spain throughout the 60’s, 80’s and 90’s, Madrid have failed to win the European cup for eight years. Add to this the fact they’ve only won the league title on three occasions in that time and the re-emergence of Barcelona, their bitter rivals, as one of the world’s strongest forces in club football and those eight years become all the more painful.

But don’t get them wrong, it hasn’t been through the want of trying. Real have thrown hundreds of millions at the cause, especially in recent years, with the arrival of big names such as Ronaldo, Kaka, Zidane, Figo and Beckham. But for all their class and attacking flare they’ve lacked something money can’t buy; a defensive grit and leadership. Something not traditionally synonymous with Spanish sides in general.

Never the less, this summer that could all change with the news that Madrid bosses have successfully negotiated their best bit of business in many-a-year which will, in terms of importance, surpass a deal for any player imaginable. Jose Mourinho has been lured to the Bernibia from Italian side Inter who, under the guidance of the self proclaimed ‘special one’ , have enjoyed their most successful season for some time; winning a treble which included the European Cup and a win over Real’s old nemesis Barca’. It could be the first of many.

Mourinho’s stock in club football is fast rising after now winning a league title in three different countries and European cups with two different sides. His success began with Porto, his first major managerial job, before moving to England and Chelsea where he won the league title two years running. Most recently he moved on to Inter Milan and within three years had also achieved glory in the league, cup and Europe. His unique brand of management style has been a hit with players, supporters and the media alike with tactical genius, managerial mind games and controversial outbursts common place.

One criticism aimed at Mourinho however is the style of football he tends to play, preferring to sit on a lead and defend than push on and score more goals. But it’s a debate that will split the table at any pub up and down the country. Would you prefer to draw 4-4 or win 1-0? And if it means Real Madrid regaining their European crown, it looks like they’re going to have to settle for the latter a little more than they're use to from now on.

'TOP FIVE CHIP SHOPS' by dan brown

Originating from Grimsby, the home of Fish and Chips, it's with a degree of disappointment and outright indignation that I am unable to include a Grimsby chip shop in this list.

Wait?! I hear you say, Are you insane?

Not at all my good man, for I have never visited any of the chip shops mentioned in this article. I can therefore not vouch for their quality. Britain is famous for it's fish and chips, and also for its eccentricity. Therefore, these chip shops are rated purely on the combination of the two factors. Enough spiel, pray silence please for the top 5 chip shop names.

1. Codraphenia, Sheffield.
Naturally, playing on the words cod and plaice are vital for any self respecting novelty named friery, however this one is simply exquisite. I hear the food is really good too.
82 Walkley Bank Road
Sheffield, South Yorkshire S6 5AL

2. The Codfather, Northwich.
Continuing on a slightly less innovative cod and movie related theme, is the Codfather in Northwich. It even gets a mention in the Guardian
289 Manchester Road Northwich

3. A Salt and Battery, Greenwich Village, New York
Ok, so it's not British, but come on, this is awesome! Hopefully serving a little more than is made obvious by the name, this is novelty fish and chips at it's finest. The website states it's brought to you by tea and sympathy. They're on to something here. Americans love British things right? Apart from rule of course. They're not a fan of that. Still, they should franchise this name out to Grimsby.
112 Greenwich Avenue, New York City

4. The Town Frier, Stevenage
I like this. What they've done is avoid the usual suspects for chip shop naming convention, but still come up with something that conveys the purpose of the business. Very clever.
39a High Street, Sandy, Stevenage.

5. A Fish Called Rhonda, Glamorgan
I can only assume this is the owners name. Slightly less original, but still impressive.
20 Church Road, Ton Pentre, Pentre, Mid Glamorgan, CF41 7ED

As you can see, here in Grimsby, the home of Fish and Chips, we are quite frankly behind the times when it comes to naming conventions. Could it be that what chip shop owners in the town lack in creativity, they make up for in quality?

I'd welcome any suggestions for a good Grimsby chip shop name that we can pass on to Gilbey Road Chippy or Smiths.

'STUDENT DIARY: DAY 396' by jack johnson

The Landlord

Our landlord popped round earlier demanding the money I apparently owe him. He’s not going to be getting a penny with that sort of attitude.

Personally I don’t have any time for the man. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a murderer or anything but there’s just something about him. Something disturbing. The way the bloke lets himself into our house, completely unannounced, and just appears in your room with a nauseating grin plastered across his potato face. It’s creepy. He’s got the look of a Mitchell Brother, just the lesser-known gay one who runs a Latino-themed cocktail bar in Ibiza. I bet Peggy rarely talks about him.

He confronted me about my unpaid maintenance bill. I knew this day would come, eventually. I’m sorry but the so-called ‘improvements’ made to my room (I say ‘my room’, obviously I mean ‘his room’ as he fucking owns it) during the summer aren’t worth a hundred quid. A medium-sized tin of magnolia and some crudely crafted skirting boards, fashioned exclusively with only best MDF leftovers and a few spare plastic-coated wooden floor tiles don’t cost a hundred quid. If he thinks I’m paying for it, he can eat shit. I told him that too - well, sort of.

I might just change the locks. That’ll wipe the smile off his face, temporarily at least.

Obviously I paid the said bill. I think when he started asking if I had a lawyer I knew I was out of my depth. After all, a hundred quid is better than ten years in strange ways, right? I’m sure even Mandela would have coughed up. Still, I wasn’t happy about it.

Before we moved in to Regent House the landlord asked us all to consider having all our rooms improved for only a ‘’tiny cost’’. He said that it would be doing him a favour as it’s improving his property plus it would make our year in his house that bit more comfortable. It sounded like an attractive prospects to me so I agreed to it straight away because otherwise it’d have been living in a 1970s nightmare. And no one wants that - apart from maybe my Auntie Julie. So when I returned to Uni for my second year in September I was excited to see what he’d done to my room. I wasn’t expecting rustic mock-Tudor beams and elegant Lawrence Llwelyn-Bowen style lace curtains or anything, but I certainly wasn’t anticipating what I was about to see.

Slightly tired after my early morning train journey I burst into my room only to find piles saw dust everywhere, an uneven floor and the brightest white walls I’ve ever had the misfortune of seeing. It almost gave me an instant headache. To say I was slightly disappointed with my landlords decorating skills is an understatement. If that wasn’t enough, to my amazement, curled up in the foetal position in my bed was a random longhaired bloke. Unamused, I woke the confused man and in no uncertain terms asked him to leave. To this day I still don’t know who that man was.

So my new room (which still looked shit) was christened by a tramp. £100 well spent.

'BALLISTIC '96' by jack johnson

Here it is. The video that made every rainy afternoon during the summer holidays bearable. The video that your mum nearly taped over with Kilroy. The video that, despite its slightly sterile production, manages, year after year, to make the 1995/96 Premier League season look that tiny bit more special. Quite frankly I believe it to be one of the best videos ever made - apart from maybe Kathy Burke’s Dance Workout. That was pretty good.

On the face of it, 95/96 doesn’t seem that long ago. I for one can remember seeing both West Ham and Chelsea play at Blundell Park that season as a young Grimsby Town fan. But from watching Ballistic ’96, albeit through that fuzzy haze that only appears on old VHS tapes, you realise how long ago it really is. I mean David Beckham looks about 13, Neil Ruddock is only ‘chunky’ and Nicky Butt has a lovely head of hair. This video represents a time in English football to behold - not just for Nicky Butt and his hairdresser - you only have to catch a glimpse of Burnden Park or The Dell and you begin to remember how charming football grounds used to be in the top flight. These were the days before soulless 30,000 all-seater aerodromes were built to cater for millionaire investors and worn-out rock bands. Obviously the grounds were shit but at least they had character. And massive floodlights.

Nostalgia aside, the video itself hasn’t dated at all well. Ballistic ’96 does exactly what you’d expect from a mid 90s goal compilation. If you’re the type of person that enjoys watching Dion Dublin’s magnificent diving header against QPR from 23 different angles and don’t get a headache, well, you’re in for a treat. As well as Dion’s header it features all the season’s top scorers: Shearer, Fowler, Ferdinand, Sheringham, Yorke and their strike partners, last gasp winners, flukiest goals – which could have been renamed ‘Bolton mistakes’ – the best headers and the hardest strikes. The latter giving Andy Gray a perfect opportunity to show off Sky’s newfangled marker pen technology by scribbling crude florescent lines all over Tony Yeboah’s corker at Sellhurst Park; the end result being something that resembles a graph from a secondary school maths textbook. Cheers Andy.

It’s not all like that though. Occasionally you get moments of magic, too. A great example being Man United’s fantastic team goal away at Chelsea. After about an hour of 35-yard pile drivers, chaotic goalmouth scrambles and mazy dribbles, this clip really stands out as one of the more beautiful moments of the video. United’s relaxed and patient build up play has shades of a Brazilian team from the 70s – minus David May, obviously.

Okay, I might have been a bit harsh then, but its because of old football videos like Ballistic ’96 that we can step back in time and see people like David May, players that have sadly become infamous as the years tick by, in their pomp. It wouldn’t surprise me if a lot of the players themselves have got a copy. You know just knocking around their house, waiting for a rainy day. Dion’s probably got one in his loft or something. Along with Kathy Burke’s Dance Workout.

'SUGAR TITS' by jack johnson

This week Alan Sugar swaggered back onto our screens to interview another rabble of grotesque nutters for “a chance of a lifetime’’. Yes, that’s right, The Apprentice has returned well before its due date – Sir Alan must have some old Amstrad computer’s he wants to shift.

Seeing a chance to cash in on the reasonably successful franchise in which 15 fully-grown adults abuse, ridicule and repeatedly bitch-slap each other for a chance to make Alan Sugar’s tea on a semi-regular basis, the BBC have decided to make a children’s version. How nice. I mean, that’s exactly the kind of thing we want to be teaching the children of the future – how to be a prize knob. No surprises for guessing that the Junior Apprentice offers all the same thuggary and tears you’d come to expect from the adult one, it certainly hasn’t become cordial all of a sudden.

The age of the contestants is supposed to be 16 or 17, but to look at them you wouldn’t be so sure. One bloke could easily pass as being in his early thirties….he’s got a full beard for fucks sake! If he announces at the end of the series that he’s got a wife and kids back home in Lancashire, I for one wouldn’t be that surprised. As for the rest of the 'boys', well, they probably need a note from their mum to get in to see a PG. To them, puberty is just something they've studied at school.

Since Sugar’s surprise peerage last year all the children now have to refer to him as “Lord Sugar”, which makes him sound more like a feared street pimp than a member of the House of Lords. In the weeks running up to the start of the show Sir Sugar Lord had described how he felt that helping young entrepreneurs or “the future of this country’’ - as he put it - was something he wanted to do. Well, if by ‘helping young entrepreneurs’ he meant turning innocent school children into hard-faced, back-stabbing capitalists before they’ve even found out what life’s all about – then yes Alan, you’ve made a good start.


Watch out for baby-faced Rhys Rosser - I think he’s going to do well. Either he’s going to win and Alan Sugar is going to love him, or he’s going to kiss a girl for the first time. We're supporting Rhys!

'LIVING WITH BEETHOVEN' by chris mills

THURSDAY
One minute I'm happily sat watching 'great British menu'. The next, I'm deaf in one ear. How's that fair?

Now as you can imagine, I was slightly alarmed by this. Even if the alarms were only partially heard in my now half working head. But soon the alarms stopped, the feeling turned to helplessness and then frustration and then sheer anger. I've always been a bit unfair on those that complain and over dramatise when they only have minor injuries, or so they seem. For example, broken a toe, sprained a wrist, pulled a muscle. But until you're actually forced to live your daily life without the aid of one of the above you don't realise how much you rely on them.

And let me assure you, it's the same with an ear full of wax.


FRIDAY
And so it began. The 'blog of a man who can only hear in one ear'. Admittedly it's not yet an internet favourite but you never know how things can catch on. That guy who shouts random abuse in his sleep somehow gets five million hits a day now. I'm not quite sure how interesting I'll be able to make this but if all else fails pity is more than welcome.

I rang the doctor's before work. "Can I have an emergency appointment to see Dr Thrippleton please?"

The receptionist paused and then replied "Dr Thrippleton has a very busy schedule today, what exactly is the problem?"

"I've gone deaf" (sort of the truth)

"See you at 9.30".

It wasn't going to take an expert to diagnose this one, unless it was in fact some sort of sex toy that had miraculously managed to get lodged in there. How would I have explained that one? I don't even own a sex toy. Such fears evaporated when he confirmed it was in fact wax and that I had to make an appointment to see the nurse and have my ear syringed. Thinking this would be a piece of cake and I'd be able to see her the same day was naive. "Tuesday? Is that really the earliest available?" Fucks sake.

SATURDAY
My deafness had kindly coincided with the death of Grimsby Town FC. Today I was committed to driving to Burton to see the Mariners either stay up in the clubs finest hour since, well the last time we narrowly survived relegation, or to see the clubs lowest ebb since, well the last time we were relegated. Thankfully sitting in the driver's seat meant my friend was to the left of me and I could hear him. Unfortunately the only speaker that currently worked in my car was to the right of me. Cue an awkwardly balanced six hours of driving and Crowded House classics.

Town lost, we were relegated from the football league and our fans were shamed in every national paper for fighting with police on the pitch.

SUNDAY
Still no movement in the wax stand off. I didn't realise how difficult it could be trying to sleep solely on one side all night.

The nurse had told me to put OLIVE OIL in my ear twice a day until Tuesday. Was that some kind of in house joke that all first time hearing-loss victims fall for or could OLIVE OIL actually be the answer to all my problems? Not life in general obviously, just ear related problems mainly. I doubt rubbing olive oil all over my body prior to a date could get me wanked off. No harm trying though...

MONDAY
Date was a disaster. Didn't get wanked off. Didn't even get to desert, the poor girl couldn't bear the smell, or sight, any longer.

Went to the pub quiz with two mates to try and drown my sorrows but couldn't even hear the guy calling out the questions. Needless to say my input was minimal. Their new game afterwards 'in the box' was a total shambles and cheered me up temporarily. Some old bird won a mobile DJ set and a rather disgruntled chap won a disposable BBQ.


TUESDAY
The day of reckoning was upon me, thank god.

Work was becoming unbearable. I was having to turn up every phone call to the max just so I could hear the person on the other end. The constant feeling of being in your own little world was starting to distract my concentration and I was being ridiculed for arriving every morning with cotton wool stuffed in my ear. Any sympathy had worn off long ago. I arrived at the clinic in an optimistic mood. The low lives sat in the waiting room tried bringing me down but I made a point of sitting on my own in the corner just so the young receptionist didn't associate me with any of the actual ill people. But why else would I be here if there wasn't something wrong with me? She knew.

I got called in and we get straight onto it, no foreplay. The nurse tells me to shout if it starts to hurt and she'd stop. I'm not sure if those first two sentences have set the scene appropriately, but never the less she's soon shoving an instrument in my ear and blasting what seems like gallons of hot water into my ear. It really is like nothing else I've experienced before and difficult to describe. Imagine drowning and your head caving in and you'd be in the right ballpark. She stops and starts for about ten minutes, occasionally checking for movement, but I'm left gutted when she says the wax is still too hard and I'll have to return on Friday to try again. I stopped at the supermarket on the way home and stocked up on olive oil. Never did I think I'd rely on such a product so much. It had become my life support machine. It's slightly heated goodness bubbling and cracking away. Go on olive oil my son, fuck up that wax.

WEDNESDAY
Everyone becomes a comedian. I ask someone a question. "Pardon" is the response. Brilliant, well done.

THURSDAY
My ear popped earlier and for a split second I thought I could hear again. For a split second life was amazing again, I could hear the birds singing and the wind whistling. But then it was cruelly taken away from me and the dull ringing returned. I watch 'great British Menu' a week on and reminisce of last week's episode in surround sound. I'm becoming tired of this now.

FRIDAY
Take two. I'm back at the sex clinic. Different receptionist, little chunkier. Same nurse, more hot water. The feeling doesn't seem quite as horrific this time round, I'm a little more use to the incoming tide and I squeeze my leg as she intensifies the power. I feel popping and pain as she nears my ear drum but there is no way I'm admitting defeat again and stay quiet. After what seems like an eternity she checks for one final time and utters the immortal line "yep that's clear". I could have kissed her. In fact I think I did as I was quickly removed from the surgery by a burley security guard. But I didn't care because it felt as if I could have heard a pin drop hundreds of miles away. It felt like I could have heard the Atlantic Ocean lapping against America's shores. It felt like I could have heard the engines of an aeroplane 30,000 feet above me. So I hopped and skipped back to the car. Bit gay, I know.

Let it be known that never have I felt such a relief to merely return back to normality. Never underestimate the genius of your ears, there is a reason we have two of them.

'A VERY CIVIL PARTNERSHIP' by dan brown

In October 2004, at the age of 16, I signed myself up as a member of the Liberal Democrats, as the party manifesto seemed to most closely reflect my own opinions at the time. Although they could never have established a government 6 years ago, they were seeing an upsurge in support, that even then seemed to show that sometime, maybe decades away, but sometime, it was possible the most principled of the big three parties could end up in government.

Fast forward to 2010, and the tragedy of this election, is that there is no option on the ballot that says "Anyone but Conservatives". If only it could be that simple.

Following on from the first wave of Cleggmania, out electioneering, the response in my constituency towards the party was phenomenal. People were genuinely interested in the message. For a while, there seemed hope that the Liberal Democrats were a synonym of "Not Conservative". The trouble with this, is it is very easy to vocalise your support online or gratefully accept a flyer.

After the election result, the over-riding opinion within the party seems to be that we did not capitalise on this support properly - being grossly unprepared. Additionally, many of those who said they'd vote simply didn't. This is a tragedy.

And still the Liberal percentage share increased despite seats going down, which is a clear case for electoral reform, which you should understand, but if you don't I will briefly explain why it is required.

27% of people vote Conservative.
26% vote Labour.
25% vote Lib Dem.

This means the Conservatives win, despite the majority of the constituency not voting for them.

This combined however, to form a hung parliament, which would be the staple of a government elected under proportional representation. And although the coalition between the Conservatives and the Lib Dems seems like an odd matching, the reality is quite different.

One of the ongoing complaints by people who voted Liberal is that they did so to stop the Conservatives getting in power. I've always had a problem with the term 'in power' anyway, as politicians should never strive for power, they are there to serve. So even if the Tory's did get 'In Power' the world would keep on turning, we'd probably just be a bit more pissed off.

Nonetheless, what these new breed of Lib Dem voters fail to realise is that the Conservatives were always considered a shoe-in for electoral success. This time around, the election was supposed to be marred by voter apathy and a subsequent Conservative regime. This has been an historical moment, not least because it was stopped, but also because of the unlikely coalition.

Internet moralists are vocal in their disdain for the Conservatives, and for Nick Clegg for his helping them in to government. This is a simple conclusion to make, and simple conclusions are usually wrong when you investigate them more deeply.

The electorate produced a result with no clear majority. This led to 3 potential scenarios:

Scenario 1: The Liberals construct a coalition with Labour.
The problem with this is that this coalition would also not have the required number of MP's. It would have meant a tie in with nationalist parties who would disproportionately benefit from their pivotal position. Additionally, forming a minority government to counter a potential minority government just seems wrong. Even to me.
Outcome: Coalition collapses due to too much emphasis on minority parties. There is another election. Lib Dem vote is decimated. Conservatives win a majority.

Scenario 2: Conservatives form a minority government with support from Liberals on certain issues.
The problem with this is the minority government is inherently weak. This would be picked upon almost instantly. There would be a need for another election to form a decisive result.
Outcome: The Conservatives, as clearly the only party who could possibly form a majority would win another election, and form a majority government.

Scenario 3: Conservatives form a coalition government with the Liberals.
Although this is an unlikely arrangement, and it still means the Conservatives end up in government, the result means that the Liberals do as well. The result of this is that a clear government with a majority of MP's between them is formed. Although the parties are diametrically opposed on many issues, they can still work together. This is the only possible scenario in the entire election which, although doesn't stop the Conservatives, at least can reign them in.
Outcome: It is therefore fair to assume that the Liberals manage to push through some of their more important policies, such as increasing the income tax threshold and electoral reform, whilst obviously having to relinquish ground on some issue such as the nuclear deterrent.
This is a fair compromise, as government should be.

'LAST CHANCE SALOON FOR CARRA' by jack johnson

Three years after throwing the toys out his international pram, Jamie Carragher looks set to make a return to the national team after being named in Fabio Capello’s provisional 30-man squad for South Africa. The Italian clearly hadn’t been paying attention to ‘World Cup Scouting’, Lee Dixon’s regular feature on the BBC website. The Liverpudlian didn’t even get a mention.

This is the first time since his coronation in January 2008 that Capello’s selection has raised a few eyebrows - before they used to be about as predictable as a David Pleat gaff on Champions League night. He ignored calls for the return of Michael Owen, explaining that he’d only pick the very best players that happen to be in form. He also acted ruthlessly to strip John Terry of his England captaincy in the New Year, following the widely publicised allegations surrounding his private life. So it was clear Fabio was his own man - he wouldn’t be taking any shit. But with England only days away from their most important tournament for years, the Italian has persuaded Jamie Carragher - a player renowned for turning his back on the national team - to come out of international retirement. Fabio, un explanation per favoure?

His last appearance for England came in the exhibition match against Brazil at the new Wembley in 2007. That day the versatile Liverpool defender deputised at right back, in place of the injured Gary Neville. With Kaka and co in their usual tormenting form, it proved a difficult day at the office for the England back four. It was probably then that the penny dropped. Though not usually considered a first team regular since his debut in 1999, he’d always been there or thereabouts - on call, so to speak - but that wasn’t enough. So he asked Steve McLaren not to be considered in future. His international career, it seemed, had ended with a whimper. Well, it had, until earlier this week.

Taking into account England’s impressive qualifying campaign, it’s unlikely that the Liverpool defender is going to see much action – If everyone is fit. So it seems, on the face of it, a strange decision by Carragher. Nothing really has changed since 2007, apart from maybe the kit. For Cappello though, it’s beginning to look like a masterstroke. With question marks over the fitness of both Terry and Ferdinand going into the Finals, not to mention the lack of strength and depth in the full back areas, Jamie Carragher could be exactly what the squad needs. He’s played in Champions League and UEFA Cup finals, won virtually all the domestics honours in England and amassed over 600 appearances for Liverpool. Let’s be honest, he’s a decent player to have on your bench.

The biggest battle could perhaps be with the England fans themselves. Both Capello and Carragher have got to win over the hearts and minds of the people, and that’s going to take some doing. To many, this treasonous act of turning down your country is unforgivable, sacrilege of the highest order. But surely if Carragher had refused Cappello’s pleas again, given England’s potential injury crisis, that would have made him even more unpopular? I think then even Mrs Carragher might have been a bit pissed off.