Champions League final decision is the right one

I WONDER why the Champions League Final was going to be in Russia in the first place?

I’ve been searching for some clues. It was scheduled to be played in St Petersburg, at the Gazprom Arena.

Hmm. I know that name from somewhere.

Ah yes, I first saw it many years ago popping up on advertising hoardings around Champions League matches, and on those funny boards they stand players and managers in front of for post-match interviews.

The other brand names on those boards were familiar to me.

There was a very famous fast-food chain, a maker of fizzy pop, a tyre company and a fairly weak European lager.

Then there was this mysterious company Gazprom.

What was it all about then?

I’d eaten at the fast- food chain, drunk the fizzy pop and the beer and driven on the tyres.

But I’d never knowingly eaten, drunk or ridden on anything called Gazprom.

Even when I found out it was something to do with gas supply, I couldn’t for the life of me find out how to get them to deliver any gas to my home.

What use was that? All very strange.

Why spend a fortune advertising something on sale to hardly anyone watching?

It turned out that while the likes of you and I couldn’t buy their gas, many European countries were spending squillions buying an awful lot of it.

That seemed a bit strange too.

I rather hoped that neither us, nor our neighbours, were becoming too reliant on Russian gas because that funny leader of theirs didn’t seem the nicest, most reliable chap in the world.

And here we are now, with Russia invading Ukraine and half of Europe unable to risk doing much about it in case the Russians turn the gas taps off.

Even worse, while the gas flows to Europe, all that money is still flowing in the other direction for the Russians to spend on stuff like, oh I don’t know, guns, planes, tanks and all that stuff.

It’s not too much of a stretch to say that Europe is actually paying for the very invasion that could yet drag us all into hell.

I hope somebody is kicking themselves.

DRAG US INTO HELL

So, yes, pulling the Champions League Final from the Gazprom Arena in St Petersburg, home city to Gazprom’s headquarters, is certainly the right thing to do, even if it’s hardly going to change the bigger picture.

But it might start to make Putin’s eyes water a bit if Uefa has the Niagaras to tell Gazprom — the majority of which is owned by the Russian government — to stick its sponsorship millions where the sun don’t shine and walk away from them.

As I write, Uefa’s website is still carrying a story from last May trumpeting the “fruitful partnership” Gazprom has had with the Champions League since 2012.

Further down the page it says: “Not only is Gazprom a leader in its field, it also has a long heritage in football and we are looking forward to working even closer together over the coming years, such as through Gazprom’s Football For Friendship programme.”

Oh please.

Manchester United have done the right thing by ditching the Russian airline Aeroflot as a sponsor. Quite right. And now it’s Fifa’s turn to do the right thing.

Surely we’re not going to see Russia at the Qatar World Cup?

They’re scheduled to meet Poland, then either Sweden or the Czech Republic in the play-offs.

I think we should probably save the Poles, the Czechs and the Swedes the trouble.

Never mind the idea of playing Russia’s home games at a neutral venue, let’s not play them at all.

And all hail F1 for not messing about and calling off September’s Russian Grand Prix already.

I can’t imagine any of this is much comfort if you’re hiding in a basement in Kyiv or Kharkiv waiting for the worst to happen.

But every little helps.

Peaky pair play a blinder

I LOVE Peaky Blinders so much. I really can’t decide which character I’m most infatuated with.

In the early days it was certainly Grace, played by Annabelle Wallis, but then Grace died and though she still kept turning up, I couldn’t feel the same way about her.

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In the end, I’ve had to declare a score draw between Tommy Shelby himself – Cillian Murphy being as beautiful as well as menacing as any woman I’ve had the pleasure of meeting – and Mrs Shelby, played by Natasha O’Keeffe.

She is wonderful. Stunning looking, foul-mouthed and could drink me under the table as well as beat me in a fight.

Now that’s what I call a woman.

Why USA is united grates of America

AN American woman called Miriam Giraffe has been making a name for herself on TikTok talking about what she finds weird about living in Britain with the British – they include having a hot and cold tap, hailing a bus and standing on the right on escalators.

Miriam’s surname wasn’t the only thing about this story to have me checking whether it was April Fool’s Day.

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Honestly, the cheek of it.

I’d need longer than TikTok would allow me to get across my feelings about the weirdness of Americans. A very odd breed indeed.

I’m going to write a two million word book on this subject, but here are a few thoughts:

• Root beer. A drink that tastes like Deep Heat. It may not be that widely drunk there, but it’s there. And that’s unforgivable.
• Their plugs. Our electric plugs are the best. Good, solid construction with three sturdy pins. European plugs are inferior with their two round pins. But they’re a sight better than the Americans’ two flimsy FLAT pins. They never feel as if they’re properly “in”.
• Saying “hey” instead of “hi”. Contemptible.
• Their canned laughter in TV shows. Ours is classy. Theirs isn’t. It’s annoying and makes you not want to join in.
• Worst of all, when you say something objectively very funny to an American and, instead of laughing, they just look at you deadpan and solemnly tell you, “That’s hilarious.” I used to think they were being sarcastic, but no, they really meant it. And that makes it even weirder.

Sarnie barne barmy

I’VE had to get into work early this week to cover the unfolding horror of Russia’s warmongering.

I popped into an old-school caff around the corner from the BBC, where I drank tea, read the news and felt like crying for the poor, terrified people of Ukraine.

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My producer had been working half the night so I asked if I could bring her in something to eat.

Being a rock-solid northerner from Ramsbottom, I assumed she’d want bacon and egg, possibly with black pudding on the side. But no.

“Do you know what I’d love?” she said.

“A smoked salmon sandwich.” So, smoked salmon it was.

The establishment I was in couldn’t help, but there was a super fancy trendy deli-type affair across the road.

You didn’t get much change out of a tenner for their “open” sandwiches but, what the hell, she’s worth it.

The bloke behind the counter pointed at their smoked salmon offering in a glass case. It was a small slice of very brown bread, covered in chopped egg and topped with salmon.

I asked if I could have it as a proper sandwich.

“No,” he said. “This is all we do.”

“Ok, but could you not just put another slice of bread on top of it to make a sandwich.”

“No.”

“Could I buy a slice of that bread separately then, and I’ll put it on top myself?”

“No, sorry.”

And that was that.

Meanwhile in Kyiv, people like me and him were cowering in basements in terror. It’s a funny old world.

Explosively ejaculating

I WAS fascinated to read in The Sun that bees are explosively ejaculating to death during heatwaves.

When male workers die from being too hot, they convulse, forcing them to expel their internal penis.

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I like a drizzle of honey every now and then, I think this story might have spoiled it.

It did, however, remind me of a school friend of mine.

No, he didn’t ejaculate to death, but he did confide in me he was ejaculating – how to put this? – rather too early in proceedings.

The poor lad was very stressed about it.

Seeking to reassure him, I asked him just how, er, quickly it was happening.

After a few minutes? He shook his head? A few seconds? He shook his head again. What then?

“I’m afraid we’re talking minus numbers,” he said, miserably.

It turned out it had happened on the stairs as they, still fully clothed, made their way up to the bedroom.

He was mortified. I think he’d rather have gone the way of the bee.