Last night

rather than tuck myself up, with the works of Robert Frost, to read about the Triple Godess, the blessed mooncrone, my girlfriend and I watched the National Television Awards instead. The only thing that got read was teletext, when I checked the Carling Cup scores. First, as this is a football blog, let me give you the lowdown in typical News In Brief Style.



...Everton last night scraped through to the last eight of the Carling Cup after a hard fought win over League 1 Luton. Despite making all the running the Toffees were unable to break a down a dogged and determined Luton defence until Tim Cahill, still returning from injury, converted Thomas Gravesen's extra time corner for a late winner. The win ensures Everton will play one of their Premiership rivals in the next round...



Enough of that. If you want more I suggest you head elsewhere. Now, the NTA awards!



The biggest shock of the night was Ant and Dec winning the the Best Presenter Award, despite the fact that they are clearly two people. Surely the award they should have won was the Best Presenters' Award. They obviously enjoy a a relationship of symbiotic dependency to such an extent that they are no longer seen as one person. Their consciousnesses merging into one sentiency, Burroughsesque, the one fading to insignificance without the other. Every time I see Ant and Dec I am unable to forget the image of Duncan from Byker Grove (played by one of them, Dec, I think) being brainwashed by a Tai Chi instructor. Maybe this layed the spiritual groundwork for his later soul convergence with Ant/PJ.



Trevor Mcdonald, hosting the affair, revealed a hitherto concealed lightness of touch. He deserted his sombre catastrophe announing sobriety for an all togehter more open and approachable style . He even gave the audience a cheeky wink at one point, when talking about the news at 10 being back in the New Year. This switch to panache light was a bit disconcerting. Like John Motson suddenly revealing a hidden talent as a childrens' entertainer.



Eastenders won best soap. Their new producer mumbled incoherently in the background to Dot while stumbling around like an overgrown toff. He looked thoroughly flumoxxed by the whole hoo-ha.



...

Back to the football however: teletext reported on Bolton's match by writing "Gary Megson enjoyed his first defeat as Bolton manager" Like he was some kind of maschocist who contrived to lose whenever he could. Looking at this record that would explain a lot.



There was no giant killing in the cup last night, although the Foxes and Luton both came close. But then, even if a smaller club does somehow manage to invert the form book, it is a case of winning the battle and not the war. There are always giants. Not just in football too, in all of life. Any Iraqi can tell you that.