To all fellow England fans gripped with feelings of despondency and déjà vu after Saturday’s game, a few consolations.
1. We’re one of the eight best teams in the world. You can’t really argue with that now. Not after we’ve been quarter finalists for pretty much every tournament over the past millennium. And it’s not too bad, is it? We don’t have the largest, richest or most fanatical population in the world so we shouldn’t really expect the best team. And don’t try the counter-argument of how we invented modern football. After all, nobody expects Thomas Edison to design the best light bulbs any more.
2. Wayne Rooney got sent off for a proper foul. If you’re going to regress into childhood, go all the way. Stamp on somebody’s goolies. Don’t, as Deco did, just hide the ball behind your back and say “Nyahh, you’re not having it, nyahh!” What sort of a career-defining moment is that to look back on?
3. We’ve found out what Owen Hargreaves actually does. This used to be one of the great mysteries of science. The origin of the universe, the behaviour of an electron and the purpose of Owen Hargreaves. Some of us were getting ready to dismantle the Bayern Munich midfielder, possibly without an anaesthetic, in an attempt to find out. But now we know. He scuttles about the pitch and deputises adequately for superior players when they’re injured. Now the great minds can turn to the next question: If Jermaine Jenas is in a squad and nobody notices, does he really exist?
4. Frank Lampard. He’s had more shots on goal than anybody else in the tournament. And he inspired the most oft-quoted obscure fact of the tournament: that he’s had more shots on goal etc. Compared to these two achievements, his inability to hit a cow’s arse with a shovel is fairly trivial.
5. England have caught up with modern tactics. In 1998 France won the World Cup by not playing any decent strikers. Four years later, half the teams in the tournament were trying to emulate them. Clearly Eriksson saw this as the way to go when he selected two crocks, a juvenile and a freak of nature as his squad’s attack force. Portugal probably only beat us by taking the next step: going a large section of the game without any centre forwards at all.
6. Theo Walcott had a really spiffing holiday. He made some fantastic new friends. He sat on some excellent benches. He got some great photos to show his mum. Best of all, he didn’t have to do any work at all!
7. Steve McClaren is bursting with ideas. Every game was spent scribbling down notes and holding them in front of Eriksson. He only broke off to mutter intently in his boss and soon-to-be predecessor’s ear. We shouldn’t, at this stage, be too worried by the fact that Eriksson apparently paid him no notice at all.
8. There’s no single scapegoat for England’s exit. Which means no weeks of hate campaigns and (very) thinly disguised xenophobia in the tabloids. Attempts are being made to find a villain. Blame has swirled around Rooney (for stamping on someone’s goolies), Carvalho (for allowing his goolies to be stamped on), Ronaldo (for being an annoying tosser) and the Argentinean referee (for being Argentinean, presumably). But the lack of a single target suggests the real reason for our defeat lies elsewhere. We lost because we weren’t good enough. Accept it and move on.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
The School Of Athens'
'The School of Athens' probably isn't Raphael's most famous work or even his best. But it has to be my favourite, probably because it's the most fascinating. Its visual impact is immediate. The great decorative arch which stretches from one side of the canvas to the other. Framed inside a perfect symmetry of curved ceilings which recede towards the far gateway. Pillars and statues of Greek gods lining the walls, gentle patterns of light and shade, the whole scene coloured a warm gold. Both glorious and accessible, this is Greek architecture at its most impressive.
But the surroundings never overwhelm the inhabitants. They form the most fascinating study. Raphael shows us a busy crowd scene, addictive in its variety and charming in its realism. Plato and Aristotle are entering from almost the very centre of the canvas. A line of fawners greet them. A youth seems to have been rushing up to join them before being distracted by the splendour of the building. Beside him is a bald and scantily clad man, allegedly Diogenes, lost to everything except his pamphlet. The aged Euclid teaches geometry to a party of children in the right of the foreground. His counterpart on the other side of the foreground delves into his book, seemingly trying to ignore the crowd clustering around him. There are details like this all across the painting; the two men clad in purple and gold robes collaborating on some work, the girl looking up rather resentfully at her companion leaning over her and so on. This is a diverse, energetic group united only by their love of knowledge. It is Raphael's homage to the ideals of ancient Greece.
In a way this isn't surprising. The Renaissance was a re-discovery of the classical era, a belief that ancient knowledge surpassed the contemporary forms. But The School of Athens is still an atypical painting. While Renaissance architecture, initially at least, was just straightforward copies of Greek and Roman styles, the classic influence on painting was more oblique. The likes of Raphael and Leonardo used it to perfect form, lighting and perspective. But they mainly used these techniques for the Biblical themes which dominated medieval art. The classical mindset only directly entered art through re-enactments of some legends. And the dominance of naked Goddesses of Love and rape scenes here show their real attraction for painters. Raphael was one of the view who created a vision of what he believed the long-lost age of enlightenment to be. And this wasn't the usual wistful images of fallen pillars but a vibrant, exciting reality.
Yet The School of Athens isn't simply a look back into history. Figures from Raphael's own world enter the painting. The regal Plato is actually a portrait of Leonardo. Michelangelo, meanwhile, is Heraclitus, brooding, gloomy and isolated. (A statement of how the pair were viewed in their own time; both geniuses but one a saint, the other a sociopath). Bramante, disguised as Euclid, Sodoma and Raphael himself also appear. This is not post-modernism, though that annoying phrase would be slapped onto a similar trick today, nor is it just a wave to friends. It is a manifesto. With uncharacteristic stridency, Raphael is declaring the precise aims of his artistic movement. To recreate and resurrect the wonders of this revered epoch.
And it is, for all its realism, a utopian painting. None of the severely compromised Athenian state can be seen outside. There are tiny patches of clouds and blue sky, nothing else. It may easily be a meeting in Heaven of philosophers who, after all, came from a diversity of eras. And it is easy to see the attraction for Raphael. The two chief thinkers may be entering through a small line of worshippers; and Aristotle even has the features generally ascribed to Jesus. They do not control the scene, however. Compare it with Raphael's The Disputa, an equally epic vision where every figure is precisely ordered in relation to Christ. Most of the School of Athens are ignoring the entrance of their supposed superiors. One, Zoroaster, observes with considerable scorn. And the great men themselves are only concerned with their own discussion. It is a vision of liberty. Of rigid authority replaced by the free expression of liberty. The favourite of princes and Popes, as placid as Michelangelo and Caravaggio were furious, Raphael still created one of the most subversive visions of the whole Renaissance.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Back In The 'Real' World
The press in Britain talk about the months of Parliamentary recess as the 'silly season'. Bereft of truly important stories, like Brown & Blair having another hissy fit or David Cameron cycling to work, journalists have to fall back on writing about fluff like murders, kidnappings and wars. Politicians, meanwhile, sometimes try to 'bury' bad news on days they know it will be ignored. A Labour Party wonk, for example, notoriously advocated releasing some unflattering statistics straight after 9/11. So far the World Cup has seen a combination of the two. A time when some really odd stuff pops to the surface, hoping everyone is looking elsewhere.
The Queen told a Groucho Marx joke during her 'official' 80th birthday celebrations. I don't know why we should celebrate her 80th birthday at all, let alone twice, but I'm eternally grateful to be able to write that sentance. The Queen told a Groucho Marx joke. Just think of that for a moment. The one about getting old being easy providing you live long enough, for the records. Personally I'd have preferred the one about not wanting to join a club which accepted her as a member. I wouldn't want to join a club which accepted the Queen as a member either.
Continuing on the topic of snobs, the Royal Institute of British Architects has discovered it has a budding Albert Speer in its midst. Peter Phillips, a contender in its upcoming presidential elections, is also a member of the ultra-right British National Party. The puzzling thing here is that Phillips - who denies he is a racist, naturally - went as far as to stand for a BNP candidate in local elections in 2003. Now I thought party candidates, even council ones, got their names published and tried to achieve a certain amount of publicity. Yet Phillips' fellow architects are howling that they've only just been made aware of his political views. Proof that unless it's got a portico or a flying buttress (another phrase I love to write) then an architect just can't focus on it.
But the best story recently has been The Guardian newspaper announcing that it's bought a smallpox DNA sequence over the internet. The Guardian, for any American readers, is the Bible for left-wing, socially concerned, hand-wringing liberals like myself. And now it can make smallpox. It claims that the purchase was only made to expose lax regulations, and that the sequence is actually perfectly harmless because it has something called stop codons built into it. But I like to think that just a hint of a threat was intended too. Perhaps not coincidentally, The Guardian carried an interview with Mel Phillips the same week. Phillips is the voice of the Mail, a foaming critic of Muslims and asylum seekers and people with dark coloured skin in general. So perhaps, after the interview, The Guardian took her aside and said, "Mel? Guess what's in this test tube. Now do you really want to carry on calling for Somalis to be thrown into the gas chambers..?"
The Queen told a Groucho Marx joke during her 'official' 80th birthday celebrations. I don't know why we should celebrate her 80th birthday at all, let alone twice, but I'm eternally grateful to be able to write that sentance. The Queen told a Groucho Marx joke. Just think of that for a moment. The one about getting old being easy providing you live long enough, for the records. Personally I'd have preferred the one about not wanting to join a club which accepted her as a member. I wouldn't want to join a club which accepted the Queen as a member either.
Continuing on the topic of snobs, the Royal Institute of British Architects has discovered it has a budding Albert Speer in its midst. Peter Phillips, a contender in its upcoming presidential elections, is also a member of the ultra-right British National Party. The puzzling thing here is that Phillips - who denies he is a racist, naturally - went as far as to stand for a BNP candidate in local elections in 2003. Now I thought party candidates, even council ones, got their names published and tried to achieve a certain amount of publicity. Yet Phillips' fellow architects are howling that they've only just been made aware of his political views. Proof that unless it's got a portico or a flying buttress (another phrase I love to write) then an architect just can't focus on it.
But the best story recently has been The Guardian newspaper announcing that it's bought a smallpox DNA sequence over the internet. The Guardian, for any American readers, is the Bible for left-wing, socially concerned, hand-wringing liberals like myself. And now it can make smallpox. It claims that the purchase was only made to expose lax regulations, and that the sequence is actually perfectly harmless because it has something called stop codons built into it. But I like to think that just a hint of a threat was intended too. Perhaps not coincidentally, The Guardian carried an interview with Mel Phillips the same week. Phillips is the voice of the Mail, a foaming critic of Muslims and asylum seekers and people with dark coloured skin in general. So perhaps, after the interview, The Guardian took her aside and said, "Mel? Guess what's in this test tube. Now do you really want to carry on calling for Somalis to be thrown into the gas chambers..?"
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
More bloody football stuff
To continue the increasingly tiresome build up to the World Cup, a list of my favourite moments from recent tournaments:
1990 World Cup Argentina v Cameroon. Cameroon defending their lead and not too fussy how they do it. Caniggia streaks towards goal and is faced with a long line of flailing legs. He hurdles one, two, three! and then the fourth finally catches him and brings him down to earth.
1992 European Championships England v France. France’s hardman, Basile Boli, lays a headbut on England’s, Stuart Pearce. Pearce gets up with a look of such glowering malevolence that they haven’t dared repeat it after the watershed. He looks at Boli – then slowly turns and walks away. An entire continent breaths out again. My generation’s equivalent of the Cuban Missile Crisis.
1994 World Cup Bolivia v Germany. Bolivia 1:0 down. At a crucial stage in the match, enter Marco Etcheverry. Their hero and inspiration, out injured for months, returning to save them. Five minutes later he kicks somebody and is sent off. Bolivia lose the match and exit at the first stage.
1996 European Championships More a quote than a moment. Told that his team is playing well, a Scotland supporter remarks, “Unfortunately we can’t score. Before you think, ‘Pah! A mere detail. But unfortunately it turns out to be quite a central element to this sport.”
1998 World Cup Iran v US. America trailing. To avoid endless Iranian gloating about beating the ‘Great Satan’, they go on all-out attack. Which means putting every player in the last third of the field, heedless of concepts such as ‘counter attack.’ Chiefly amusing for Alan Hansen almost exploding with rage afterwards: “I have never seen anything like that in world football”, “It’s the back four of the Marie Celeste” etc.
2000 European Championships Spain v Yugoslavia. A match which, as Harry Pearson remarked, “had everything except full-frontal nudity.” The highlight: Raul scores. Runs screaming down the pitch, a journey which takes him past Dragan Stojkovic. Stojkovic, who had been using the game to regress back to childhood, completes the process to stick out a leg and trip Raul up.
2002 World Cup Hard to get past memories of the final celebrations. Brazil enter into a long group prayer. Cafu, veteran of three finals, finally emerges and is literally put on a pedestal. He lifts the cup and is promptly showered by “two million origami swans.”
2004 European Championships England v Portugal. England losing. Owen Hargreaves, the bit player’s bit player, sender of endless sideways passes across midfield, suddenly hears the voices. He sees the chance to enter the fields of glory. He surges forward, past one player, gets about 8 yards and falls over.
1990 World Cup Argentina v Cameroon. Cameroon defending their lead and not too fussy how they do it. Caniggia streaks towards goal and is faced with a long line of flailing legs. He hurdles one, two, three! and then the fourth finally catches him and brings him down to earth.
1992 European Championships England v France. France’s hardman, Basile Boli, lays a headbut on England’s, Stuart Pearce. Pearce gets up with a look of such glowering malevolence that they haven’t dared repeat it after the watershed. He looks at Boli – then slowly turns and walks away. An entire continent breaths out again. My generation’s equivalent of the Cuban Missile Crisis.
1994 World Cup Bolivia v Germany. Bolivia 1:0 down. At a crucial stage in the match, enter Marco Etcheverry. Their hero and inspiration, out injured for months, returning to save them. Five minutes later he kicks somebody and is sent off. Bolivia lose the match and exit at the first stage.
1996 European Championships More a quote than a moment. Told that his team is playing well, a Scotland supporter remarks, “Unfortunately we can’t score. Before you think, ‘Pah! A mere detail. But unfortunately it turns out to be quite a central element to this sport.”
1998 World Cup Iran v US. America trailing. To avoid endless Iranian gloating about beating the ‘Great Satan’, they go on all-out attack. Which means putting every player in the last third of the field, heedless of concepts such as ‘counter attack.’ Chiefly amusing for Alan Hansen almost exploding with rage afterwards: “I have never seen anything like that in world football”, “It’s the back four of the Marie Celeste” etc.
2000 European Championships Spain v Yugoslavia. A match which, as Harry Pearson remarked, “had everything except full-frontal nudity.” The highlight: Raul scores. Runs screaming down the pitch, a journey which takes him past Dragan Stojkovic. Stojkovic, who had been using the game to regress back to childhood, completes the process to stick out a leg and trip Raul up.
2002 World Cup Hard to get past memories of the final celebrations. Brazil enter into a long group prayer. Cafu, veteran of three finals, finally emerges and is literally put on a pedestal. He lifts the cup and is promptly showered by “two million origami swans.”
2004 European Championships England v Portugal. England losing. Owen Hargreaves, the bit player’s bit player, sender of endless sideways passes across midfield, suddenly hears the voices. He sees the chance to enter the fields of glory. He surges forward, past one player, gets about 8 yards and falls over.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Regression
Hadn't watched any of this Doctor Who series before the weekend. After Christopher Ecclestone quit, I figured, it would quickly descend from last year's impressive heights and become the sort of silly-but-innocous drama the BBC spits out without trying. How wrong can one cynic be? Saturday's episode reached an truly epic, monumental level of silliness.
They found the Devil. That's not bad for a storyline, is it? No more tired old Daleks this time. Lucifer Sam himself. And please note, any theologians: he doesn't live in Pandemonium or the darkest recesses of the human heart. He's in the centre of a planet which orbits a black hole. Be told. Given that he's awoken by a team drilling through the planet, it could also be a useful campaign slogan for environmental groups. Open that mine, they could tell the government, you won't just destroy a precious eco-system, you might rouse the Devil. And we're not speaking metaphorically, either. We really do mean the Devil.
Mind you, he might turn out not to be the Devil after all. This series has the Scooby Doo approach to anything supernatural. The only difference is that the hoax is generally perpetrated by carniverous aliens, rather than the owner of the old fairground wanting to sell the site for housing. But the thing rising up through the ground looked right. He had the laugh. And he could possess people, giving them cabalistic writings all over their skin, glowing red eyes and the ability to breath in a vacuum. If he's not the Devil, I don't want to meet the man who is.
The Doctor's other problem is that he's lost the Tardis. He always seems to be doing this these days. Given how distraught the prospect makes him, you'd think he'd take more care of the damn thing. Insisting on valet parking wherever he lands, for example. Not just dump it in a broom cupboard for it to be hit by an asteroid and pushed into the centre of the world. AA would tell him the same thing.
That wasn't his main concern by the end of the episode, however. It was that he was about to die horribly. I'm glad that about the return of some proper Doctor Who cliffhangers. Several simultaneous scenes in which everyone is about to die horribly. And just as things are at their absolute worst, the theme tune kicks in. Even though I knew at the start of the next episode the Doctor would quickly save them by fiddling about with his sonic screwdriver, it always used to scare the bejesus out of me. It's nice to report that nothing has changed.
They found the Devil. That's not bad for a storyline, is it? No more tired old Daleks this time. Lucifer Sam himself. And please note, any theologians: he doesn't live in Pandemonium or the darkest recesses of the human heart. He's in the centre of a planet which orbits a black hole. Be told. Given that he's awoken by a team drilling through the planet, it could also be a useful campaign slogan for environmental groups. Open that mine, they could tell the government, you won't just destroy a precious eco-system, you might rouse the Devil. And we're not speaking metaphorically, either. We really do mean the Devil.
Mind you, he might turn out not to be the Devil after all. This series has the Scooby Doo approach to anything supernatural. The only difference is that the hoax is generally perpetrated by carniverous aliens, rather than the owner of the old fairground wanting to sell the site for housing. But the thing rising up through the ground looked right. He had the laugh. And he could possess people, giving them cabalistic writings all over their skin, glowing red eyes and the ability to breath in a vacuum. If he's not the Devil, I don't want to meet the man who is.
The Doctor's other problem is that he's lost the Tardis. He always seems to be doing this these days. Given how distraught the prospect makes him, you'd think he'd take more care of the damn thing. Insisting on valet parking wherever he lands, for example. Not just dump it in a broom cupboard for it to be hit by an asteroid and pushed into the centre of the world. AA would tell him the same thing.
That wasn't his main concern by the end of the episode, however. It was that he was about to die horribly. I'm glad that about the return of some proper Doctor Who cliffhangers. Several simultaneous scenes in which everyone is about to die horribly. And just as things are at their absolute worst, the theme tune kicks in. Even though I knew at the start of the next episode the Doctor would quickly save them by fiddling about with his sonic screwdriver, it always used to scare the bejesus out of me. It's nice to report that nothing has changed.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Roy Of The Rovers Stuff
So the World Cup is almost here again. The newspapers and magazines are swelling up with fawning profiles of usual famous names – Ronaldinho, Henry, Gerrard, Ballack et al. But you might as well throw all those away. Judging by recent tournaments, the eventual heroes of this World Cup won’t be the superstars. They’ll be plucky US college boys, scurrying Mexican wing backs, pacy Angolan strikers and a lot of other people no-one has heard of.
Take the first game of the last World Cup. Henry and Zidane played off the park by El Hadjj Diouff – or Who Who Who? as he was then known. That set the tone for a competition where the finest playmaker wasn’t Beckham or Veron but some prematurely balding Turk. Or the European Championships two years ago, dominated by a lot of Greek defenders and a podgy Scouser with tragically fragile feet. What happens to all these stars nowadays? Do they under-perform or are they just not all that good to start with?
They have a standard excuse. They’re tired after a long, arduous season. Each and every one of them. The magazine When Saturday Comes made the point that there are actually less games in a standard season than there used to be. What has increased for the top players is their off-field commitments. The parties, the book signings, the commercial promotions. They’re part of showbiz now, after all, and that can be exhausting. And it does something to their motivation. Celebrities have their image to protect; and the activity which first made them famous can become rather damaging to this image after a while. Actors, once they reach a certain level, never play anybody in a film except themselves. Too demeaning otherwise. And the top footballers look uneasy about putting on silly shorts and kicking a ball around. They’ll carry on doing it as long as they have to but they don’t want to give the impression that they take it seriously.
Plus the fact that the World Cup is less of a giant supermarket than it once was. Clubs are generally too smart now to snap up a player simply on the basis of three to six games crammed into a month. Most of the big deals have already been done. Take Andrei Shevchenko: worth £35 million, yet to kick a ball in a major international tournament. But for the less famous players it is still a time for opportunities. Some of Shevchenko’s Ukrainian team mates will know they could achieve a little of his prominence next month. The likes of Togo and Angola will have noted the impressive deals the Senegalese won for themselves after 2002. These are the people who have a reason to try hard.
Of course, a few football-related motives still remain. The one big name who actually delivered in the last World Cup: Ronaldo. After a mysterious medical ‘episode’ wrecked his final in 1998 and injury most of his career since then. He had something to prove. As did his opponents in the 2002 final, the Germans. Written off by everyone as a bunch of useless journeymen, they pulled themselves through the tournament with an impressively bloody-minded belligerence. So perhaps that’s the way to get the stars to perform this time. A little less adulation beforehand and a lot more sneering.
Take the first game of the last World Cup. Henry and Zidane played off the park by El Hadjj Diouff – or Who Who Who? as he was then known. That set the tone for a competition where the finest playmaker wasn’t Beckham or Veron but some prematurely balding Turk. Or the European Championships two years ago, dominated by a lot of Greek defenders and a podgy Scouser with tragically fragile feet. What happens to all these stars nowadays? Do they under-perform or are they just not all that good to start with?
They have a standard excuse. They’re tired after a long, arduous season. Each and every one of them. The magazine When Saturday Comes made the point that there are actually less games in a standard season than there used to be. What has increased for the top players is their off-field commitments. The parties, the book signings, the commercial promotions. They’re part of showbiz now, after all, and that can be exhausting. And it does something to their motivation. Celebrities have their image to protect; and the activity which first made them famous can become rather damaging to this image after a while. Actors, once they reach a certain level, never play anybody in a film except themselves. Too demeaning otherwise. And the top footballers look uneasy about putting on silly shorts and kicking a ball around. They’ll carry on doing it as long as they have to but they don’t want to give the impression that they take it seriously.
Plus the fact that the World Cup is less of a giant supermarket than it once was. Clubs are generally too smart now to snap up a player simply on the basis of three to six games crammed into a month. Most of the big deals have already been done. Take Andrei Shevchenko: worth £35 million, yet to kick a ball in a major international tournament. But for the less famous players it is still a time for opportunities. Some of Shevchenko’s Ukrainian team mates will know they could achieve a little of his prominence next month. The likes of Togo and Angola will have noted the impressive deals the Senegalese won for themselves after 2002. These are the people who have a reason to try hard.
Of course, a few football-related motives still remain. The one big name who actually delivered in the last World Cup: Ronaldo. After a mysterious medical ‘episode’ wrecked his final in 1998 and injury most of his career since then. He had something to prove. As did his opponents in the 2002 final, the Germans. Written off by everyone as a bunch of useless journeymen, they pulled themselves through the tournament with an impressively bloody-minded belligerence. So perhaps that’s the way to get the stars to perform this time. A little less adulation beforehand and a lot more sneering.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things
In case I don't get chance elsewhere, a list of some of the aspects of life that I truly, truly hate.
People Who Think Food Is Important
Not those fussy about what they eat for health reasons, though they can be tiresome too, or on ethical grounds, though we are slightly worst. But the ones who confuse cooking with creativity and art. And who sneer at anyone who, after a day at work, doesn't spend 2 hours in the kitchen working through a recipe like a trained chimp rather than, say, doing something with their brains. Eating isn't culture. It's a necessary bodily function. One does it and moves on. You don't get articles in magazines telling you of places to take the perfect poo or implying the French and Italians are superior to us because they're better at going to sleep than we are.
The Fact That The Wind Always Blows The Rain Into My Face
I mean, it always does. It's not just the speed I walk either. I turn a corner and see the rain shifting direction accordingly. I try to avoid the common trap of believing the whole world just exists for my benefit; or more accurately, exits to mildly annoy me. Then it starts to rain again and all my religious and philosophical creeds are shattered. Plus my face gets wet.
People Who, Upon Learning That Being An Epileptic Means I'm Technically Disabled, Instantly Ask If I Get A Special Parking Ticket
If you get epileptic seizures on a regular basis then you're not allowed to drive. Duh.
Key Changes In Ballads By Boy Bands
Always the same time: 51 seconds before the end of the song. A pause. Then, though you desperately hope it won't happen, the key change. And the singer always has a note of smug triumph in his voice afterwards, as if he's performed a feat of unique brilliance. He hasn't. He's changed key.
Old People Not Bothering With Manners Just Because They're Old
They push in to the head of queues. They talk to you when you clearly don't want to be talked to. Most of all they stop and stare at you, blatantly and without apology, when you walk past them in the street. And they probably complain how rude the young people of today are. Admittedly, if I ever get to be old myself I've no intention of bothering with manners either.
Happy Endings Grafted On To The End Of Sad Or Nasty Songs
Pushing Tin being a case in point. John Cusack's character drives himself into a nervous breakdown. It's the story arc. It's the whole point of the film, you would think. Then, ten minutes before the end, he's suddenly working a reconcilliation with his nemesis and getting back with his estranged wife. You can almost see the head of the studio putting the gun to the director's head, releasing the safety catch and ordering the rewrite.
People Saying How Good The Eighties Were
Again a caveat: I've been looking forward to this. I waited patiently for the Fifties and Sixties to become passe (which happened at the end of the Eighties), for the Seventies revival to blow away (around the time of the Millennium). Just so I can say, firmly and categorically: I was there during the Eighties. It was crap.
"Opinionated weathermen telling you it's going to be a miserable day. Miserable for who? I quite like a bit of drizzle, so stick to the facts"
Actually I nicked that from Half Man Half Biscuit. But I lifted the title and idea for this post from them too, so I suppose that's OK.
People Who Think Food Is Important
Not those fussy about what they eat for health reasons, though they can be tiresome too, or on ethical grounds, though we are slightly worst. But the ones who confuse cooking with creativity and art. And who sneer at anyone who, after a day at work, doesn't spend 2 hours in the kitchen working through a recipe like a trained chimp rather than, say, doing something with their brains. Eating isn't culture. It's a necessary bodily function. One does it and moves on. You don't get articles in magazines telling you of places to take the perfect poo or implying the French and Italians are superior to us because they're better at going to sleep than we are.
The Fact That The Wind Always Blows The Rain Into My Face
I mean, it always does. It's not just the speed I walk either. I turn a corner and see the rain shifting direction accordingly. I try to avoid the common trap of believing the whole world just exists for my benefit; or more accurately, exits to mildly annoy me. Then it starts to rain again and all my religious and philosophical creeds are shattered. Plus my face gets wet.
People Who, Upon Learning That Being An Epileptic Means I'm Technically Disabled, Instantly Ask If I Get A Special Parking Ticket
If you get epileptic seizures on a regular basis then you're not allowed to drive. Duh.
Key Changes In Ballads By Boy Bands
Always the same time: 51 seconds before the end of the song. A pause. Then, though you desperately hope it won't happen, the key change. And the singer always has a note of smug triumph in his voice afterwards, as if he's performed a feat of unique brilliance. He hasn't. He's changed key.
Old People Not Bothering With Manners Just Because They're Old
They push in to the head of queues. They talk to you when you clearly don't want to be talked to. Most of all they stop and stare at you, blatantly and without apology, when you walk past them in the street. And they probably complain how rude the young people of today are. Admittedly, if I ever get to be old myself I've no intention of bothering with manners either.
Happy Endings Grafted On To The End Of Sad Or Nasty Songs
Pushing Tin being a case in point. John Cusack's character drives himself into a nervous breakdown. It's the story arc. It's the whole point of the film, you would think. Then, ten minutes before the end, he's suddenly working a reconcilliation with his nemesis and getting back with his estranged wife. You can almost see the head of the studio putting the gun to the director's head, releasing the safety catch and ordering the rewrite.
People Saying How Good The Eighties Were
Again a caveat: I've been looking forward to this. I waited patiently for the Fifties and Sixties to become passe (which happened at the end of the Eighties), for the Seventies revival to blow away (around the time of the Millennium). Just so I can say, firmly and categorically: I was there during the Eighties. It was crap.
"Opinionated weathermen telling you it's going to be a miserable day. Miserable for who? I quite like a bit of drizzle, so stick to the facts"
Actually I nicked that from Half Man Half Biscuit. But I lifted the title and idea for this post from them too, so I suppose that's OK.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Half Decent FA Cup Final Shock
First my complaints about the FA Cup final. Penalties are no way to decide a trophy. They aren't even very interesting any more. And if we must have them, let's just skip straight to them after regular time ends. Extra time is almost always just half an hour of exhausted players whacking the ball up and scuttling half-heartedly after it. On that subject: why were Liverpool and West Ham so ridiculously unfit? Even before the 90 minutes were up there were half a dozen players going down with cramp. At times the pitch looked like a Black Death re-enactment. A standard piece of 'action' towards the end was a man staggering forward, getting a cross in and instantly collapsing, clutching his calf. Finally, Leslie Garrett, if you're reading this: the last line of 'Abide With Me' is "Abide with me." It isn't "Aaaa-biyiyide wi-yi-yi-yi-yi-th muuu-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye." If you can't hold a note for more than two seconds, don't become a singer.
Otherwise it was a fantastic game. 3:3 and all the goals were entertaining. Carragher doing an Ali Shuffle to neatly slot the ball into his own net. The otherwise brilliant Reina spilling a weak shot right into Ashton's path. Cisse pulling the score back to 2:1 and bringing the game to life again. Gerrard finishing a training ground move with unnecessary venom. Konchesky totally mis-hitting a cross and then watching the ball inexplicably loop into the top corner. Finally a half-fit Gerrard (cramp, of course) receiving the ball about 30 yards out, being too knackered to do anything other than whack it and somehow score. In general, two sides stubbornly refusing to admit defeat and, for once, translating this into an urge to play good football rather than clatter each other.
The FA Cup deserved a final like this. The much-overrated tournament has been surprisingly wonderful this year. Think of Liverpool's 5:3 win over Luton in an earlier round which featured one of the most hilarious goals ever - Alonso scoring from the half way line after the Luton keeper had rushed up for a corner. A dreadful Coventry side coming back from 2:0 down against Spurs to win 3:2 thanks to a previously and subsequently unknown Dutch striker. Burton Albion holding Manchester Utd, Nuneaton Borough - whoever the hell they are - doing likewise to Middlesborough. And Chelsea losing. Not the greatest game ever but Chelsea losing in any circumstances always brings cheer to the soul.
I can't welcome this totally whole-heartedly. There's going to be an awful lot of rubbish written about this year's FA Cup in coming years by the romantics, the self-appointed defenders of football's soul. They always hold the tournament up as somehow purer than the league or European competitions. While the latter are wholly commerical nowadays, they claim, the FA Cup is still true to the spirit of football. This has little to do with reality. Organised by the grasping Football Association, the Cup embraces sponsorship in almost every form and many of the tickets for the final are given to corporate clients. And for all the talk about the Cup being a great leveller, look at the winners in recent years: Liverpool twice, Arsenal three times, Man Utd once. It's no less the property of the big clubs than the Premiership. I suspect a lot of the 'romance' is because it was originally contested by public school sides, not those grubby northern clubs who went on to form the League and create modern football.
But the game at its best can still silence all the caveats. Watching a mediocre stopper like Danny Gabbidon humiliate Liverpool's millionaire strikers, or Steven Gerrard beligerrantly pull his side forward, I was reminded why I keep getting drawn back to it. We just need a decent Champions League final now and I might even start looking forward to the World Cup.
Otherwise it was a fantastic game. 3:3 and all the goals were entertaining. Carragher doing an Ali Shuffle to neatly slot the ball into his own net. The otherwise brilliant Reina spilling a weak shot right into Ashton's path. Cisse pulling the score back to 2:1 and bringing the game to life again. Gerrard finishing a training ground move with unnecessary venom. Konchesky totally mis-hitting a cross and then watching the ball inexplicably loop into the top corner. Finally a half-fit Gerrard (cramp, of course) receiving the ball about 30 yards out, being too knackered to do anything other than whack it and somehow score. In general, two sides stubbornly refusing to admit defeat and, for once, translating this into an urge to play good football rather than clatter each other.
The FA Cup deserved a final like this. The much-overrated tournament has been surprisingly wonderful this year. Think of Liverpool's 5:3 win over Luton in an earlier round which featured one of the most hilarious goals ever - Alonso scoring from the half way line after the Luton keeper had rushed up for a corner. A dreadful Coventry side coming back from 2:0 down against Spurs to win 3:2 thanks to a previously and subsequently unknown Dutch striker. Burton Albion holding Manchester Utd, Nuneaton Borough - whoever the hell they are - doing likewise to Middlesborough. And Chelsea losing. Not the greatest game ever but Chelsea losing in any circumstances always brings cheer to the soul.
I can't welcome this totally whole-heartedly. There's going to be an awful lot of rubbish written about this year's FA Cup in coming years by the romantics, the self-appointed defenders of football's soul. They always hold the tournament up as somehow purer than the league or European competitions. While the latter are wholly commerical nowadays, they claim, the FA Cup is still true to the spirit of football. This has little to do with reality. Organised by the grasping Football Association, the Cup embraces sponsorship in almost every form and many of the tickets for the final are given to corporate clients. And for all the talk about the Cup being a great leveller, look at the winners in recent years: Liverpool twice, Arsenal three times, Man Utd once. It's no less the property of the big clubs than the Premiership. I suspect a lot of the 'romance' is because it was originally contested by public school sides, not those grubby northern clubs who went on to form the League and create modern football.
But the game at its best can still silence all the caveats. Watching a mediocre stopper like Danny Gabbidon humiliate Liverpool's millionaire strikers, or Steven Gerrard beligerrantly pull his side forward, I was reminded why I keep getting drawn back to it. We just need a decent Champions League final now and I might even start looking forward to the World Cup.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Shameless Self-Publicity!
If I've been a bit tardy with my posts recently it's for the following reasons: a) I still have half a life left and b) I've been using most of that to set up my own web site. So far it's a dumping ground for any assorted pieces of writing I had hanging around my drawer. It may become more focussed later, may change function entirely or may continue as it is. And while I wish I could promise that the appearance will improve, it will probably just go through various types of dreadfulness. Anyway, the link is on the right and just to hammer the message in:
http://www.whyisthishere.co.uk
http://www.whyisthishere.co.uk
Entirely Bad Poetry Part 3
For Mandi Ann, who expressed touching but baffling fondness for another of my poems. This one'll learn her.
The Confessional
We sit, he and I
And sit
Like lovers struggling to speak their hearts.
Head of Finance and his vassal (me).
The talk starts of promotion prospects
Relegation fears, crossbars hit
New strikers bought, misfiring men ditched
Until we remember where we are
And why.
Performance appraising reviewing assessing
Or: adding up the sums.
Six months in six mumbled words:
Works hard, hits targets, bit careless
Then questions from the home psychiatry kit.
Do you enjoy your work?
(Yes, lucky there's so much of it)
What particular problems are there?
(Head of Finance can't manage staff)
What do you like the most?
(You let us manage ourselves)
Where do you see yourself in a year?
(If I could plan I wouldn't be here, doing this)
I only speak the expected triteness, of course
And perhaps he is concealing similar
Caustic indictments of me.
Just give us a confession booth
And maybe we'll spend the hour stripping souls bare.
But really, no silent truths compress the air.
Mediocre work done in a mediocre fashion
Will never inspire great rhetorical passion.
So we sit, he and I.
And sit.
The Confessional
We sit, he and I
And sit
Like lovers struggling to speak their hearts.
Head of Finance and his vassal (me).
The talk starts of promotion prospects
Relegation fears, crossbars hit
New strikers bought, misfiring men ditched
Until we remember where we are
And why.
Performance appraising reviewing assessing
Or: adding up the sums.
Six months in six mumbled words:
Works hard, hits targets, bit careless
Then questions from the home psychiatry kit.
Do you enjoy your work?
(Yes, lucky there's so much of it)
What particular problems are there?
(Head of Finance can't manage staff)
What do you like the most?
(You let us manage ourselves)
Where do you see yourself in a year?
(If I could plan I wouldn't be here, doing this)
I only speak the expected triteness, of course
And perhaps he is concealing similar
Caustic indictments of me.
Just give us a confession booth
And maybe we'll spend the hour stripping souls bare.
But really, no silent truths compress the air.
Mediocre work done in a mediocre fashion
Will never inspire great rhetorical passion.
So we sit, he and I.
And sit.
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